In 2020, the independent investigative journalism project Proekt published an investigation into Kovalchuk, describing him as Putin’s “personal consigliere” and Russia’s second most influential person. According to the journalists, Kovalchuk effectively acts as the president’s trusted adviser while controlling a major media empire and managing assets used by Putin.

As Proekt reported, Rossiya Bank entities earn billions of rubles in fees from utility bill processing, and Kovalchuk himself, through the National Media Group, has gained influence over several of Russia’s largest television channels and print outlets. People and entities linked to Kovalchuk own a range of elite properties that Putin reportedly uses.

Putin’s decree also saw singer Oleg Gazmanov receive the Order of Merit to the Fatherland, 2nd class. Russia’s former Foreign Minister, Igor Ivanov, who served as Secretary of the Security Council from 2004 to 2007, received the 1st class of the order. In the decree, Ivanov is identified as a retired ambassador extraordinaire and plenipotentiary.

In addition, former senator and ex-chairman of the Federation Council Committee on International Affairs Mikhail Margelov, currently serving as vice-president of the Russian International Affairs Council, was awarded the Order of Alexander Nevsky. Tanzila Norbaeva, chairwoman of the Senate of Uzbekistan, received the Order of Honor. And Semyon Mikhailovsky, rector of the Ilya Repin St. Petersburg Academy of Arts, received the Order of Merit in Culture and Art.

The route was created by Russian authorities using sections of Ukraine’s M-14 highway in order to form a land corridor linking Rostov-on-Don to Russian-annexed Crimea. “Novorossiya,” or “New Russia,” is a historical imperial term now used by Russian nationalists and officials to denote parts of southern and eastern Ukraine that Moscow claims as its own.

Balitsky did not explain what he meant by “full control,” claiming only that anti-drone defenses are being constantly improved and that Russian forces are using new methods to counter drones.

Since late May, Ukrainian drones have regularly attacked the highway and vehicles traveling on it. The road is used to supply Russian troops and to deliver fuel to annexed Crimea. Strikes on logistics have caused a gasoline shortage on the peninsula, prompting authorities to impose restrictions on sales.

On June 6, the Russian-installed administration of the occupied Luhansk Region imposed restrictions on regular and irregular passenger transport along the R-280 and R-150 highways. Residents were urged not to use roads leading toward the Russian-occupied parts of the Donetsk, Zaporizhzhia, and Kherson regions, as well as to annexed Crimea. The restrictions were introduced after Ukrainian drone attacks on transport and road infrastructure became more frequent.

However, a source in Simferopol told The Insider that after long lines of cars began forming at the Kerch Bridge exit from Crimea, buses traveling north out of the peninsula resumed service through Dzhankoi toward Donetsk and other destinations, including Moscow. 

My name is Andrei Chernenko. I was born in the Voronezh Region. I am 23 years old. On March 26, 2025, I signed a contract at the "Batyr" recruitment point. I joined the army because of pressure from my stepfather. One day he got very drunk and wrecked my whole room, shouting that I wasn’t a real man — that I had done nothing useful with my life. I thought: “I’ll go to the front and he’ll see what kind of man I am.” To this day, I don’t understand how I fell for that provocation.  

I also had some financial obligations to my grandfather — I had borrowed more than a million from him. He didn’t pressure me or ask me to repay the debt urgently. But the incident with my stepfather caused me a lot of stress, and I couldn’t find another way to solve my problems. I went to Kazan to sign the contract because at that point that region offered the largest payout, and I figured that if I were killed, my grandfather would get more money.

I found out later that the people selecting contract recruits take a cut from it: for each person who signed a contract, they received 100,000–120,000 rubles.

Three or four days after signing the contract, we were issued military ID books and VPDs and were sent to Pskov — to military base 07264. As a private, I was assigned to the reserve airborne battalion of the 76th Guards Air Assault Division. In September 2025 I was promoted to junior sergeant and appointed squad commander.

In practice, this reserve airborne battalion turned out to be a rather nominal unit: it consisted either of those who had been wounded or those who performed support functions in the war — the chief of staff’s driver, instructors, people who unofficially tracked down AWOLs.

Initially, I was supposed to be recruited by the UAV forces. When you fill out your military service application, you need to indicate previous employment. I had studied at Yury Gagarin Saratov State Technical University, though I didn’t finish it. Until April 2024 I worked at an IP telephony company called SIPUNI, so they decided I was a good fit for UAV operator training.

Those who were wanted for UAV battalions were added to a Telegram group called “UAV 2025.” All reservists from various recruitment points who potentially fit the criteria were invited. It should be noted that recruitment points have guidelines against sending 18- to 25-year-olds to assault units. But in military units, that rule no longer applies — the roulette wheel spins, and you end up wherever you’re needed. That’s what happened to me.

Two guys who traveled with me to Pskov were sent to the village of Cheryokha in the Pskov Region. I didn’t understand why at the time. But later, once I’d figured out how this sorry army works, I understood: they first select people by one criterion, then distribute them by another — wherever you fit best. The guys were assigned to military unit 32515. From there they were sent as assault troops to Ukraine, only to be killed in one of those assaults.

At the military base in Pskov, I immediately got to know the people I would be interacting with during my time at headquarters — deputy battalion commander Ipatov, recruitment coordinator Malanchenko, Lebedkova (head of mobilization and force management at headquarters), and junior lieutenants Leshchenko and Bilyashevich. We were billeted at the base, and they started explaining how things worked.

For a week, I went to headquarters every day. On the seventh day, Bilyashevich came up to me and said: “Let’s go for a walk.” He started quietly pitching me on staying at headquarters, but hinted that it wouldn’t be free. He initially named a sum of 200,000 rubles, then more. When the first money came in — the Ministry of Defense payment for signing the contract plus the regional payment — I first sent him 100,000, then another 400,000, and he said: “Okay.”

Later I found out I wasn’t the only one he had run this same scheme on. My fellow serviceman Vladimir Taranenko told me how he ended up at headquarters and how much he paid. Word was that some of this money went to “Tucha,” meaning Captain Sergei Chubenko, head of the mobilization and force management department.

Targets with Zelensky’s face

After this conversation, we were sent to exercises — first to a training ground in Lutuhyne in the [Russian-occupied part of] Luhansk Region, where personnel from all regiments of the 76th Division trained. In the nearby settlement of Myrne, armored vehicles used for training were kept.

When we arrived there, I was immediately sent to the division command post and tasked with handling the paperwork for reservists: we collected documents on them, counting how many had come through since the start of 2025. It turned out to be around 2,000—2,500 — that is, 26 rotations had passed through the Lutuhyne training ground alone. While I was dealing with the documents, the guys who came with me went to train.

Lutuhyne was relatively tolerable: there was a TV, a Starlink terminal. There was even a telecom tower 700–800 meters away. Drones often flew at night. Toward the end of the week I was told to get together with the guys I had arrived with. We were all billeted in a bunker. There were about 10—12 bunkers situated about 500—600 meters from the command post. They also had Starlinks inside. At night we were sent to shooting practice, even though the last time I had held a rifle was in school.

The next day we were sent to what they called “Peski” — the exact location was hard to find out. Everyone had their phones taken away. As I later found out, this was done because someone had filmed everything happening inside this training ground. And what was happening there was hell. The training ground was in a forest and was under construction — that is, we were supposed to be building it for about 20 hours a day.

What did it look like? Reveille at 04:00, drills until 14:00, work detail from 14:00 to 19:00, then duties. Two weeks of this. At “Peski,” there were convicts working alongside regular guys aged 18–25. Many had physical impairments. The training ground had targets with Zelensky’s face on them.

At “Peski,” there were convicts working alongside regular guys aged 18–25. Many had physical impairments

On our last day there, recruiters from the unmanned systems battalion arrived. They started selecting people based on the criteria: higher education, under 30 years of age, understanding of how technology works. I was selected too, but I declined because I had an arrangement with Bilyashevich to work at headquarters.

During my time at the training ground, I kept in touch with him. Since using the phone was forbidden, I could only check it at night when I went to the toilet. We corresponded through a secret chat on Telegram, with him telling me where and how much to transfer. I transferred with the comment: “For the car.”

“People who handle the staffing list cheat a lot”

On the 14th day at the Peski training ground, we were gathered and sent back to Lutuhyne. After one day there, we left for Zheleznogorsk in the Kursk Region, where the division was defending the state border at the time.

After Zheleznogorsk, I was transferred back to Pskov and assigned to headquarters — the mobilization and force management department, where I handled сombat personnel and equipment strength reporting. But in the end I was assigned to compile the daily order.

The headquarters is an office at a military base. You come in at eight in the morning and leave at ten in the evening. When I first arrived in Pskov, Svetlana Lebedkova was in charge. Under her leadership, the work schedule was more or less observed, and the atmosphere was tolerable.

Then Denis Varakin arrived. He had previously been acting chief of staff at military unit 32515 of the 104th Regiment — the one that was in Bucha. Varakin set his own rules — he didn’t care about schedules or people. For any screw-up, he threatened to send you to the assault troops. He often said he would cut off my eyebrows and send me home in a coffin. If you were working inefficiently or less than 20 hours a day, you could easily be thrown into an assault. There was one officer in the 104th Regiment who handled the “staffing list,” meaning personnel work. He didn’t show up for duty for one day — he went to his mother’s grave — and was immediately thrown into an assault.

For any screw-up, Varakin threatened to send me to the assault troops, or to cut off my eyebrows and send me home in a coffin

The acting chief of staff was Alexander Solodovnikov, a fairly demanding type. Once he didn’t like the way I was standing at attention. I have third-degree flat feet, so it’s hard for me to stand straight for a long time — my feet start hurting quickly. So I was standing not quite at attention, with my feet slightly turned out. He immediately said: “Call your commander.” I called Varakin, and we went into Solodovnikov’s office together. He asked: “Are you new? Have you been to war?” I said I hadn’t. He then said: “Don’t stand in front of me like that again — or you’ll be sent off.”

At some point, an order came from above that all mobilized soldiers within the division had to sign a contract. If they refused, they could be forcibly sent to assault units. And those who didn’t sign were immediately thrown into an assault. The recruitment target was set at around 1,500–2,000 troops, but was subsequently reduced to just 200 people. In my military unit, there were only 22 mobilized soldiers, and they were all under special monitoring.

After a while, another order came — to recruit from conscripts, forcing them to sign a contract. Inside the division headquarters, I don’t know of any cases of coerced contract signing, but in the regiments, things were chaotic.

Officers who submit combat and numerical strength reports to command and those who handle the “staffing lists” cheat very heavily. Taranenko was the one who compiled all the data from the military units within the division — the 104th Regiment, the 234th, the 237th — a total of 11. He compiled all of this and produced the combat personnel and equipment strength report for the whole division. And here’s the thing: there was one report for the division commander Shikhabidov and a different one for Moscow. Every day the BIChS report was sent to Moscow. Based on what I observed, figures for Moscow on manning levels were inflated by 10 to 20%.

My fellow serviceman Leshchenko told me about the casualties. He saw a document compiling losses from all Airborne Forces divisions. The net losses of the Airborne Forces from the start of the war through 2025 amounted to 19,500 people. He nearly got thrown in jail just for having seen that document. 

“Security exists, but it’s a formality”

The headquarters uses both digital paperwork and hard copies. Computers inside the headquarters are divided into two types: “red” and “blue.” The “red” ones had classified access and stored data on combat personnel and equipment strength, rotations, killed servicemen, and orders marked “secret” and “top secret.” “Blue” computers were used for regular office work and had no access to classified data. The same principle applied to flash drives — those also came in “red” and “blue” and differed in their level of access. Each flash drive was a small rectangular box in a special housing. Inside was a note with the password. In essence, it was an ordinary SD card soldered to a USB controller. Moreover, “red” computers supported both “red” and “blue” flash drives, while “blue” ones only worked with matching drives.

But all these security measures were purely formal. Our department had two special computers for information exchange between the classified and non-classified networks and two special “red” password-protected flash drives used as an intermediary for transferring data between different access levels. So there are gaps in the system: with such flash drives you can leak anything. Moreover, there were cases of flash drives going “missing.” 

By the way, the army started using Excel macros in 2022. Why? Because there were enormous losses and frantic rotation — that is, some movement of personnel happened every day. Based on what I saw with my own eyes, during periods of active combat the division was losing up to 200 people a week killed and missing in action. During quieter periods, this figure could be up to 100 people a week. When I left, the lists showed around 4,000 missing in action.

During periods of active combat the division was losing up to 200 people a week killed and missing in action

All computers at headquarters ran on Windows, but their settings and access were administered through a management system controlled by State Secret Protection officers, who managed access rights and could track any actions on computers through the Security Panel: which devices were connected, when, and what processes were run. We once had a computer locked because someone couldn’t remember the password QAE123. Inside headquarters, simple passwords are used: QASD, QWE123, QWE with exclamation marks and similar variations — they are practically the same on all computers.

In addition to the split into “blue” and “red” computers, headquarters had a separate computer connected to the ZSPD system — a protected data transmission network — for official correspondence. Technically, this network is based on an equivalent of standard mail protocols (e.g. SMTP), but in a closed and secure circuit. ZSPD came with tighter security requirements: a dedicated room, restricted physical access, fibre-optic connectivity. However, around 90% of archives were protected by passwords built on the same principle: the military unit number and department number. As a result, many passwords were predictable and repeated.

In practice, the headquarters had two main networks. The first, ATS-R, or the secure departmental network, was used for classified communications between units and calls to the division command post from the combat zone.

The other was ATS-O, an internal service network used within headquarters and across the region. Data on ATS-O can be intercepted. I didn’t personally encounter this, but I was told there were cases of Ukrainians exploiting this vulnerability. That is, with access to the telephone exchange or an account in the internal telephone system, you can place a call posing as a headquarters employee.

I should also note that information is often transmitted over ordinary mobile communications (GSM), despite all the protected channels. Security exists, but it is largely a formality. While it is observed at the division level, the compliance is poor — and only when the intimidating figures from the FSB come around.

The same goes for electronic warfare tools at the headquarters: they do not work or work poorly. One employee flew a drone over the division headquarters — there was no effect at all from the EW, and this was never fixed.

We also used “Alushta”, a system resembling 1C that records all data on servicemen: rank-and-position categories, pay grades, accruals, and a host of other parameters. What does it look like? Each row lists a serviceman, the date of signing and expiry of the contract, personnel number, and pay grade. When I had access to it, the system had about 20,000 rows for the division’s personnel. Alushta is mainly used in the HR section. But I also worked with it, because it shows all the people within the division, and I needed the data for staffing lists — to copy personal details and cross-check the data.

The system has a curious feature. You can look up a serviceman from another military unit, but some data will be hidden. For example, you can see information on prior criminal convictions and charges, fitness category, and serviceman status — including whether or not they have been reported as AWOL. When I left, the division lists showed around 499 troops with AWOL status.

Formally, “blue” computers were not supposed to provide access to Alushta, but my colleagues and I could transfer data using “red” flash drives

How they search for deserters

How do people usually end up working at headquarters? They either make arrangements, or they had served there before the war, or they were wounded. If a soldier loses a limb, they’re written off and receive the right to a “social position” — one that didn’t previously exist in the staffing list and is specially created for that person. He is given the rank of junior lieutenant and remains at the permanent deployment base and “goes to work.” Stated bluntly, he does nothing.

We had one like that. He liked to drink. One day he went on leave and never came back. From what I was told, he had a heart attack. But the problem was that he wasn’t reported as AWOL in time. In my daily order he was listed as having failed to return from leave. They spent a week trying to locate him and eventually found him dead.

Prisyazhnyuk then said the daily order needed to be redone so that the prosecutor’s office wouldn’t find any violations if it sent an inquiry: we were required to report him as AWOL within two days, but hadn’t done so. He told me to destroy the old order, create a new one, backdate it, and state that he had gone AWOL on the correct date. Just two lines were added. And I had it certified by the lawyer.

This is essentially a standard scheme — it happens in headquarters all the time. The people who are supposed to verify the legal validity of documents are the same ones who falsify them.

The people who are supposed to verify the legal validity of documents are the same ones who falsify them

AWOLs are handled by a special department run by Colonel Prisyazhnyuk. Every day at seven in the evening and at eight in the morning he holds briefings: his subordinates show slides with photos of specific individuals and explain the reasons why each person fled. On one occasion, the team responsible for tracking down AWOLs was lined up and told: until you find everyone, you will stand like this at every meeting for four hours.

To find an AWOL soldier, special search trips are organized. They frequently reach out to the FSB and use bank transfer records, phone billing data, and “Eye of God” for tracking.

I saw such soldiers brought back a couple of times. They would take some wounded soldier who had come back from the war and tell him: you need to go to Kislovodsk and bring back the AWOL. All of this happened under FSB supervision. People were caught and brought back to the unit. In my presence, one such soldier was beaten up — five people were kicking him. Those who were late returning from leave were handcuffed to a bed in the barracks.

Leave and business trips

I also handled leave. Nobody monitored it. The Airborne Forces has a specific feature: those who are at the front have the right to receive payments when they go on regular leave, and the Airborne Forces has an additional 15 days of leave on top of that. The thing with regular leave was that many privileged figures at headquarters exploited certain loopholes.

One colonel would travel to the 552nd Centre for Identifying the Deceased in Rostov-on-Don — that is, he was on an official business trip under orders, which is the key point. He was due to receive travel expenses and standard service payments.

By law, “wartime” payments are retained if the business trip lasts no more than ten days. He would arrive at the center, then return, then leave again. This happened five or six times in a row.

The key requirement was to record arrival and departure every ten days. This way all payments were preserved: combat pay, housing allowance, flights, and so on. That colonel received payments for approximately 60 days.

A similar scheme applies to training: a person can spend several months on a training course and continue to receive payments as if they were in the combat zone.

After that, the colonel went on regular leave, and the payments continued, because his last official place of assignment on orders was considered to be the combat zone. All of this was agreed with the division commander, and I prepared the advance expense report for him.

The escape

Despite me being at headquarters rather than at the front, military service took a toll on me — both emotional and physical. I worked 16 hours a day for six months. And ideologically, I could no longer be there either. So I started planning my escape.

I knew how they tracked everyone, so I eliminated both my digital and physical trail: I bought tickets with someone else’s card, threw away my phones, got a new laptop — off the books, no documentation — and a new phone. When I took off my uniform, I cursed everything, knowing I had no desire to return.

I found a private taxi driver on [the classifieds portal] Avito and rode with him to Smolensk, where I boarded a plane to Armenia. I subsequently joined as a volunteer with the project “Tverdy Znak,” which brings together conscientious objectors and deserters from the Russian Armed Forces. Now I help smuggle deserters like myself out of the country.

On June 25, during Ashura — an important religious observance for Shiite Muslims — the voices of Iran’s political opposition were once again heard on the country’s streets. In recent months, they had largely fallen silent amid the war and the wave of repression that followed the deadly crackdown on the January protests.

At Ashura mourning ceremonies, participants sang songs calling on their fellow countrymen to “topple the idols and the palaces of tyrannical rulers,” along with a song that has become a symbol of remembrance for protesters killed by the security forces. In several cities, participants carried photographs of those killed during the processions and read their names aloud. In Tehran, the mother of a slain regime opponent addressed the crowd, urging them “not to let my son’s path fade away.”

Supporters of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) also used Ashura to promote their own narratives, calling for continued confrontation with the United States and criticizing negotiations with Washington. This is nothing new in Iran: Ashura religious ceremonies have long served as a platform for political expression.

Aside from the holiday marches, there have been no major anti-government protests in recent weeks. Pro-government rallies, however, continue to take place regularly. According to an activist with the Iranian media project Mamlekat (who asked not to be identified), these rallies are entirely organized — and sometimes financed — by the state.

“The situation is simply terrible”

Life has largely returned to its prewar routine. Streets are once again crowded with people and cars, retirees play chess and backgammon in parks while children run nearby, and others exercise outdoors. Cities are filled with brightly colored signs.

Cafés and shops were open even during the war, but since prices soared, people are visiting them less and less. By the end of 2025, the Iranian rial had fallen to a record low of roughly 1.45 million to the U.S. dollar. At the same time, food inflation reached about 70%, one of the highest rates in the world. It was this economic crisis that triggered the mass protests in January 2026.

“The economic situation is simply terrible. Over the past three months, the prices of goods have doubled,” M., a resident of a major city in southern Iran, told The Insider. He works at an electronics store and earns about $170 a month, which he says is above the national average. “That money only pays for food and internet access. People can’t support their families anymore, and even children have to work,” he says with a shrug.

Indeed, the head of the Iranian Association of Social Workers, Hassan Mousavi Chalak, said that worsening economic conditions have forced children into street vending, slaughterhouses, livestock farms, underground workshops, orchards, agricultural fields, and industrial enterprises.

Outside of work, M. watches movies and TV series and spends time outdoors with friends. “Most people around me talk about politics, the war, and rising prices. Sometimes you wonder whether someone might be eavesdropping, but overall I don’t feel an atmosphere of fear. The situation is bad, but life goes on,” he says.

Iranians, unlike Russians, do not generally shy away from political discussions. They openly debate politics in the streets and on public transportation, even with people they barely know. This characteristic was also noted by Middle East expert Ruslan Suleymanov, who visited Iran during the war.

M. holds opposition views, and he had genuinely hoped that after Donald Trump called on Iranians to occupy government buildings, the American president would follow through with concrete help for the country’s protesters. The Insider's source had hoped the clerical regime could be brought down by military means.

“Why did Trump make a deal with those who recently killed 40,000 people? Many believe that if Israel had acted alone and the U.S. had stayed out of it altogether, the outcome would have been much better,” M. says. He is angry, but still hopes the war will resume – and end differently this time.

“There is now profound disappointment with Trump in Iranian society,” confirms an activist with the media project Mamlekat. “He made a lot of promises but in the end achieved nothing — he only took away people’s hope. The biggest disappointment is this: if not even Trump could topple this regime, then how are we supposed to do it?”

“Trump made a lot of promises but in the end achieved nothing — he only took away people’s hope.”

Tehran-based blogger Elena Zivdar expresses similar sentiments: “Many people believe that if the war resumes, the situation will improve, and they want it to start again. People are so exhausted by the economic downturn, sanctions, and uncertainty that they have lost hope for positive change.” At the end of June, after the memorandum of understanding with the United States was signed, Elena and her Iranian husband left the country.

According to the blogger, many Iranians lost their jobs after industrial facilities were hit during the war, leaving street vending as the only source of income for some. Throughout Tehran, people now sell carpets, clothing, and household appliances on the streets, while buskers and performers entertain passersby nearby.

In footage from Tehran shared by Elena, people can be seen dressed in a variety of ways, and not all are wearing religious attire. Young women and men strolling through a shopping mall look entirely Western in appearance, wearing jeans, leather jackets, fashionable T-shirts, and accessories.

“Young people find ways to wear what they like, get ahold of banned alcohol, and gather for parties,” Elena says. According to her, Iran exists in two parallel realities: ordinary people who want a normal life, and official Tehran with its propaganda.

Internet access remains restricted

Internet access was partially restored in early June after several months of restrictions. However, according to users, connection speeds remain significantly slower than they were before January, and many popular social media platforms, including Instagram and TikTok, are still blocked. Even with a VPN, users are not always able to access them.

Human rights advocate Tara Dachek says Iran has effectively established a “multi-tiered internet” system. Security service personnel and government officials enjoy unrestricted internet access, while most citizens are limited to a narrow range of state-approved websites and applications that also allow the authorities to monitor users. Security agencies use these tools to identify people who have provided information to foreign media outlets.

In addition, for several months the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) has been conducting house-to-house searches for Starlink equipment, which many Iranians relied on to access the internet during the shutdowns.

“A very patriotic people”

Shahad, an Iranian who spent most of his life in London but remains in close contact with relatives and friends inside the country — even traveling there for visits — says the war inspired a rally-around-the-flag effect among many who had previously been moderately opposed to the regime. He also noted that the late Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei, who was killed in U.S. and Israeli strikes on February 28, was genuinely loved and revered by many Iranians.

A week-long funeral ceremony for Khamenei began on July 3, nearly four months after his death. According to an Associated Press estimate, hundreds of thousands of people attended the mourning events in Tehran on July 5. Crowds chanted “Death to America” and “Death to Israel,” while some participants carried signs calling for the killing of Trump and Netanyahu.

At the ceremony, three of Khamenei’s sons appeared in public for the first time since the war. Iran’s new Supreme Leader, Mojtaba Khamenei, however, was not among them. He is believed to be in hiding after being wounded in the strike that killed his father.

“Iranians are a very patriotic people. Yes, people are going hungry and facing enormous hardships. But after the bombing, many sided with the government — even those who had protested over the economic situation. That’s because, although it was presented as a war against the regime, in reality factories and bridges were destroyed, and people were killed,” Shahad says.

After the bombing, even those who had protested over the economic situation sided with the government

Shahad’s views are anti-war but pro-Iranian. He supports a deal with the United States and opposes Iran acquiring nuclear weapons, while also advocating for a “multipolar” Middle East and arguing that outside powers should leave Iran alone.

Middle East expert and NEST Centre analyst Ruslan Suleymanov says that the regime’s committed support base accounts for roughly 10–15% of the population — people who sincerely attend pro-government rallies. According to him, many Iranians genuinely oppose war with the United States because of the damage inflicted on civilian infrastructure. Others are unsettled by Trump’s support for Kurdish separatism.

Visible destruction

The war affected not only military targets but also Iran’s historical heritage. Reuters journalists, who were granted rare access to the country in March, documented damage to at least 11 historic buildings, including UNESCO World Heritage sites in Isfahan and Tehran. In most cases, the monuments were not struck directly but were damaged by powerful blast waves, which caused cracks in walls, crumbling plaster, and the destruction of tiles and stained-glass windows.

“These buildings were part of who we are,” museum guard Rasoul Mousavi, who was injured in one of the strikes, told Reuters. According to him, even two weeks after the bombing, shards of glass, plaster, and centuries-old tiles still crunched underfoot in Isfahan’s historic palaces.

M. says that civilian infrastructure in his city escaped major damage because all military facilities are located on the outskirts, while the only security installation in the city center is a base belonging to Basij, a paramilitary force affiliated with the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC). “We weren’t hit very hard. Civilians know which neighborhoods are best avoided,” he says.

“The regime now has a free hand”

In mid-January, the Iranian authorities insisted that they did not intend to execute participants in the protests. However, in March they executed three demonstrators, including 19-year-old national youth wrestling team member Saleh Mohammadi. They were accused of “waging war against God” — one of the gravest offenses under Iran’s Sharia-based legal system. The authorities claimed they had taken part in the killing of two police officers and had acted “in the interests of Israel and the United States.”

According to a June 8 report by the Center for Human Rights in Iran, at least 40 prisoners have been executed in politically motivated cases since the beginning of 2026, including 19 participants in the January protests.

Human rights groups say the authorities have accelerated the handling of political cases, with just a few months now separating arrest from execution. They also report that confessions are frequently extracted through the use of torture and coercion. Defendants are held incommunicado for weeks, are denied access to independent lawyers, and, in some cases, have been executed without their families being notified.

Defendants are held incommunicado for weeks, denied access to independent lawyers, and executed without their families being notified

In addition to court-ordered executions, in January security forces carried out mass shootings of protesters in the streets and even inside hospitals. Doctors told journalists that they found patients dead in their hospital beds — some with gunshot wounds to the head, others after being disconnected from life-support machines.

Iranian authorities officially acknowledge that more than 3,000 people were killed. Human rights organizations and independent media outlets, however, say the death toll reached several tens of thousands.

According to The Insider's sources, arrests and enforced disappearances of protest participants have only intensified in recent months.

“The regime now has a free hand. The authorities are abducting, torturing, and executing people who took part in the demonstrations without any restraint,” says an activist with Mamlekat.

According to the U.S.-based human rights organization Human Rights Activists in Iran, more than 50,000 protesters had been detained before the end of February.

On June 22, Amnesty International Secretary General Agnès Callamard condemned the Iranian authorities’ campaign of mass arbitrary arrests, enforced disappearances, torture, politically motivated executions, and other forms of inhumane treatment.

“An end to the bombing of Iran will not, by itself, ensure the safety of people, who are facing escalating repression by the authorities of the Islamic Republic. It is essential that any agreement between the United States and Iran be accompanied by a dual-track diplomatic approach that places civilians at its center and includes concrete measures to prevent further crimes by the Iranian authorities, particularly new mass killings of protesters,” Callamard said.

In early July, Wildberries changed the terms of its offer agreement, releasing itself from liability for goods destroyed or damaged as a result of military actions, drone attacks, shelling, and explosions. The company is now promising sellers subsidized loans, deferrals, and logistics discounts, but the question of compensation for the value of the goods lost in the fires remains unresolved.

Viktoria, the founder of the children’s clothing brand FAREAL, wrote that 12,000 items from a new collection were stored at the warehouse and that preliminary damage was estimated at more than 15 million rubles.

Maria Khlopkina estimated the value of her burned goods at 6 million rubles. She said she did not expect compensation. In a subsequent post, the entrepreneur wrote that what happened was not only a financial blow — she was also struck by the nature of  comments from users under posts by affected sellers.

Alexandra Anishkina said she kept nearly 40% of her inventory, worth more than 1 million rubles, at the Elektrostal warehouse. She said sellers pay for storage, logistics, commissions, and advertising, while the marketplace leaves them to bear the full risk if their goods are destroyed.

Svetlana Makarkina said she had begun selling off remaining stock and was preparing to stop storing goods at Wildberries warehouses after the offer agreement was changed. She did not manage to finish the clearance sale in time.

Some entrepreneurs are now trying to find the necessary money to resume sales. Tatiana, the owner of a women’s clothing brand, told the independent outlet Bereg that she estimated her losses at 2 million rubles at cost and 6 million rubles including expected revenue. She decided not to launch new production before the end of the summer.

“Before, the business generally paid for itself. We had a good margin. We produce the goods ourselves, and that made it possible to make a profit,” she said. “But Wildberries’ higher commissions, of course, make the situation harder. For now, we plan to keep selling on Wildberries. We still have goods in warehouses, but we will not sew anything new until the end of the summer. We will also look at other platforms — Lamoda is in our short-term plans. Without compensation, we will not have money for production, or we will have to take out another loan, which we would rather not do because we already have one. So the only option is to try to recover at least part of the money through court.”

Alexei, the owner of an electronics store, wrote that he lost about 210 PlayStation 5 consoles worth 10 million to 12 million rubles. After the fire, he put his car up for sale for 2.8 million rubles and plans to spend the money on a new batch of goods.

“I immediately jumped in the car and drove there. When I arrived, they were no longer letting anyone through; the area had been cordoned off, so all I could do was watch the goods burn,” he said. “I was there for about five hours. I saw other sellers, but didn’t really talk to them. They were panicking too — they didn’t know what to do, they were calling someone. Of course, everyone was trying to get their goods out any way they could, but without success.”

Another women’s clothing seller lost more than 600,000 rubles. Even before the fire, she had begun preparing her own online store — after another Wildberries commission increase, she said, the economics of selling through the platform no longer worked. Now, any obligations sellers had to suppliers, manufacturers, and banks remain regardless of whether their goods were destroyed.

Wildberries announced its first support measures on July 19, saying it would offer discounts on storing goods at some warehouses for 45 days after delivery and fully waive fees for transit deliveries to regional warehouses. An assessment of the consequences of the attacks and the estimation of possible payouts could take up to 30 days, according to Wildberries founder Tatyana Kim.

WB Bank, Wildberries’ banking arm, promised affected small and medium-sized businesses loan deferrals of up to six months, along with subsidized loans and special factoring terms. The bank also said it would waive fees for payments within Russia and offer accelerated withdrawal of revenues. Russia’s largest bank, state-owned Sberbank, began accepting applications for loan restructuring from those affected by the strikes.

Wildberries and rival Russian e-commerce giant Ozon had earlier revised their seller contracts in order to shift war-related risks onto merchants. Ozon’s new terms, which took effect July 1, release the marketplace from liability for claims linked to military action, drone and missile attacks, shelling, explosions, and special legal regimes. Wildberries also added incidents involving the use of weapons, ammunition, and aircraft to the circumstances under which it may refuse compensation.

The strikes disabled about 7% of RWB’s logistics capacity, according to a report by the Kremlin-aligned business newspaper Kommersant. Rebuilding the two warehouses could cost between 20 billion and 35.8 billion rubles, while total losses, including sellers’ destroyed goods, could reach 100 billion rubles. Only 5% to 7% of Wildberries sellers have insurance, and just 10% to 20% of those policies cover sabotage-related risks.

The Wildberries warehouses in Elektrostal and Kotovsk were hit overnight into July 18. Seven people were killed in Kotovsk and one in Elektrostal; dozens more were wounded. Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky said the facilities were used to supply sanctioned components for drones and navigation equipment.

Five crew members were killed, and the fate of five others remains unknown. Eight sailors were evacuated to a hospital in Odesa.

The vessel sailed under the flag of Guinea-Bissau. Ukraine’s navy did not name the exact location of the attack, saying only that the cargo ship was “leaving the combat zone.” Russian authorities have not commented on the incident.

The Insider analyzed tracking data provided by the monitoring platform Starboard Maritime Intelligence, which showed that in the spring and early summer, the cargo ship sailed between ports in Turkey, Georgia, Syria, Greece, and Spain. It was in Barcelona from June 24 to 29, called at the Greek island of Syros on July 4, and arrived in Istanbul on July 6.

On the afternoon of July 7, the Golden Leo left Istanbul and headed north through the Black Sea. The crew listed the Romanian port of Sulina as its destination. The last signal was received on the morning of July 9 east of the Danube Delta, near Sulina. After that, data on the ship’s movements stop until the July 19 attack.

The available AIS history does not make it possible to determine which Ukrainian port the Golden Leo entered, where it loaded grain, or what route it took while leaving the combat zone. AIS, or the automatic identification system, is a tracking system used by ships to transmit their identity, position, course and speed.

Sulina is located at the mouth of the Romanian canal of the same name and is used by ships heading to Ukrainian Danube ports, including Izmail and Reni. The route became a key hub for Ukrainian grain exports after the start of Russia’s full-scale war. However, the Golden Leo’s last known position does not prove that the cargo ship continued along the Danube.

Ukraine also uses a separate maritime corridor to the ports of Odesa, Chornomorsk, and Pivdennyi. Kyiv opened that route in 2023 after Moscow withdrew from the grain deal. The corridor runs through the western Black Sea near the coasts of Romania and Bulgaria.

The Ukrainian Navy said the Golden Leo’s owner is Turkish, but data from Starboard Maritime Intelligence and other vessel-tracking services show a more complex structure: the registered owner is listed as Ocean Grace Shipping Ltd., while the commercial and technical operator is Friends Shipping Co. SA. The latter is based in Mersin, Turkey, and transports grain, coal, fertilizer, and other bulk cargo.

The strike on the Golden Leo came amid escalating fighting in the Black and Azov seas. On July 17, Russian drones damaged three international civilian vessels in the port of Mykolaiv. Two Ukrainians were killed.

At the same time, since early July, Ukraine has been striking Russian tankers, cargo ships, and tugboats in the Azov Sea. Robert Brovdi, commander of Ukraine’s Unmanned Systems Forces, has reported hits on more than 150 vessels. Moscow has described the attacks as terrorism and piracy and restricted the entry and exit of vessels from the Azov Sea through the Kerch Strait and the Azov-Don Canal. About a quarter of Russia’s grain exports pass through that route.

The fighting has already affected grain exports from both countries. According to the Ukrainian Agrarian Union, Russian strikes have reduced the throughput capacity of Ukraine’s Black Sea ports from about 6 million metric tons to 4 million metric tons of grain a month. More than 90% of Ukraine’s agricultural exports pass through ports in the Odesa Region.

Vedernikov said the reports were filed under Article 20.4 of Russia’s Code of Administrative Offenses, which covers violations of fire safety requirements. He did not specify which part of the article garage owners were accused of violating. For a standard fire safety violation, citizens can face a warning or a fine of 5,000 to 15,000 rubles ($64-$191)

The inspections come amid ongoing fuel shortages in the Pskov region, where local authorities say supplies remain strained in southern districts. In some areas, only Surgutneftegaz gas stations are open, and they have run out of AI-95, a common grade of premium gasoline in Russia. Vedernikov also said the petroleum company Tatneft had promised to increase fuel deliveries to the region.

Russia’s fuel crisis has been developing since the spring. By June 30, fuel shortages, sales disruptions, or restrictions at gas stations had been recorded in 88 of the 89 regions controlled by Moscow, including the Russian-occupied parts of Ukraine, according to The Insider’s count. Gas stations introduced limits and banned sales of gasoline in canisters.

One cause of the crisis has been Ukrainian drone strikes on Russian oil refineries. Since the start of 2026, Russian refineries have been successfully attacked at least 194 times — 11 times more often than during the same period last year, the Financial Times reported. High seasonal demand and logistics disruptions are putting additional pressure on the market.

The Insider asked me, a 40-year veteran of the Foreign Service, whether President Donald J. Trump’s dealmaking approach to international conflicts — trying to jam through quick, tangible results — can work. Short answer: it can. Trump’s signature tactics — pressure, bluster, unpredictability, insistence on tangible results, and tactical flexibility — can be used to good effect. Storied U.S. diplomat Richard Holbrooke famously used all of these tools and more to hammer warring parties into a deal to end the Bosnian War in 1995. 

But to succeed, dealmaking must be informed by an accurate assessment of the problem, by a realistic sense of the other side’s (and our own) assets and liabilities, and by a sustainable strategy that the dealmaking effort in question is intended to advance. The Trump administration has struggled to meet these tests.

Success in policy making starts with understanding the issue at hand, knowing what it is about. The Insider also asked whether the Trump dealmaking approach risked oversimplifying complex problems. It can. But the best intelligence officer I ever worked with often remarked that for any given problem, they would ask what it is in its essence.

Simplification is not a lazy shortcut but a necessary exercise. The U.S. Civil War had complicated origins but, as Lincoln put it in his Second Inaugural Address, it was about slavery. The Cold War was about containing the Soviet Union before it could extend its empire further into Europe, and winning the Cold War required supporting democratic patriots chafing under the Soviet empire. 

Boiling down a problem is easier said than done, of course. What becomes clear in hindsight is often obscured when we try to look ahead. Explaining to the President, Secretary of State, or National Security Advisor the boiled-down nature of whatever awful problem you are putting on their desk is a core task of any senior diplomat or specialist. The trick is to get it right.

The Trump administration’s dealmaking record has been uneven in four major foreign policy issues of its second term: Greenland, Iran, the Russia-Ukraine War, and transatlantic relations

In four major foreign policy issues of its second term — Greenland, Iran, the Russia-Ukraine War, and transatlantic relations — the Trump administration’s dealmaking record has been uneven. It has often (though not always) misjudged the problem at hand and failed to assess its or its adversaries’ strengths and weaknesses. 

The administration has often failed to embed whatever deal it sought in a larger, sustainable strategy. The administration can, in its own fashion, land deals and course correct. I’ve sorted its dealmaking record on these four issues from the worst to better.

No deal on Greenland

Trump’s ambition to annex Greenland, part of the Kingdom of Denmark, is perhaps his worst foreign policy idea and the one for which there is the least excuse. U.S. security interests in Greenland, the ostensible reason for Trump’s claim, can be addressed via the 1951 Defense of Greenland Agreement, a permissive document, and through the ongoing tripartite talks between the U.S., Denmark, and Greenland.

Trump made up the problem of a security gap in Greenland that could be filled only with U.S. annexation. He also misjudged Denmark’s and Greenland’s reaction to his pressure: rather than fold or bargain for a selling price, the Danish government, with support at home and from key European allies, resisted U.S. pressure and even prepared to defend itself should the U.S. attack.

Greenlanders showed little interest in accepting U.S. control. Trump re-raised his claims to Greenland just before the NATO summit in Ankara, triggering immediate and strong pushback from Danish Prime Minister Mette Frederiksen. 

Trump made up the problem of a security gap in Greenland that could be filled only with U.S. annexation

Trump had few cards to play to achieve his questionable Greenland objective; no dealmaking skills could change this. And a good thing, because the underlying strategic rationale for his Greenland claim is awful: that annexation, not alliance, is necessary to advance U.S. interests.

The Greenland gambit, if successful, would have undermined the U.S. web of alliances around the world that have extended U.S. power through willing, sometimes eager, allies and friends. As it is, the U.S. threat of aggression against its Danish ally has damaged U.S. standing in a country that had sent its troops to fight in Afghanistan and Iraq, and in Europe generally. It’s been a sorry chapter but, possibly, one that has diminished from real threat to mere trolling.

Grasping for an Iran deal

Iran’s regime is violent and oppressive at home and an exporter of terror and violence abroad. Its nuclear ambitions are a threat to the region and the world. Outside of fellow tyrants, few would have regretted the regime’s fall under the pressure of a U.S. attack or by its own people. 

The Trump administration overestimated its ability to crush the Iranian regime

The failure (so far) of the U.S. campaign against Iran is a product of underestimating the regime’s tenacity and its ability to close or complicate passage through the Strait of Hormuz. The Trump administration overestimated its ability to crush the Iranian regime or force it to accept U.S. terms through air and naval power alone.

The administration was not realistic in assessing its and its adversary’s respective assets and liabilities. Dealmaking skills — i.e. Trump’s alternating threats and offers directed at Iran — could not bridge that gap. Lacking broad public support for military operations against Iran and given concerns over oil prices, the administration appeared eager, even desperate, to reach a deal with Iran.

The 14-point U.S.-Iran Memorandum of Understanding concluded in June essentially reopened the Strait of Hormuz (in ways that gave Iran rights of rights that it did not have before) in exchange for an easing of Washington’s economic pressure. The MOU postponed discussions on nuclear issues, a core and longstanding U.S. objective, and was weaker overall than the U.S.-Iran nuclear deal of 2015 (the JCPOA) that Trump had denounced from the first. In short, this was dealmaking from a relatively weak position.

The 14-point Memorandum of Understanding concluded in June essentially reopened the Strait of Hormuz in ways that gave Iran rights of rights that it did not have before

Perhaps aware of the shortcomings of the deal he had accepted, Trump has denounced the “permanent” ceasefire that the June MOU set out, resuming air attacks on Iran. Trump may hope that one more military campaign could lead to a better deal for the U.S.. It’s not a wholly vain effort.

The Iranian regime has been hurt and its capacity diminished, particularly given its relatively thin basis of support in the country. Iran’s attacks on its neighbors rebound against it. But thus far, Trump’s pressure-and-dealmaking with Iran may continue without much achievement.

The crooked road to a decent deal on Ukraine? 

At the start of his second term, Trump had just about everything wrong when it came to the Russia-Ukraine War. He seemed to regard it as a territorial dispute in which the U.S. could play (mostly) neutral mediator and, like many, he regarded Ukraine as an inevitable loser to the larger and on-paper more powerful Russia. 

His strategic framing of the war seemed to be based on a spheres-of-influence view, meaning that Ukraine had to accept its fate under Moscow’s sway, and that the U.S. has no real stake in that fight.

Trump was hardly alone in this: he was reflecting his version of the “realist” school of thinking that animated the Nixon Administration, which tacitly accepted Soviet domination of Central and Eastern Europe, and even some in the Obama administration who questioned whether the U.S. had strategic interests in Ukraine (I was in government during the first Russian invasion of Ukraine and witnessed these discussions then and after.) Trump pulled back U.S. support for Ukraine, ending grants of weapons and ammunition though not ending sales or intelligence sharing.

Trump’s dealmaking efforts on Ukraine reflected these mistaken assumptions: a low point was the U.S.-Russian draft 28-point peace plan of November 2025 that reflected Russia’s demands. That deal would have reduced Ukraine to a Russian satellite state and advanced the Kremlin objective of relitigating the fall of the Iron Curtain. It was bad dealmaking.

Fortunately, the Ukrainians would have none of it. Backed by key European countries and many in the U.S. Congress (and some in the administration), they resisted U.S. pressure to take a bad deal. They fought on, slowing Russian advances on the ground, inflicting increased casualties on Russian forces, and, in recent months, launching effective strategic strikes against Russian oil industry targets and Crimea.

The Trump administration has responded reasonably well to this change of fortunes: Trump had a warm meeting with Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky on the margins of the NATO Ankara Summit, during which he endorsed Ukraine’s deep strikes against Russian targets and shortly after offered to support Ukrainian production of Patriot missiles. This marks a big shift.

If sustained, it could result in a more productive deal: e.g., a ceasefire in place combined with security for Ukraine. Such a deal would mean the failure of Putin’s ambitions to reduce Ukraine to a puppet state or eliminate it altogether. 

Putin will not accept the failure of his ambitions easily. Well-informed European governments believe he may escalate with aggression against Ukraine or European countries, seeking to frighten Ukraine’s chief European backers or the U.S. into backing away from Ukraine. To land a better deal on Ukraine, the Trump administration, and Trump himself, will have to show its dealmaking tough side to Putin.

Landing a deal on NATO’s future

Trump has long complained about NATO on two grounds. One was a lack of European military contributions, a frustration shared by previous U.S. Presidents since Eisenhower and one that has grown as key Western European allies allowed their militaries to weaken after the end of the Cold War. Trump’s second problem was NATO itself: he didn’t seem to value the alliance at all.

To complicate things, the Trump administration seemed divided between those who support NATO provided that Allies did their part to bolster the collective defense and those skeptical about NATO altogether. While attributing positions is an uncertain exercise, U.S. Ambassador to NATO Matthew Whitaker is probably in the first group and Under Secretary for Defense Elbridge Colby is probably in the second group.

For the Ankara NATO Summit to succeed, there needed to be a double deal: Allies had to agree to put up more on defense and Trump had to agree to back NATO on the basis of greater Allied military contributions. In other words, Trump had to take the win.

It worked. Allies agreed to increase their defense spending. Key large Allies — especially Poland and Germany — are building up their militaries fast, as are other capable smaller ones such as Finland. On that basis, and with a lot of work by NATO Secretary General Mark Rutte, Trump agreed to a positive NATO Summit statement that included confirmation of NATO’s determination to defend its members and language in support of Ukraine.

Trump’s pressure tactics were exasperating but played a role in landing the deal, a point some senior German officials made to me following the Summit. Putin’s war against Ukraine and aggression against Europe (and threats of more), however, played the bigger role in the rearmament of Germany, Poland, the Baltics, Finland, Sweden, and other NATO Allies.

Trump’s pressure tactics were exasperating but played a role in landing the deal with NATO

The deal reached at Ankara was a good one, but it will be tested by real world events. The administration is reviewing its force posture in Europe and the internal debate over the U.S. role in Europe’s defense will continue. The question will be whether the U.S. will maintain critical military capacity in Europe, plan the transition to greater European military contributions so there are no gaps in defense coverage, and be ready to fight if Russia attacks a NATO ally.

President Trump seems to love the dealmaking process: the pressure, sense of uncertainty, drama, suspense, and surprises. But his policy judgment is uneven. At worst (Denmark/Greenland) it is harmful for no good reason. With Iran, Trump seems to be kicking around, struggling for a better outcome than the one he landed in. With Ukraine and NATO, the U.S. could finally be pointed in the right direction, backing Ukraine and the Alliance as both do their part and more. But the adversaries — the Iranian and Kremlin regimes — will put Trump to the test. Dealmaking tactics will have to be guided by strategic soundness. Hang on for a bumpy ride.

There had been plenty of objective reasons to replace Ukraine's government. A year after Yulia Svyrydenko’s appointment as prime minister, the cabinet had still not been fully staffed, with the posts of minister of digital transformation and minister of justice remaining vacant. For months, there had also been discussions about replacing several other ministers, creating the impression that no one intended to complete the cabinet's formation because a more sweeping transformation lay ahead.

Indeed, the political landscape changed fundamentally over the past year. Many saw Svyrydenko's appointment last July as the handiwork of Andriy Yermak, who at the time was considered nearly all-powerful. The Presidential Office, which Yermak headed, functioned as a shadow government, setting most of the agenda for ministers, while the cabinet itself fit seamlessly into a unified chain of decision-making. The prime minister's lack of sufficient political weight and institutional autonomy was viewed more as an asset than a liability among the top members of Zelensky’s team.

This was not a reflection of Svyrydenko's professional abilities. As prime minister, she demonstrated unquestionable competence, yet she never became a major political player. She failed to build her own base of support in parliament, did not assemble a political team of her own, and acquiesced to the reality that most key decisions would continue to be made in the presidential offices on Bankova Street.

Svyrydenko could stand in for Zelensky at the head of an economic delegation, but Ukraine's partners did not view her as the country's political leader

The limits of the prime minister's political agency became most apparent at the recent Ukraine Recovery Conference in Gdańsk. After the Polish president's demarche, Volodymyr Zelensky declined to attend the event, and Svyrydenko led the Ukrainian delegation instead. She held dozens of meetings, addressed plenary sessions, and discussed investment, energy, and infrastructure reconstruction — flawlessly performing her role as Ukraine's chief economic negotiator.

At the same time, Gdańsk was hosting a summit of the EU and NATO's eastern flank countries focused on security and continued support for Ukraine. Svyrydenko did not attend that gathering. She could replace the president at the head of an economic delegation, but Ukraine's partners did not regard her as the country's political leader. That is why the theory that Zelensky needed a prime minister with greater political stature seemed entirely plausible.

A controversial replacement

The name of the new prime minister was announced almost immediately: Serhii Koretskyi, one of Ukraine's most successful corporate executives of recent years, first managing a major company then building a successful business of his own before delivering impressive results at the helm of the nationalized oil company Ukrnafta. Most recently, Koretskyi led Naftogaz through a period of near-daily Russian strikes on the country's energy infrastructure. The only thing missing from this remarkable résumé was any involvement in real politics.

In Ukraine's constitutional parliamentary-presidential system, the head of government is, in practice, expected to be a political leader. Unfortunately, in this respect Koretskyi is no different from Svyrydenko: both are technocratic managers with no political background, electoral base, or meaningful support of their own in parliament.

One other consideration might help explain why Svyrydenko was replaced by Koretskyi. Since few doubt that Russia will continue trying to destroy Ukraine's power generation, gas production, and fuel infrastructure before the onset of cold weather, it would make sense to give broad authority to a specialist from the energy sector. The problem with that explanation is that the government already has such a person: Energy Minister Denys Shmyhal, who now serves as first deputy prime minister after five years at the head of the Cabinet of Ministers. In short, these sweeping reshuffles were not conceived as preparations for a difficult winter.

Goodbye, America!

Following his final meeting with Svyrydenko as prime minister, Zelensky unexpectedly turned to foreign policy priorities while announcing the upcoming personnel changes. Indeed, Ukraine's international environment has shifted noticeably in recent months. Relations with the United States have begun to recover, while problems have emerged with Poland. Hungary has changed its position, yet it remains a difficult partner.

At the same time, reports emerged that Ukraine's ambassador to the United States, Olha Stefanishyna, wanted to leave the diplomatic service. Media outlets also reported that Ukraine's National Anti-Corruption Bureau (NABU) was considering notifying her that she was under suspicion over “matters from the distant past” — a development that would have made her a toxic choice in Washington.

That is why Zelensky's remark, “I am grateful to Yulia…and have proposed that she lead a new important area in relations with our key partner,” was widely interpreted as an announcement that the outgoing prime minister would become Ukraine's ambassador to the United States. Such a decision appeared entirely logical.

Over the past year, Svyrydenko has become one of Ukraine's principal negotiators with the U.S. administration, taking part in discussions on the minerals agreement while earning a reputation as a calm and highly professional negotiator.

It seemed that the pieces of the puzzle had finally fallen into place: the reason for the reshuffle was that Ukraine needed a strong representative in the United States

It appeared that the puzzle had finally come together and the logic behind the reshuffle had become clear: the prime minister had gained the international experience required for a new role, and Ukraine needed a strong representative in the United States. But at that very moment, the entire edifice suddenly collapsed — journalists learned that Svyrydenko had declined the offer to head Ukraine's embassy in Washington.

The resignation of the “minister of hope”

Many people initially refused to believe reports of Mykhailo Fedorov's dismissal. The public associated the young defense minister with positive changes on the battlefield, successful strikes deep behind Russian lines, reform of defense procurement, and efforts to resolve the issues of troop rotations, demobilization, and — above all — mobilization. Fedorov established direct contact with Elon Musk, and as a result Ukraine and SpaceX developed a mechanism to restrict the Russian military's use of Starlink terminals, significantly reducing the aggressor's drone capabilities.

Fedorov’s brief tenure should not be idealized. Members of parliament at times criticized him over the supply of troops, ammunition production, and unfulfilled promises. Even so, his critics generally did not deny that Fedorov represented a different model of public administration — one that was more technologically driven, faster-moving, and more willing to challenge the traditional military bureaucracy.

That may well have been what led to his swift dismissal. At a meeting with the parliamentary faction of the Servant of the People party, the president said that Fedorov had a long-standing conflict with Ukraine's commander-in-chief, Oleksandr Syrskyi. After his dismissal, the former minister himself confirmed that he had called for Syrskyi to be removed but had ultimately agreed to work with him. Many media outlets also noted that, by trying to make military procurement more transparent, Fedorov had made numerous enemies within the ministry and among defense contractors.

Parliament heads off on recess

While the replacement of the prime minister was met with little more than a shrug by Ukrainian society, the defense minister's dismissal triggered widespread protests. By various estimates, at least 1,500 people gathered outside the Presidential Office in Kyiv, while demonstrations were also held in Lviv and other cities. The protesters demanded that Fedorov be returned to the government and that Interior Minister Ihor Klymenko not be appointed to replace him.

The backlash was not confined to the streets. In protest, state-backed UNITED24 Media, which is closely linked to the presidential team, suspended publication of new content. Pavlo Elizarov, deputy commander of the Air Force, submitted his resignation from the Armed Forces of Ukraine. General Mykhailo Drapatyi, commander of the Joint Forces Grouping, publicly voiced his support for Fedorov. European Commissioner for Defence Andrius Kubilius also expressed bewilderment over the decision.

The president's response was swift. Zelensky said that he had heard the protesters and had not yet made a final decision on the appointment of a new defense minister. This appeared to be a significant departure from the original plan: just a day earlier, lawmakers from the pro-presidential parliamentary faction had confidently stated that Ihor Klymenko's nomination would be submitted for a vote together with the new composition of the Cabinet of Ministers.

The next “creative” move was the Verkhovna Rada's sudden decision to adjourn until August 18 without approving the so-called “presidential quota” appointments: the ministers of defense and foreign affairs, as well as the heads of the Security Service of Ukraine (SBU) and the Foreign Intelligence Service. Then, later that evening, Zelensky unexpectedly appointed Yevhen Khmara, a specialist in special operations with close ties to the front who had previously been serving as acting head of the SBU, as acting defense minister. It is unclear how long that “temporary” status might last.

Elections are approaching

As so often happens in Ukraine, the “clever plan” went awry. The attempt to hide Fedorov's dismissal amid a sweeping government reshuffle was quickly called out by the public, dealing yet another serious blow to the president's image.

But why did Zelensky decide to take such an obviously unpopular step in the first place? The semi-official explanation is that he had to choose between Fedorov and Syrskyi. That is plausible, but it does not explain the underlying motivation. The choice could just as easily have gone the other way: replacing Syrskyi would almost certainly have been welcomed by the public (regardless of the general's actual record), and potential successors to the commander-in-chief had repeatedly been discussed both in the media and among experts. The decision could also have been postponed indefinitely — after all, Fedorov had not presented the president with an ultimatum.

The attempt to bury the defense minister's dismissal within a sweeping government reshuffle was quickly recognized by the public and dealt a blow to the president's image

The president's reasoning may well have been driven by electoral considerations, as talk of a presidential election periodically resurfaces in wartime Ukraine. At the same time, Zelensky's best chance of securing a second term would come if the vote were held as soon as possible — immediately after a ceasefire or even under martial law (although the latter option remains unlikely due to legal and organizational constraints). In such a scenario, the incumbent president would need not only electoral support but also a predictable and tightly controlled system of government.

In 2019, a key guarantor of the security apparatus' neutrality was then-Interior Minister Arsen Avakov. Although he formally served in Petro Poroshenko's government, he made a point of preventing the authorities from exploiting their administrative advantages. As a result, Zelensky could be confident that the rules governing the campaign and the vote count would not be changed at the last minute in favor of the incumbent president.

The full-scale war has made it far more difficult to achieve such a balance of power. The most respected and combat-capable National Guard units subordinated under the Interior Ministry — above all Azov and Khartiia — have become political actors in their own right and are linked to influential military and political figures. Within Ukraine's military intelligence agency (HUR), the new chain of command has not yet fully taken shape following the change in leadership, while a significant number of officers remain loyal to Kyrylo Budanov. The Security Service of Ukraine (SBU), following the departure of Vasyl Maliuk, is also still headed by an acting chief, who has now additionally been reassigned to lead the Defense Ministry.

That leaves the Armed Forces — the country's largest security institution and the one that commands the highest level of public trust. General Syrskyi has shown no political ambitions and remains a far more predictable figure than many of the military's popular commanders. He may therefore serve as a guarantee that no independent center of influence will emerge within the security establishment. A system that remains under maximum presidential control gives the incumbent authorities greater room for maneuver.

The price of control

No matter how the political situation develops, Zelensky has made an extraordinarily risky decision. First, he has intervened in the very part of the state apparatus that was widely regarded as one of the government's greatest successes. Analysts around the world are not discussing the new prime minister — they are asking whether the personnel changes could derail the emerging trend of a military initiative shifting in Ukraine's favor.

Second, the president has, by his own hand, lit a new star on Ukraine's political horizon while simultaneously losing one of the most valuable members of his own team. The Presidential Office has been forced to acknowledge that Fedorov turned down several alternative positions that were offered to him.

It is not difficult to imagine a political alliance between former commander-in-chief Valerii Zaluzhnyi and Fedorov. Nor is it difficult to imagine that, for many Ukrainians, such a partnership could prove more appealing than a Zelensky-Syrskyi tandem.

Control was established over all entrances to and exits from the zone, after which special forces armed with arrest warrants issued by the country's new authorities stormed the apartments of several dozen senior officials. Others were detained outside the Green Zone and in cities all across Iraq.

A total of 47 people were arrested. They included Deputy Oil Minister Ali Maarij, leaders of the Sunni political party Azem Alliance (“Alliance of Resolve”), Shiite lawmakers, and even representatives of the security services. The day before, parliamentary immunity had quietly been stripped from all sitting members of the federal legislature who appeared on the arrest list, a move made possible because parliament had already recessed for the summer, allowing the decision to revoke lawmakers' immunity to pass without a lengthy debate. The speaker of parliament simply acted on his own after receiving a request from Iraq's Central Anti-Corruption Court.

The government's press office said that all those arrested were suspected of involvement in corruption schemes related to oil production and sales, stressing that the detentions had absolutely nothing to do with Prime Minister Ali al-Zaidi's planned visit to the United States. That assertion appears to be an attempt to counter the opposition's claims that the arrests were politically motivated — intended to demonstrate the loyalty of the new government and its prime minister to Washington.

Those accusations did not emerge out of nowhere. For example, arrested deputy oil minister Ali Maarij had been placed on American sanctions list over his alleged ties to Iran, and the U.S. Treasury Department believes the official used his senior government position to divert part of the revenue generated by oil and petroleum product sales to Iran-backed armed groups in Iraq. He is also accused of falsifying documents to disguise sanctioned Iranian oil as Iraqi crude on the world market, allowing Tehran to obtain much-needed foreign currency.

The timing is also telling. The United States placed Maarij on its sanctions list only this spring, just as Iran-aligned political forces in Baghdad were negotiating the formation of a new cabinet. The move appeared to be a clear signal that Washington did not want Maarij to become oil minister, a position he stood a strong chance of securing. U.S. pressure proved only partly effective: Maarij's allies in the country's highly diverse ruling coalition still managed to push through his appointment as deputy oil minister — even if he remained in the post for less than two months.

Vouchers-for-Cash

The deployment of tanks into central Baghdad was preceded by a much quieter operation by the security services. In May, almost immediately after the new cabinet was formed, Iraqi authorities arrested one of Ali Maarij's predecessors as deputy oil minister, Andan al-Jumaili. Investigators found tens of millions of dollars' worth of cash, gold, real estate, and other valuable assets among his property. Soon after, al-Jumaili’s wife and sister were also jailed. According to investigators, they burned about $5 million in illicit cash into a furnace.

The wife and sister of former Deputy Oil Minister Andan al-Jumaili allegedly burned around $5 million in illicit proceeds in a furnace

Members of the new cabinet describe the arrested former official as an “oil whale,” saying he sold key positions in the Oil Ministry to a range of political parties, which then inserted their own representatives into the scheme. Al-Jumaili did not act alone — everyone arrested on June 28 is suspected of belonging to al-Jumaili's group or assisting it.

Many Russian companies and politicians, incidentally, also played a role in the emergence of these schemes. Russians established a significant presence in Iraq during Saddam Hussein's presidency. After its failed attempt to annex neighboring Kuwait, in the mid-1990s Iraq was once again allowed to export oil on the condition that all proceeds be spent on food, medicines, and other goods needed by the country's population, which was suffering under international sanctions.

The program, known as “Oil-for-Food,” had several weak points, the most significant being that Saddam and his government retained the final say over which companies or people would be allowed to market Iraqi oil abroad. Investigations conducted after the fall of the regime in 2003 showed that roughly half of the 4,500 contracts awarded under the Oil-for-Food program went to companies and businessmen that helped the regime earn money in violation of the sanctions.

Altogether, Saddam Hussein and his associates received at least $1 billion through various schemes. The most common involved the sale of so-called “oil vouchers” — in exchange for payments made directly to Saddam or members of his inner circle, buyers received guarantees from Baghdad that they would be able to purchase Iraqi oil below cost. This drained funds from the Oil-for-Food program and worsened the country's humanitarian crisis while allowing the dictator and the officials and businessmen close to him to enrich themselves despite the outside economic restrictions.

According to the findings of the UN commission that investigated corruption within the Oil-for-Food program, more than 1,300 vouchers were sold in total. About 2% ended up in the hands of American companies and businessmen, 10% went to Chinese recipients, and 15% to French. However, Russians received the largest share by far, accounting for 30% of all oil vouchers.

The report states that the Russian beneficiaries included officials from the presidential administration and Foreign Ministry, State Duma deputies, the leadership of the Communist Party, the Liberal Democratic Party of Russia (LDPR), and, of course, oil companies such as Zarubezhneft, Sibneft, Tatneft, and Lukoil. Naturally, Communist party leader Gennady Zyuganov and late LDPR head Vladimir Zhirinovsky, who appear in the report as recipients of vouchers from Baghdad, were not engaged in the oil trade themselves. Instead, they simply profited by reselling their vouchers.

The corrupt schemes did not disappear after the fall of Saddam Hussein's regime in 2003 and the formation of Iraq's first coalition government two years later. The only difference was that, instead of enriching the dictator, they now benefited lawmakers, ministers, and security officials.

Quotas for bribes

After sanctions were lifted and the Oil-for-Food program came to an end, these schemes changed markedly. Instead of oil vouchers, what was now being sold were positions in ministries and state-owned oil companies. The political parties that bought them gained control over multibillion-dollar financial flows.

The cost of acquiring these posts was more than recouped through inflated contract prices, kickbacks from contractors, the creation of shell companies, and the fictitious procurement of equipment and services. Money was siphoned off through front companies, while some of the profits were distributed among officials, party leaders, and security officers who ensured the schemes remained untouchable.

The system extends far beyond the oil sector. Virtually every resource ministry, government agency, and state financial institution has, to one degree or another, become a source of income for political parties, which simply buy senior positions for their loyalists.

A few weeks ago, the Arab Center in Washington, DC described the existing system as feudal. Ministries have effectively become fiefdoms controlled by whichever political forces managed to buy the largest number of appointments for their protégés. Rigged tenders, bribes for licenses and permits, and the embezzlement of budgetary funds have become the principal — and in some cases, the only — source of income for political parties.

Corruption has become more than merely pervasive; it has evolved into the organizing principle of the system itself. For officials, corruption has become the primary incentive to work, while the main purpose of ministries is simply generating money for political bosses.

Corruption has become more than merely pervasive — it has evolved into the organizing principle of the system itself.

Notably, the term muhasasa (“quota system”) originally referred to the complex political arrangement under which power was divided among representatives of different parties, religious communities, and ethnic groups — Shiites, Sunnis, Kurds, and others. Over time, however, the term also came to describe the distribution of corrupt proceeds among those same groups. Today, the two meanings have become inseparable.

New prime minister Ali al-Zaidi has pledged to make the fight against systemic corruption his top priority. So far, however, observers remain unconvinced that the arrests he ordered and the widely publicized stories of millions of dollars burned in furnaces represent a genuine anti-corruption campaign. Instead, critics allege, the effort is merely an attempt to forcibly redistribute the quotas in favor of factions aligned with the prime minister. After all, al-Zaidi’s predecessors also promised to root out corruption, and they also staged high-profile (albeit less sweeping) arrests of allegedly corrupt officials.

Moreover, the arrests have so far targeted only second- and third-tier politicians and officials: deputy ministers and heads of security departments, leaders of relatively small political parties, rank-and-file members of parliament, and mid-level businessmen. The country's real political heavyweights — the leaders of the largest Shiite parties, many of them aligned with Iran — have remained untouched.

For example, during Nouri al-Maliki's years in office, an estimated $120 billion disappeared from the state budget, earning him a reputation as Iraq's most corrupt prime minister. Yet the current prime minister appears to have no quarrel with his predecessor. On the contrary, al-Maliki is now openly backing al-Zaidi’s actions while appearing entirely unconcerned about his own safety.

The reason is not necessarily that al-Zaidi, a Shiite himself, is protecting fellow Shiites — many of those arrested are Shiites as well. It may be that the new authorities are reluctant to go after the biggest fish immediately, or that they are waiting for American operations in Iran to run their course before moving against other pro-Iranian Iraqi figures. Or perhaps their objective really is simply to redirect the main streams of corrupt money — above all those flowing from the country's most profitable sector, the oil industry.

Moscow's shadow over Saddam

In 1997, without holding a competitive tender, Saddam Hussein awarded the rights to develop the West Qurna-2 oil field to Russia's Lukoil, Zarubezhneft, and Mashinoimport. The field's proven reserves were estimated at around 6 billion barrels, while total reserves were believed to exceed 10 billion.

Why Saddam handed such a prized asset to Russian companies remains unknown. One plausible explanation, however, is political corruption. Following his invasion of Kuwait, the Iraqi dictator had become an international pariah, with Moscow representing one of his few foreign-policy allies. Russia lobbied for the lifting of international sanctions on Iraq and vetoed anti-Saddam resolutions in the UN Security Council.

In addition, dating back to the Soviet era, Baghdad owed Moscow billions of dollars for Soviet military equipment and unpaid loans. Against that backdrop, granting Russian companies a concession to develop one of Iraq's richest oil fields looked both like a gesture of gratitude for Moscow's diplomatic support and an unconventional way of repaying those massive debts.

Lukoil, however, had to wait for the chance to profit from Saddam's gift. In 2002, Baghdad stripped the Russian companies of all their concession rights, arguing that they had failed to fulfill their commitments to develop the field and build the necessary infrastructure.

Those commitments had been made impossible by Western sanctions, which effectively prevented the import of the required equipment. Lukoil called Baghdad's decision to terminate the contract “blackmail” and vowed to challenge it in court.

For Hussein's regime, it was a last-ditch attempt to salvage the situation. The United States was openly preparing to invade Iraq, and Baghdad needed Moscow's diplomatic and financial support against Washington more than ever. In that context, terminating Lukoil's contract did indeed resemble blackmail: if Russia wanted Iraq's oil, it should find a way to deliver equipment despite the sanctions, then develop the field in order to fill Baghdad’s budget with tax revenues before purchasing Russian tanks and aircraft in defiance of the same sanctions. Moscow declined. Despite the Kremlin's strongly pro-Saddam public rhetoric, behind the scenes it quietly reached an understanding with Washington that Lukoil would regain West Qurna-2 after the Hussein regime's seemingly inevitable collapse.

Corrupt and weakened by sanctions

What neither side anticipated was that the collapse of the old regime would trigger a prolonged civil war in Iraq, delaying development of the field for years. Lukoil officially began operations at West Qurna-2 only in March 2014.

Its triumphant return to Iraq coincided with Russia's occupation of Crimea and parts of eastern Ukraine. In response to that aggression, Western countries imposed sanctions on a number of oligarchs considered to be close to Vladimir Putin. Those sanctioned included the Rotenberg brothers, Gennady Timchenko, Yury Kovalchuk, and several others whom the U.S. administration regarded as members of Putin's inner circle. Lukoil owner Vagit Alekperov, however, was not included on those sanctions lists.

The Kremlin nevertheless understood that it was only a matter of time. Behind closed doors, Putin reportedly urged Alekperov to sell off all of Lukoil's foreign assets. Alekperov ignored those appeals and continued the company's international operations, including in Iraq, where Lukoil may have become entangled in the country's corrupt muhasasa system.

According to the investigation that led to the June arrests, the corruption network in the oil sector revolved around the Oil Ministry, state-owned companies, and a web of private contractors. Investigators allege that officials siphoned off budget funds through inflated government contracts covering construction work, equipment procurement, and services. The case files include contracts involving foreign oil companies. So far, however, authorities have not publicly stated that the investigation is focused specifically on Lukoil or any other individual company.

Such schemes have long been regarded as one of the Iraqi oil industry's biggest problems. International companies operating in the country have repeatedly encountered opaque procurement procedures, political interference in the awarding of contracts, and pressure to work through local intermediaries connected to influential political factions. Within this system, foreign investors have often faced a stark choice: accept the imposed rules of the game or risk project delays and conflicts with the authorities.

In Iraq, foreign investors faced a choice: accept the rules of the game or risk conflict with the authorities

Investigators have not alleged that Lukoil's management knowingly participated in the corruption schemes. However, like other major foreign operators, the company conducted its business in an environment where a significant share of contracts was controlled by entities linked to the political elite. It was through such companies that public funds could be siphoned off. Whether foreign clients knew who ultimately received those funds or whether they were able to influence the selection of contractors remains a matter for the investigation to prove.

The systemic nature of corruption is underscored by other high-profile cases in recent years. The best known is the so-called “theft of the century,” which utilized forged documents, shell companies, and corrupt officials to siphon roughly $2.5 billion from Iraq's tax system. For foreign oil companies, such an environment meant not only reputational risks but also the constant danger of becoming entangled in corruption schemes, even if they were not the architects of those schemes.

That, however, is no longer Lukoil's problem — or, more accurately, it soon will not be. In the fall of 2025, the United States and the United Kingdom imposed sanctions on the company over Russia's continuing war against Ukraine. The sanctions made it impossible for the Iraqi government to settle its accounts with Lukoil, prompting the company to announce that it would begin withdrawing from Iraq. Baghdad is now searching for a new strategic investor for the West Qurna-2 project.

Almost 30 years ago, Lukoil took advantage of the vulnerability of a corrupt, sanctions-weakened, aggressive regime to establish itself in Iraq. Now it is leaving the country because of another corrupt, sanctions-weakened, aggressive regime. The difference is that in the 2000s it was Saddam Hussein's regime. Today, it is Vladimir Putin's.

One memorandum from the U.S. National Intelligence Council, dated Aug. 19, 2020 — more than two months before the election itself — says Russia, Iran, and China had the ability to interfere with voting, steal confidential information, and conduct information campaigns aimed at undermining the legitimacy of election results.

“Russia is using a range of measures primarily to denigrate former Vice President Biden and what it sees as an anti-Russia establishment,” the memorandum reads. “For example, it is directing or encouraging proxies to spread claims about Vice President Biden. Some Kremlin-linked actors are also seeking to boost President Trump's candidacy on social media. More broadly, Moscow's efforts seek to amplify social discord in the U.S. and undermine Washington's global standing.”

According to the intelligence assessment, the effort to discredit Biden was overseen by senior Russian officials including Vladimir Putin himself:

“President Putin and senior Russian officials are overseeing efforts by proxies — [redacted] — to spread claims about former Vice President Biden as well as Ukrainian politicians and alleged Ukrainian influence in the 2016 US election. These claims include that when the former Vice President was in office, he engaged in criminal activity in his dealings with Ukraine and individuals tied to Ukrainian energy firm Burisma. Derkach, Kilimnik, and other proxy actors affiliated with the Russian Government are advancing such narratives with U.S. officials and other prominent persons as well as online, including through personal interactions and audio and documentary film releases via U.S. and Ukrainian media outlets.”

The memorandum’s authors also said Russia used a “troll factory,” the SVR foreign intelligence service and the GRU military intelligence agency to work with American and other foreign writers to produce anti-American content for English-language websites. The campaign’s goal was described as defeating Biden and securing Trump’s reelection. 

Another National Intelligence Council document, dated Jan. 15, 2020, described the ability of Russia, China, Iran and North Korea to compromise U.S. election infrastructure.

“Russia almost certainly reconnoitered all US state election networks during the 2016 election cycle, accessed election-related infrastructure in at least two states, and exfiltrated voter data from at least one state,” the document says. “Russia, China, Iran, and North Korea are al capable of conducting similar operations during the 2020 election cycle, judging from their known cyber capabilities and past operations.”

Kremlin spokesman Dmitry Peskov responded to the White House publications, saying, “Russia has never interfered in anyone else’s internal affairs, and we expect that no one will try to interfere in our internal affairs.”

During Trump’s first term, special counsel Robert Mueller investigated alleged collusion between Trump and Moscow. Throughout the investigation, Trump referred to the process as  a “witch hunt” and denied having ties to Moscow. After nearly two years of work, Mueller concluded that there had been no conspiracy between Trump, his circle and the Kremlin, but that Russia had indeed tried to interfere in the 2016 election.

Mueller died on March 20, 2026, at age 81. Trump publicly celebrated his death, writing on Truth Social: “Robert Mueller just died. Good, I’m glad he’s dead. He can no longer hurt innocent people!”

On the evening of July 16, Trump delivered a prime-time speech on election security. In it, he accused China of interfering in the 2020 election, which the Republican continues to insist was “stolen” from him. He said almost nothing about the Kremlin’s interference in the 2020 campaign, mentioning Russia only once: “we judge that the United States' adversaries, including at a minimum Russia, China, Iran, North Korea, as well as non-state groups have the capability to compromise U.S. election infrastructure.” 

The sanctions list includes VNIIIR JSC, ABS ZEIM Automation JSC, VNIIIR Hydro LLC, VNIIIR-Promelectro LLC and VNIIIR-Progress JSC. Kharisova chairs ABS Electro’s board and also heads several companies in the group.

According to the Council of the EU, the companies develop and produce electronic and radio-electronic components needed for drone operations. In particular, they are involved in creating systems that make Russia’s Geran drones more resistant to electronic warfare. Several companies in the group also produce automated control systems for Russia’s energy sector.

One of the sanctioned companies, VNIIIR-Progress, produces Kometa anti-jamming navigation modules, which are installed on Russian drones, cruise missiles, and ballistic missiles. The systems allow munitions to maintain satellite navigation even under conditions of electronic suppression.

In January 2025, The Insider found that key components of Kometa modules were assembled from inexpensive antennas made by the Irish company Taoglas and Taiwan’s Inpaq that had been supplied to Russia through intermediaries in circumvention of export restrictions. Such antennas are used in Geran drones, guided aerial bombs fitted with UMPK glide kits, and other Russian munitions.

VNIIIR-Progress had already been under EU sanctions as part of restrictions on the supply of military goods and technology to Russia. The new decision provides for the freezing of assets in the European Union belonging to the company and the other listed entities and individuals. It also bars EU citizens and organizations from providing them with money or other economic resources. Kharisova is banned from entering EU countries.

The Insider found that before the COVID-19 pandemic, Kharisova regularly traveled to European countries. According to flight records, from 2015 to January 2020 she left Russia for foreign destinations at least 38 times, including 27 trips to Austria. Kharisova also traveled to Italy, Germany, Cyprus, Serbia, Croatia, and Israel.

In 2023 and 2024, 66 orders worth more than 19 million rubles were placed in Kharisova’s name at Moscow’s TsUM luxury department store, according to another data leak. The orders totaled 7.2 million rubles in 2023 and 11.8 million rubles in the first nine months of 2024. That means that in 2024, her orders averaged about 1.3 million rubles a month, nearly 15 times Russia’s average accrued salary at the time, which was 89,000 rubles. During the period of those purchases, Kharisova was already heading several structures in the ABS Electro group: since 2022, she had been president of the ABS Electro foundation and general director of AES JSC, and in April 2024 she became head of ABS Rus JSC.

The VNIIIR-Progress plant in Cheboksary has repeatedly been targeted in Ukrainian attacks. Ukrainian monitoring channels reported that FP-5 Flamingo cruise missiles hit the plant overnight into May 5, sparking a fire on its grounds. Authorities in Chuvashia reported three injuries. Ukrainian drones had previously attacked the plant in June 2025, temporarily halting production.

The statistics make it seem as if Russia has weaned itself off its dependence on oil: by the end of 2025, the share of oil and gas revenues in the federal budget had fallen to just under 22% (8.48 trillion rubles, $108.5 billion), and it has continued to decline in 2026. Behind this apparent sign of "recovery," however, lies not the growth of high-tech industries, but rather the effects of sanctions and the peculiarities of a wartime economy.

First, hydrocarbon revenues have fallen — as a direct result of sanctions, and also because of the longer logistics routes that Russian oil must now travel to reach Asian markets (where it sells at a discount). Meanwhile, gas exports to Europe have all but disappeared. In addition, global oil prices hit five-year lows in late 2025 as supply outpaced demand, with production increasing both within OPEC+ and among producers outside the cartel.

Second, non-resource revenues are growing — but not because the economy is expanding. Rather, the government has been forced to raise taxes unrelated to hydrocarbons in order to finance the war. In 2025, after the corporate profit tax rate for most companies was increased from 20% to 25%, federal budget receipts from profit tax rose accordingly. In 2026, this revenue stream is growing further, and the increase in the value-added tax (VAT) — from 20% up to 22% — has also provided a boost to revenues.

As experts at the Center for Macroeconomic Analysis and Short-Term Forecasting (CMASF) described in their January-April review (their last available), the Russian economy is under serious strain:

"Budget system revenues increased by 1.7%. The main factor holding back growth was a 38% decline in oil and gas revenues: higher prices for domestic energy commodities were largely offset by the stronger ruble. Non-oil-and-gas revenues continued to grow (+9%), primarily due to consumption taxes (+18%) and social insurance contributions (+11%). The increase in consumption taxes reflects the higher VAT rate, the expansion of the taxpayer base, and the indexation and rate increases for excise taxes on selected excisable goods.

Growth in taxes on income and profits (+6%) remained more subdued amid weaker corporate profitability. Additional support for budget revenues came from taxes, fees, and payments related to the extraction of non-hydrocarbon natural resources (+22%), including higher mineral extraction tax receipts from gold production amid elevated global gold prices. Customs duty revenues declined (–14%), largely because of the stronger ruble."

As the CMASF explains, budget revenues are rising not because businesses are becoming more profitable, but because the tax burden on them has increased. And the report does not even account for the most recent decline in oil prices.

How money from the oil industry reaches the budget

Russia's oil and gas industry is organized as a vertically integrated oligopoly, with the state serving as its largest shareholder and ultimate beneficiary. Two systemically important companies —Rosneft and Gazprom — form the tax backbone of the entire sector.

The industry's tax system has two tiers. First, all companies pay the Mineral Extraction Tax (MET) on everything they produce. This is a direct federal tax, meaning the proceeds go straight to the federal budget. In 2025, total MET receipts fell by 24% (to 8.5 trillion rubles or $108.5 billion), primarily because of the collapse in oil-related MET revenues amid low global oil prices and deeper discounts on Russian crude.

The industry is also subject to the Additional Income Tax (AIT), introduced in 2019. As the name suggests, the AIT applies to the most profitable oil fields. In effect, it replaced the abolished export duty and part of the MET. It is levied on revenue from oil sales after deducting production and transportation costs, making it more sensitive to both oil prices and the ruble's exchange rate. In 2025, AIT revenues amounted to around 1.6 trillion rubles ($20.5 billion), down roughly 20% from 2024.

Since 2022, no public breakdown has been available showing which specific companies and oil fields contribute these revenues to the federal budget. What is known, however, is that Rosneft, traditionally Russia’s largest taxpayer, remains the industry's undisputed leader. CEO Igor Sechin boasted at the company's annual shareholders' meeting that Rosneft paid 5 trillion rubles in taxes and other mandatory payments to government budgets at all levels in 2025. That amounts to roughly 60% of the company's revenue (8.2 trillion rubles or $105 billion), though it was down from the record 6.1 trillion rubles ($78 billion) paid in 2024. The decline mirrored lower oil production: output fell from 184 million metric tons in 2024 to 181.1 million metric tons in 2025. "The change was driven by adjustments to oil production quotas in accordance with government decisions," Rosneft explained.

The company's key assets include the Samotlor and Priobskoye oil fields in Western Siberia, the Vankor cluster in Krasnoyarsk Krai, and the promising Arctic Vostok Oil project, whose resource base is estimated at approximately 6.5–7 billion metric tons of low-sulfur crude.

Rosneft, however, is also first in line when it comes to government subsidies. Since 2017, the Samotlor oil field has received annual tax deductions of 35 billion rubles ($448 million) from the federal budget (when oil prices are high), and beginning in 2024, that amount increased to 50 billion rubles ($640 million). The subsidies are necessary because Russia's largest oil field passed its production peak back in 1980, Sechin explained to Putin, and substantial investment is now required to slow the decline in output. To Rosneft's credit, it has managed to reduce the average annual production decline: between 2008 and 2017, it was 5% annually, but today the figure has fallen to 1%. 

The Priobskoye oil field also benefits from tax breaks of a similar magnitude, receiving an annual deduction of 45.96 billion rubles ($590 million). It is a former asset of Mikhail Khodorkovsky’s Yukos, as is its operator, RN-Yuganskneftegaz, which is now Rosneft's main upstream subsidiary. Together, its 40 licensed fields in the Khanty-Mansi Autonomous Okrug account for about 30% of the state-owned company's total oil production.

Lukoil, Russia's largest privately owned oil company, produces a fraction of Rosneft’s domestic output — around 75 million metric tons per year. Its principal asset is the Tevlinsko-Russkinskoye oil field. Excluding corporate profit tax, the company paid 1.33 trillion rubles ($17 billion) in taxes in 2025.

In its annual report for 2025, Gazprom Neft reported a comparable figure: 979 billion rubles ($12.5 billion) in taxes, alongside record production of 130.7 million metric tons of oil equivalent. The company also benefits from temporary tax deductions when oil prices are high: a total of 79.2 billion rubles ($1 billion) from April 1, 2023, through March 31, 2029, with the benefit to be repaid between April 1, 2029, and March 31, 2035. Tatneft and Surgutneftegas are also major taxpayers, although they disclose far fewer production and financial details.

As for natural gas, Gazprom transferred more than 6.6 trillion rubles ($84.4 billion) to budgets at all levels at the peak of the energy crisis in 2022. However, after the Nord Stream pipeline ceased operations, the company became a much smaller contributor to budget revenues. Gas production in 2025 totaled 405 billion cubic meters, down 2.6% from 2024. Its key producing assets are the Bovanenkovo field on the Yamal Peninsula, with initial reserves of approximately 4.9 trillion cubic meters, and the Chayandinskoye field in Yakutia.

Novatek is Russia's largest independent gas producer, with its resource base concentrated on the Yamal and Gydan peninsulas. U.S. sanctions imposed on Arctic LNG 2 in August 2024 effectively froze the country's second-largest liquefied natural gas project. Last year, Novatek produced 84.6 billion cubic meters of natural gas (+0.6% year-on-year) and 14.1 million metric tons of oil (+2.3%).

The group's revenue declined by 6.5% — to 1.45 trillion rubles ($18.6 billion) — primarily because of the stronger ruble and lower oil prices. Net profit fell 63% — to 183 billion rubles ($2.3 billion), weighed down by the higher corporate profit tax rate for LNG producers (34% in 2024-2025, reduced to 25% beginning in 2026). The company does not disclose separate figures for its Mineral Extraction Tax (MET) payments.

Oil refining under attack (in every sense)

Russia has 38 medium- and large-scale oil refineries with a combined processing capacity of about 330 million metric tons per year. In 2024, they processed approximately 267 million metric tons of crude, the lowest figure since 2012. The financial results of individual refineries are no longer made public — instead, since 2022, all significant figures have been consolidated at the level of their parent holding companies. As a result, the direct revenue losses caused by shutdowns at specific refineries can be estimated only indirectly, by examining the declining performance of the parent groups and exchange-traded indicators for Russia's domestic petroleum products market.

The main structural weakness exposed by the drone strikes is that Russia spent decades concentrating its refining capacity in Central Russia and the Volga region — precisely the areas most heavily targeted in recent months by Ukrainian long-range drones with a range of up to 2,000 kilometers.

Refining capacity has long been concentrated in Central Russia and the Volga region — the very areas where Ukrainian drones operate most intensively

For the first few years of the full-scale war, the Omsk Oil Refinery and the refineries of Eastern Siberia effectively served as a strategic reserve thanks to the fact that they lay beyond the reliable strike range of Ukrainian drones. However, on July 6, the Omsk Oil Refinery was struck, and as the range of Kyiv’s drones continues to increase, the effective strike radius continues to expand.

The industry's direct losses in 2025 alone were estimated at more than 100 billion rubles ($1.3 billion), and when estimates of lost revenue are included, the figure exceeds 1 trillion rubles ($13 billion). For the federal budget, the key issue is that insufficient refining capacity forces companies to cut oil production, largely because of infrastructure bottlenecks that limit the transportation and export loading of crude oil.

In practice, there are three major constraints. The first is the capacity of Transneft's pipeline network. It was designed to handle a certain volume of crude, and there is no spare capacity to rapidly increase exports. The second is port congestion. Baltic and Black Sea export terminals are already operating at or near full capacity, and some have sustained damage. The third is the sanctions imposed in October 2025 against Rosneft and Lukoil, which formally affect about 70% of Russia's export volumes, further narrowing the pool of buyers and available tankers.

Taken together, these factors mean it is physically impossible to increase crude exports quickly enough to offset the loss of refining capacity. Any decline in oil production, in turn, translates directly into lower Mineral Extraction Tax (MET) revenues.

Russia's oil and gas export ports

Since the imposition of sanctions in 2022, Russia's seaborne export infrastructure has become the nerve center of the country's oil economy, allowing exports to reach China, India, and Turkey in order to offset the effects of the lost European pipeline market. In 2025, Russian ports handled 274.9 million metric tons of crude oil (+2.8% year-on-year) and 37.2 million metric tons of liquefied gas (including LNG). Maritime logistics has not merely survived — it is now carrying a heavier burden than ever before. That is why strikes on export ports are assuming increasing strategic importance.

Maritime logistics has not merely survived — it is now carrying a heavier burden than ever before

The Baltic route now handles exports of Urals crude to India and China. The key facilities are Ust-Luga, which ships crude oil and petroleum products (including Novatek’s stable gas condensate) at a rate of about 700,000 barrels per day. The port first came under attack in January 2025, when a strike on the Andreapol pumping station effectively shut down its operations, and it was targeted again in March and May of 2026. Russia's largest oil export terminal on the Baltic is the Port of Primorsk — the terminus of the Baltic Pipeline System, through which more than 1 million barrels of crude are exported per day. It was attacked on May 3, immediately halting shipments.

The Black Sea route consists of two major hubs. The Port of Novorossiysk (about 700,000 barrels per day) was damaged on May 23 by direct strikes on storage tanks and berth facilities operated by Chernomortransneft. The port operator reported revenue of 76.5 billion rubles ($979 million) for 2025, but given ongoing operational disruptions, that figure is expected to decline. Additionally, the nearby CPC Marine Terminal at Yuzhnaya Ozereyevka, which handles 75 million metric tons of Kazakh oil annually, was attacked in February 2025. Any disruption to its operations affects not only Russia but also Kazakhstan, creating diplomatic complications for any targeted restrictions.

The Pacific route serves as Russia's strategic reserve. The Port of Kozmino handles 46–50 million metric tons of low-sulfur ESPO crude annually, virtually all of it destined for China. For now, it remains beyond the range of Ukrainian drones.

The revenues of individual export terminals are not publicly disclosed, with the exceptions of financial results from the Novorossiysk Commercial Sea Port and the transit revenue of the Caspian Pipeline Consortium (CPC), which amounted to approximately 173 billion rubles ($2.25 billion) in 2025. For the remaining terminals, the best proxy is the consolidated financial performance of Transneft, whose IFRS revenue reached 1.44 trillion rubles ($18.72 billion) in 2025. The company transports about 12 million metric tons of Kazakh oil annually, while the remainder is Russian crude, much of it destined for export. Transneft's stable revenue can therefore be viewed as an indirect indicator of the resilience of Russia's export shipments.

Pipelines are burning, too

Russia's pipeline network has followed two very different trajectories since February 2022: one for oil and another for natural gas.

On the one hand, the oil pipeline system operated by Transneft (78.6% state-owned) transports more than 80% of all oil produced in Russia. In 2025, total throughput reached 447 million metric tons, including 435 million metric tons of Russian crude and 12 million metric tons of Kazakh oil, though these figures also include domestic deliveries. The group's revenue totaled 1.44 trillion rubles ($18.72 billion), a year-on-year rise of 1.2%, while net profit fell to 226 billion rubles ($2.94 billion) — down by 19.6%, partly because the corporate profit tax rate was raised to 40%.

The Eastern Siberia-Pacific Ocean (ESPO) pipeline carries about 80 million metric tons of crude annually. Of that, 30 million metric tons are delivered directly to China via the Amur River crossing, while just under 50 million metric tons are shipped through the Port of Kozmino (also to China, as noted above). The ESPO pipeline is operating at full capacity and remains the only major export oil pipeline whose infrastructure has not come under attack. As for the Druzhba pipeline, its southern branch to Hungary and Slovakia remains in operation, transporting about 9.7 million metric tons in 2025, while the northern branch serving Poland and Germany has been shut down since February 2023.

Since 2022, the natural gas pipeline sector has undergone its biggest structural upheaval in half a century. Ukrainian transit — historically the main route for Russian gas exports to Europe — ceased on January 1, 2025. The Nord Stream pipelines have been out of service since they were sabotaged in September 2022, meaning the only remaining operational route to Europe is TurkStream, with a capacity of 31.5 billion cubic meters per year. In 2025, about 18 billion cubic meters were delivered to European customers through the pipeline.

At the same time, the Power of Siberia pipeline reached its designed capacity, allowing Gazprom to supply more natural gas to China than to the entire European Union for the first time last year – 38.8 billion cubic meters. The compensation, however, is far from equivalent. Prices for gas sold to China are linked to a basket of petroleum products and are subject to a substantial discount, while the lack of alternative export routes leaves Moscow with little bargaining power.

The lack of alternative export routes leaves Moscow with little bargaining power in selling oil to China

The damage caused by strikes on oil pumping stations (OPSs) is concentrated not in the facilities themselves but in the disruption of the export flows that follows, making these stations targets with a disproportionately large economic impact. For example, the Yaroslavl-3 oil pumping station, which serves the Surgut-Polotsk pipeline, was struck twice in May, with both attacks sparking fires in storage tanks. The attacks threatened crude oil deliveries to two of Russia's largest Baltic export ports.

What has changed since 2022

Over the past four years, the war has fundamentally reshaped Russia's oil and gas economy. The industry has survived, but it now operates under dramatically different conditions: lower revenues, a major shift in export markets, higher costs, and mounting pressure on infrastructure.

Oil and gas condensate production has declined relatively modestly, from 524 million metric tons in 2021 to 516 million metric tons in 2024. That decrease is primarily the result of OPEC+ production quotas rather than sanctions alone. The natural gas sector has suffered much more severely due to the combined effect of three factors. The sabotage of the Nord Stream pipelines in September 2022 eliminated export capacity of 55 billion cubic meters per year, and the end of Ukrainian transit in January 2025 cut off another roughly 40 billion cubic meters. Meanwhile, European demand for Russian gas has collapsed as the continent diversified its supplies — from more than 150 billion cubic meters annually before the war to about 18 billion cubic meters in 2025. The EU's full embargo on Russian gas, including LNG, is set to take effect in 2027 and will be phased in gradually.

In short, gas exports to Europe have fallen to their lowest level since 1973, and while the Power of Siberia pipeline has partially offset the lost volumes, it cannot come anywhere close to recouping lost revenues. As for oil exports, shipments to Europe have plunged from 175 million metric tons in 2022 to fewer than 25 million metric tons in 2025.

China and India have replaced Europe as Russia's main customers, now accounting for about 80% of the country's total oil exports. This pivot to Asia has come at the cost of severe price discounts. The discount of Urals crude to Brent, which had previously averaged $12–13 per barrel, reached $23.5 in November 2025, while in December the price of Urals delivered to Novorossiysk fell to $34.5 per barrel — approaching the lower bound of profitability for production at mature oil fields.

The Iran crisis significantly altered the picture, but perhaps only temporarily. At the height of the escalation in April 2026, spot prices for Urals exceeded $114 per barrel, while the monthly average, according to the Ministry of Economic Development, reached $94.87, narrowing the discount to Brent to its lowest level since the end of the previous year. However, this market environment has proved highly unstable, as demonstrated by the decline in oil prices since June.

As tensions in the Middle East ease and OPEC+ members increase production — along with the UAE, which withdrew from OPEC and OPEC+ on May 1 — the price premium is likely to erode, leaving Russia dependent on discounted Asian markets yet again. Moreover, the rise in Urals prices has already affected the fuel price damping mechanism. After making only minimal compensation payments at the beginning of the year — when oil prices were high — the federal budget was forced to sharply increase damping payments to oil companies, reaching 204.3 billion rubles ($2.66 billion) in May.

New and old vulnerabilities

The main vulnerability of Russia's oil industry — as exposed in 2026 — is the systemic concentration of refining capacity within strike range of Ukrainian drones. FP-1 ("Liutyi") long-range UAVs can reliably hit targets at distances of 1,500-2,000 kilometers, putting every refinery west of the Ural Mountains within reach. And the strike on the Omsk Oil Refinery demonstrated that even facilities east of the Urals are no longer safe. The shift in targeting toward secondary processing units — cracking, reforming, and hydrocracking facilities — marks a qualitative change in the Ukrainian campaign.

Because these units are custom-built, rely on imported equipment now blocked by sanctions, and take months to repair, it is impossible to replace lost capacity with domestic production in the short term. Mandatory anti-drone defenses at refineries do not solve the problem. Russia simply lacks sufficient electronic warfare systems and Pantsir air defense systems to protect ten or more refineries spread across a zone extending up to 1,500 kilometers from the front, especially given the scale and coordination of the attacks.

Lost refining capacity cannot be restored quickly using domestically produced equipment, and anti-drone defenses at refineries are not enough to solve the problem

At the same time, pressure on Russia's shadow fleet is intensifying. Whereas tanker detentions were once isolated incidents, EU countries arrested or confiscated at least seven tankers in the first quarter of 2026 – almost as many as during all of 2025. An even more significant precedent for Russia came in January 2026, when the United States seized the tanker Marinera (formerly Bella 1) in the Atlantic. While the vessel was being pursued off the coast of Venezuela, it switched to the Russian flag in an apparent attempt to avoid interception. The episode demonstrated that the U.S. Coast Guard and Navy are prepared to detain vessels sailing under the Russian flag even in international waters.

The strategic vulnerability in the gas sector is Novatek’s Yamal LNG project at Sabetta. The project has so far avoided sanctions, but more than 70% of its exports still go to the EU — around 15 million metric tons worth €7.2 billion in 2025. However, the EU has already agreed to phase out all imports of Russian gas, including LNG, by the fourth quarter of 2027. Even before the formal embargo takes effect, the ban on LNG transshipment through the ports of Zeebrugge and Montoir has complicated logistics for Arc7 ice-class LNG carriers.

A global recession, however, remains the most dangerous scenario. By some estimates, every $10 decline in the price of Brent below the budget benchmark of $59 per barrel would cost the federal budget 1.5–1.8 trillion rubles ($19.5–23.4 billion) annually. The discount on Urals crude relative to Brent, combined with a strong ruble, would only amplify the effect by reducing ruble-denominated Mineral Extraction Tax (MET) revenues.

Meanwhile, the complete or partial withdrawal of Western oilfield service companies from the Russian market has increased operating costs. Wells at mature fields, where water cut exceeds 80–90%, require continuous hydraulic fracturing to sustain production. Of course, the technology and equipment needed for these operations have been restricted by sanctions.

Three paths for Russia's budget

Scenario one: fiscal collapse within a year. If oil prices remain low — as they did between November 2025 and February 2026, when Urals traded below $50 per barrel — oil and gas revenues would decline sharply. According to the Ministry of Economic Development, when Urals trades at $40–45 per barrel, monthly oil-and-gas revenues amount to only about 400 billion rubles ($5.2 billion), roughly one-third of the planned level. If Urals falls to $35 per barrel and remains there for several months, annual oil-and-gas revenues could even fall to below 5 trillion rubles ($65 billion), compared with the budget target of 8.92 trillion rubles ($116 billion).

This scenario becomes significantly worse if Ukrainian strikes on oil refineries continue. Damage to these facilities reduces not only refining capacity but also oil production itself, meaning that revenues from the Mineral Extraction Tax (MET) and the Additional Income Tax (AIT) decline regardless of oil prices. The National Wealth Fund (NWF) must then shoulder additional pressure by compensating for the lost budget revenues. As of July 1, the fund's liquid assets stood at just 3.6 trillion rubles ($46.8 billion). If they are spent at a rate of 200–300 billion rubles ($2.6–3.9 billion) per month, those reserves would last for roughly one to one and a half years — and even less under a crisis scenario.

Scenario two: a fragile equilibrium. If oil prices remain around the budget benchmark, with Urals trading at approximately $59 per barrel, oil-and-gas revenues would broadly match the planned 8.92 trillion rubles ($116 billion), while fuel damping payments would remain moderate and predictable. Under this scenario, the budget avoids acute pressure but also generates no windfall revenues. The entire fiscal framework balances on a knife's edge: with the exchange rate unchanged, every $10-per-barrel move in oil prices away from the benchmark adds or subtracts roughly 120 billion rubles ($1.56 billion) in monthly revenue, or about 1.4 trillion rubles ($18.2 billion) per year.

In practice, this means the "middle" scenario is an inherently unstable equilibrium that depends on factors beyond Moscow's control, including geopolitical developments, OPEC+ decisions, and changes in the Urals discount. Paradoxically, however, it is more favorable for Russia than either of the two extremes — very high or very low oil prices — because it allows the budget to be adequately funded without causing fuel damping payments to spiral upward.

The "middle" scenario is, in reality, a highly unstable equilibrium that depends on factors beyond Moscow's control

Scenario three: losing Asian markets. When oil prices are high — as they were in April-May 2026 when the average monthly price of Urals was above $80 per barrel — the federal budget should, in theory, receive a windfall. In practice, however, April demonstrated how this scenario actually works. With Urals averaging $94.87 per barrel (according to the Ministry of Finance), oil-and-gas revenues totaled only about 856 billion rubles ($11.13 billion) instead of the theoretical 1.3–1.4 trillion rubles ($16.9–18.2 billion). A strong ruble (averaging 77 rubles to the dollar instead of the 92 assumed in the budget) and fuel damping payments that absorbed 377 billion rubles ($4.90 billion) wiped out most of the potential gain.

In other words, the higher the oil price and the smaller the discount, the less competitive Russian crude becomes in Asian markets, which have grown accustomed to buying it at a discount relative to Middle Eastern or U.S. crude that carries no sanctions-related risks.

In other words, India and China are eager buyers of Urals primarily when it is cheap. As the discount narrows, part of that demand shifts to competing suppliers. Chinese and Indian refineries buy Urals not because they specifically need this grade of crude, but because the discount offsets higher transportation costs, sanctions-related risks, and its lower quality (Urals, for example, is heavier and contains more sulfur than Arab Light or Dubai Light). When the discount is $20-25 per barrel, as it was in late 2025, the economics are compelling. When it shrinks to $5-8 per barrel, as it did in April 2026, the price difference is no longer sufficient to compensate buyers for sanctions-related risks, higher insurance costs, and longer shipping routes.

At that point, some buyers begin switching to Middle Eastern crude grades — not because Urals has become expensive in absolute terms, but because the price incentive to tolerate its unique risks and additional costs has disappeared.

In June, the "middle" scenario prevailed, emerging after tensions eased between the United States and Iran. By early July, Brent crude was trading at around $70 per barrel, while the average price of Urals used by Russia's Ministry of Finance to calculate the Mineral Extraction Tax (MET) had fallen to $63.52 per barrel, down from $86.52 in May.

According to Citigroup estimates, Brent crude could decline to $60 per barrel by the end of the year if shipping through the Strait of Hormuz returns to normal. In that event, the first scenario — low oil prices and the rapid depletion of Russia's financial reserves — would see the federal budget deficit rise even further.

Regardless of which price scenario ultimately prevails, policymakers must now contend with an entirely new factor: government payments to subsidize fuel imports under a new mechanism. It is one of the measures the Russian government has introduced to address the country's worsening fuel crisis. When oil prices are high — a state that would ordinarily benefit the federal budget — the Russian government is obligated to pay hundreds of billions of rubles to domestic oil companies while also providing compensation to fuel importers.

A native of Novomoskovsk in Ukraine's Dnipropetrovsk Region, Yurii Yeremenko graduated from a military academy and left the armed forces in 1993. He later worked making furniture. In September 2022, he volunteered to return to the front as the commander of a tank platoon. He was captured in the Kherson Region after his tank was hit.

After searching us, they threw all of us who had been taken prisoner into a pit. We stayed there until morning — stripped, tied up — and in the morning they loaded us onto a KamAZtruck and took us for interrogation. They tried to get information from us about our unit and the objectives of the offensive. Later we were transferred to the SBU garages in Nova Kakhovka. They gave us a few field rations for twenty people. The next day we were taken to Henichesk. Food was extremely scarce, and sometimes they simply forgot to feed us. The wounded were taken somewhere for treatment and bandage changes. We were held there for about a week. Then they loaded us onto a KamAZ truck again, and the senior warrant officer said, “Rejoice, khokhols, yesterday we made a gesture of goodwill — we left Kherson.”

In Sevastopol, we were held at the Ushakov Naval Academy. One floor that had been used as barracks was converted for prisoners of war, with bars installed on the windows. But conditions there were normal. They let us wash, gave us clean clothes, and cut our hair. We weren't beaten or abused.

On January 10, 2023, they loaded us onto a plane with our hands tied and our eyes covered. We landed in Kamyshin, in Russia's Volgograd Region. From there we were taken to SIZO-2.

What is known about SIZO-2 in Kamyshin? Commentary by Olga Romanova, journalist, human rights advocate, and founder of the prisoners' rights organization Russia Behind Bars

At the intake procedure, the officers were separated from the enlisted soldiers and sergeants. I was with the officers, so I went through intake first. They beat me badly. They made me run the gauntlet twice. Later I realized I had actually been lucky to be first — they hadn't really warmed up yet. The men who came after me were beaten even more severely.

There were already two people in the cell who had arrived earlier, even though it was designed for only two occupants. There were civilian detainees in the detention center as well, but only military personnel were housed in my cell. It was an officers' cell in a special block.

The cell measured roughly 3 by 6 meters, with the toilet partitioned off in one corner. We were taken out only for interrogations and to shower — there were no outdoor exercise periods. The cell was under constant video surveillance. There were two bunk beds with a passage only 70-80 centimeters wide between them. Everything was made of metal. Only one person was allowed to move around the cell at a time; everyone else had to remain seated on the upper bunks. Sitting on the lower bunks was forbidden because the surveillance camera could not see you there. After spending a full day sitting like that, our legs would swell. The sewage system leaked, flooding the cell about twice a week. We would call the guards, and they would pump the water out. At first they responded quickly, but later they simply stopped bothering.

The interrogations were much harsher. At first they happened frequently. I was questioned by a local operative. They pulled a bag over my head and beat me with their feet, fists, and batons. The operative always wore a balaclava. He was under forty, of average height, and stockily built. He used every method: “tapik” field telephones, a stun gun, batons, strangulation, and straightforward beatings. He had assistants. They addressed one another simply as “colleague” — never by name.

On average, each interrogation lasted about half an hour. But sometimes the interrogations and torture went on much longer if they had “information” about a prisoner — alleged evidence of “crimes.” This was especially true for the men from Mariupol who had spent a long time on the front line. They tried to accuse them of crimes against civilians while also forcing them to provide “information.” Sometimes they would bluff someone by claiming they already had evidence against him and demand that he incriminate himself or someone else.

I went through those particularly brutal interrogations twice. After that, I was summoned once a week, and later once every three months, for questioning and filming. They also kept calling me in with new recruitment schemes. They claimed to be forming yet another “volunteer battalion.” Four months before the prisoner exchange, they filmed me supposedly agreeing to join a volunteer battalion to fight the Ukrainian regime.

At the same time, they began reclassifying men from the Mariupol Brigade of the National Guard, which had included the Azov Regiment, as “Azov fighters.” They fabricated criminal cases against them and told them: “As Azov members with criminal charges, you'll get exchanged faster.”As far as I know, after two prisoner exchanges, not a single member of either the Mariupol Brigade of the National Guard or Azov was included. I suppose they're waiting for trial.

Why shouldn't prisoners of war be held in penitentiary institutions? Commentary by Olga Romanova

During the three years I spent in Kamyshin, many people died. Some died after severe beatings, others because they did not receive medical treatment in time. One night, a man in the cell opposite ours, known by the nickname “Gypsy,” died. They said he had suffered a fatal fall.

After about two years, they finally started taking us outside for walks. That meant we could exchange information, and from what we heard, at least twenty people had died from torture or illness. There were many prisoners with tuberculosis and heart conditions. A few times we crossed paths during exercise with a civilian from the Kyiv area. He had a severe mental illness. He also died in SIZO-2.

The Azov fighters who had passed through Taganrog told us that eight people had been beaten to death during the intake procedure there. The Azov men were not treated as human beings. They were called fascists. The goal was to break them completely, to leave them with not the slightest will to resist. In Kamyshin, all you wanted was food and sleep — you wanted nothing else.

We were given just enough food to keep us alive. Before I was captured, I weighed 70 kilograms. In the detention center, my weight dropped to 56. Some men lost as much as 40 kilograms. Inspection commissions came to see us, and we were made to stand with our backs to them. We overheard them asking each other, “What have you done to them? Why do they look like this?” They ordered us to strip, examined us, and looked for bruises.

Toward the end of 2024, the treatment changed. They started taking us outside — first once a week, then every day. Apparently they were preparing us for prisoner exchanges. They also improved the food. It seemed they had replaced the kum — the prison's security chief. He came into the cell and told us the war would soon be over, that we would all live together peacefully, so they had decided to feed us a little better. They even gave us extra rusks, and on a couple of occasions we were served salad.

At the beginning, though, there was nothing but watery gruel. You might find a couple of cabbage leaves floating in the water and a few small pieces of potato. A lot depended on where your cell was in the food distribution line — whether they started with you or ended with you. As a rule, the first cells got the least food. You had to eat as quickly as possible. If there were four people in the cell, two would eat while the other two waited their turn. Then you switched places, finished eating, washed the dishes as fast as you could, and handed them back. If you weren't quick enough, you'd be beaten. The next time, they might reduce your ration or not feed you at all.

We ate in turns, washed the dishes as quickly as possible, and handed them back. If you weren't fast enough, they'd beat you and deprive you of your next meal

They forced us to sing the Russian national anthem and memorize patriotic poems and songs — it was one of the forms of torture. Songs blared constantly over the loudspeakers, and every night before lights out the anthem was played without fail.

Reveille was at 6:00 a.m. We had to get up immediately, get dressed, line up, and make our beds. Sometimes we were given time to wash, sometimes not. We had half an hour for the toilet and morning exercises. Breakfast came after exercise, and lunch was at noon. Before lunch, we were either taken out for interrogations or simply left sitting in the cell. There was absolutely nothing to occupy ourselves with — no paper, no pens.

After two years, they started issuing books, one book for every three prisoners. Chess sets and dominoes appeared on the floor. Every two weeks, each cell received a game set for twenty-four hours before it was passed on to the next cell. There could also be interrogations after lunch. Then came another exercise session. We had physical exercises twice a day, about half an hour each. One day they made us exercise six times.

Some exercises were permitted, while others were forbidden — the rules changed constantly. Strength exercises such as push-ups or pull-ups were prohibited. At first, even squats were banned. Later, squats themselves became a punishment. We could be forced to squat for the entire exercise period. In half an hour, that meant about 850 squats. Then squats were banned again. Later they were allowed once more. If the guards thought you were practicing combat techniques — something as simple as shadowboxing — they would immediately beat everyone in the cell.

There were also “talks.” We were told that Ukraine no longer existed, that half of it would become part of Russia, and whatever remained would go to Poland. “You'll end up living under them or under us,” they said. But because we had received news while we were in Sevastopol, we had at least some information and could draw our own conclusions. At the very least, we had seen maps of the fighting.

Toward the end of 2025, they switched on the radio. Every cell had a loudspeaker. During meals, they played Vesti radio for half an hour. They broadcast Russian songs, Karamzin's History of the Russian State, and World War II military reports.

As for our future, they told us different things. The usual version was: “You'll serve about eight years. Those who aren't guilty of war crimes will be released and will live in Russia.”

Correspondence was prohibited. In fact, paper, pens, pencils, and even eyeglasses were forbidden. One man in my cell received a letter from his mother that had been written six months earlier. I don't know of any other such cases. But we kept believing that we would eventually be exchanged, that Ukraine would endure. So did the hatred they instilled in us. It was probably the strongest emotion anyone experienced there.

We kept believing that we would eventually be included in a prisoner exchange, that Ukraine would endure — as would the hatred they had instilled in us

We heard on the radio that talks had taken place in Turkey and that the sides had agreed on prisoner exchanges. We hoped there would definitely be an exchange after Victory Day. For them, it's a highly symbolic occasion. Usually, before an exchange, they told us to put our uniforms in order. They were running short of footwear by then — nobody was getting combat boots anymore.

Before the exchange, they issued me a uniform, then took it back two days later. A couple of days after that, they gave it to me again. That's when I realized I really was going to be exchanged this time. That evening they moved me to another cell with the others who were also due to be exchanged. There were twelve of us. Only then did I believe it.

I traveled in the same prison transport van as a man who later gave an interview. Among other things, he spoke about Kolia Bruev, who was beaten to death in the detention center. I shared a cell with Kolia Bruev for a while. His call sign was “Khokhol.” He was a former MMA fighter. Because of his athletic background, he had many tattoos. He had also served in Azov and had a swastika tattooed on his leg. In SIZO-2, they were simply killing him. On the eve of our exchange, the others told us Kolia had been carried away on a stretcher and was now “Cargo 200.” Our executioner, commandant Anikeyev, said he had “sent Kolia to Bandera.”

Senior Warrant Officer Ivan Alekseyevich Anikeyev was the commandant of the prison compound. Together with the head of the operational unit, he took part in torture and killings. Anikeyev was known as “the bathhouse attendant” and “the welder.” He was the prison's local executioner. Everyone hated him. He beat people to death.

The worst thing in Kamyshin was the weekly trip to the bathhouse. First, you had to make it there. You were constantly under the supervision of guards and special forces officers. The slightest “mistake” could earn you kicks, punches, blows from a baton, or electric shocks. But the main ordeal took place inside the bathhouse. You washed yourself as quickly as possible, then stood naked in the changing area in what they called the “one-and-a-half” position — bent over, hands clasped behind your head, eyes closed — while Anikeyev “worked on you.”

No one left the bathhouse without being “processed.” He didn't rape people — he beat them on the head, kidneys, and liver. He used a stun gun with the word Handsome written on it. On bare skin, the electric shocks were especially painful. The marks on my back remained for a long time.

Later, it seemed the stun gun was taken away from him. After that, Anikeyev used a baton and a metal-plastic pipe instead. He never went anywhere without it.

Military finance officer Oleksandr Oleksiiovych Ivanov, 33

A native of Kyiv, Oleksandr Ivanov graduated from the Ivan Bohun Kyiv Military Lyceum and the Military Institute of Taras Shevchenko National University of Kyiv, specializing in finance and credit. He served as chief of the financial and economic service of the 501st Separate Marine Battalion. In 2019, he was appointed head of the financial and economic service of the 3rd Separate Marine Brigade in Mykolaiv. When Russia launched its full-scale invasion, the brigade was stationed in Mariupol. Ivanov sent his subordinates back to Mykolaiv but remained in the city himself. During the battle for Mariupol, acting on orders from his commanders, he organized two attempts by his unit to break through the Russian encirclement. During the second attempt, in April 2022, he was taken prisoner.

They captured us and said, “That's it, Ukrainian servicemen. You're prisoners now. No one is going to kill you.” There were two other officers with me. They searched our belongings, tied our hands, and blindfolded us. They took us to one of their unit’s outposts. From there we were transferred to hangars, where I saw other prisoners from our brigade.

On the night of April 15, we were loaded into minibuses and driven to Olenivka. We waited to find out where they were taking us. The guards were conscripts from the DNR. They kept saying, “You'll get to Olenivka, they'll check you over there, and then you'll be exchanged.” Of course, the conscripts knew nothing. As we approached, we heard people screaming. When we arrived, we saw why they were screaming and who was screaming. That was when we learned what the twisted minds there meant by “intake.”

You step out of the minibus, and two men in blue uniforms are waiting. One asks for your last name, first name, patronymic, rank, and position. While you're answering, the other stands behind you punching you in the kidneys. Then you run into a large exercise yard through a “corridor.” On both sides stand men in blue uniforms. Each one is holding either a chain, a belt, or a black rubber baton. As you run through the corridor, every one of them tries to hit you. After that, you're forced into the “spread-eagle” position against a wall — hands on the wall, legs spread wide — while they beat your legs. You stand there waiting until it's your turn. Then you run through the corridor again and into a large two-story barracks. On the second floor they record your last name, first name, patronymic, rank, and position. Then you step back into the corridor, stand facing the wall, and wait to be taken into a large room. That was when I began to understand what captivity really meant.

I was wearing the Ukrainian pixel camouflage uniform, with a blue-and-yellow Ukrainian flag patch on it. One of the DNR guards tore the flag off my uniform and said, “Eat it.” I replied, “I'm not eating it.” He threw the Ukrainian flag on the ground and stomped on it. Then he said, “See what I did to your flag?” I told him, “That's because you're jealous. At least my country has a flag. You don't have a homeland or a flag. You're nothing but Russia's lackey.” A few seconds later, five of his comrades came in — some with belts, some with chains, others with batons. They made it very clear that I wasn't supposed to talk like that. They beat me.

About 800 of us were herded into that room. There was no air to breathe. People were losing consciousness. I think a couple of people died during the intake procedure. They also set dogs on us. There, they had what they called a “green light” — complete permission to do anything they wanted.

After it was all over, their superior came in and said, “All right, that's procedure. That's how it's supposed to be. The toilet is downstairs.” There was no running water — they said the utilities had been destroyed first. They told us, “We'll bring you water. You'll get breakfast, lunch, and dinner.” Whenever they gave the order, we had to go out into the exercise yard and line up.

We spent a week in Olenivka. It was a filtration facility where officers were separated from enlisted soldiers and sergeants. Some of our men from the Mariupol police, who had also been taken prisoner, were brought in. Inside the prison, they worked with the administration, recording prisoners' personal information.

On the night of April 22, I and several others were loaded onto military vehicles. Our eyes were blindfolded, and our hands were bound with tape. Then we were driven away. They told us we were being taken to Russia for a couple of months: “This will all be over soon, and you'll go home. We just have to check whether you've committed any war crimes. If you haven't committed war crimes, you have nothing to fear.”

We arrived at an airfield near Taganrog. They told us: “Second lieutenants and below, over there. The rest of the officers, this way.” The junior officers were separated from us, put on a plane, and flown away. We remained standing there, waiting. Then we heard military vehicles arriving. The first thing they said was: “What are you, tough guys? Why are your hands in your pockets? Don't worry — we'll teach you to love your Motherland.” They beat us and literally threw us into the military vehicles. My boots flew off my feet. Why did they come off? That's one of the prison obsessions of a country that refuses to move forward. Belts are forbidden, shoelaces are forbidden, you're not allowed to clench your fists, and even the word “trash” — a derogatory slang term for police — is prohibited. That's how they took us to SIZO-2 in the city of Shakhty, not far from Taganrog.

There, it was the same routine: intake, the “corridor,”fingerprinting, inspection of fingernails and teeth, saliva samples. They stripped you of everything you had. It was outright looting. Five or six special forces officers beat me, then dressed me in prison clothes and threw me into a cell. That was when I realized I had entered a completely different country, one where you had absolutely no rights.

There were three of us in the cell. The cells were small. Every morning and evening there was an inspection. You had to run to the wall and assume the “spread-eagle” position. They supposedly searched you with a metal detector to make sure you had no prohibited items. While they were doing that, they beat you until you collapsed. It happened almost every day.

There was one proper interrogation conducted by the Investigative Committee. A lieutenant colonel handled it. He asked where I had been born, where I had been baptized, what my military duties had been, and he questioned me about Mariupol.

There was also a senior investigator permanently stationed in the detention center. He was drunk all the time. You could recognize him by the rose tattoo on his arm, his swollen face covered in acne, his large ears, and a voice like that of a chain-smoking bear. He walked up and down the corridor shouting: “You're nobody here. Nobody knows you're here. I can do whatever I want to you.”

The investigator walked up and down the corridor shouting: “You're nobody here. Nobody knows you're here. I can do whatever I want to you”

He would pick one of us and take him in for his own interrogation. The questions were the same as those asked by the Investigative Committee. The difference was in the procedure. They took you out of the cell and immediately explained what would happen if you lied or held anything back. In other words, they beat you before the interrogation even started, then threw you in with that bastard. He would talk to you for about five minutes. Then he would get bored and start beating you.

The questions were framed like this: “I'll never believe you don't know.” In other words, “I don't know” was not an acceptable answer. Everyone survived there in their own way. If you managed to preserve your dignity and your answers didn't bring harm to anyone else, that was already a victory. How you accomplished that was your own business. You simply had to understand their psychology a little. Captivity is also a form of war. You try to adapt — and that's 60 to 70 percent of success.

I wasn't a particularly interesting target for him. I was a finance officer — what was he supposed to get out of me? Still, he tried to invent something. He questioned me for two hours. After that, they took me out and made me write down everything I had said. Then they brought me back in and started lecturing me again about who I was and what I was.

Then, without asking me a single question, he said, “All right, take him away.” They grabbed me by my arms and legs and carried me down to the basement. There was a large cast-iron furnace there. They opened the furnace door and shoved my head inside, as if they were going to burn me alive. My eyebrows and eyelashes were singed. Then I heard someone say, “No, pull him out.” They dragged me back and said, “Let's film the video first, otherwise he'll look charred on camera.”

They took me upstairs, sat me on a chair, and said, “Repeat everything you wrote into the camera.” I did exactly that. They didn't take me back to the furnace a second time. Instead, they returned me to my cell. I was never interrogated or tortured again in that facility.

On May 17, they had all of us change back into our own clothes in the morning. But not everyone was taken out. We were loaded into prison transport vans and driven back to the same airfield. A plane arrived. We were forced to run the usual gauntlet into the aircraft — they beat us again before departure. By then we understood that this wasn't a prisoner exchange.

Why are Ukrainian POWs beaten and tortured? Commentary by human rights advocate Olga Romanova

They unloaded us from the plane into prison transport vans and took us to Novozybkov, in Russia's Bryansk Region. The intake procedure there was even more brutal: blows to the groin, stun guns applied to the spine, neck, head, arms, legs, and genitals. We were forced to run completely naked from one room to another. All the while they knocked you to the ground, beat you, and shocked you with stun guns. I was especially “lucky” because I have tattoos. To them, that was like waving a red flag. They questioned me about every tattoo, and while I answered, they beat me. I spent three hours naked before they finally gave me clothes in the cell.

In Novozybkov, there were six of us in a relatively small cell, though it wasn't unbearably cramped. At first we thought, “This is great — it's not too hot because there are gaps around the windows.” Then winter came, and we realized it wasn't so great after all. The walls were covered in mold, the floor was tiled, the wooden fixtures were rotting — complete unsanitary conditions and freezing cold. Still, when we were later transferred to Mordovia, we realized what real filth looked like. Compared with that, conditions in Novozybkov — both in terms of food and everyday living — were still tolerable. The facility was serviced by local inmates, who distributed food, cleaned, and performed other work. The daily routine remained the same: two inspections a day.

We were placed in the wing that housed prisoners who had been there since March 2022. The marines from my unit were assigned to a newer wing on the third floor. Once, on my way to see the investigator, I heard them being taken out of their cells. It took about fifteen minutes just to move one cell's prisoners because they were being driven through a barrage of stun gun shocks and blows from batons to their heels and genitals. That kind of violence frenzy took place only in the mornings. In the evenings, they rushed through it — hit someone with a baton and moved on.

In general, all the scheduled activities took place in the morning: showers and exercise. We were allowed to shower once a week and shave once a week. Those procedures were relatively uneventful, and there was even hot water.

When the Investigative Committee and the FSB started working on us, we realized their policy was to pin on us everything they themselves had done. They first started asking about Tochka-U after they had begun using it against us. They brought up white phosphorus only after they had used phosphorus munitions against us. They accused us of shelling maternity hospitals only after they themselves had struck one. In our case, they tried to pin three charges on us: rape, looting, and the murder of civilians — the very crimes they had systematically committed in Mariupol and in the Kyiv Region, including Bucha, Irpin, and Hostomel.

The FSB aren't stupid. They know how to manipulate people, and they understand psychology. Here's what one interrogation looked like: you were forced onto your knees facing a bedside cabinet used as a stool. Then they used what they called a “tapik” — a field telephone wired up for electric shocks — until your ears, arms, and legs were “ringing.” At the same time, they hit you with a stun gun, though by then you couldn't even feel it because the field telephone shocks overwhelmed everything else. After that, they let you catch your breath. While you were recovering, they beat you again — sometimes with fists, sometimes with kicks. During all of this, they asked only one or two questions. The process went on for nine hours.

Some people broke after just two or three hours. They would say things like, “Yes, I ate kittens,” or “Zelensky ate kittens.” Those prisoners were treated very differently. No more field telephone shocks, no stun guns, no batons. They sat you down, gave you a pack of cigarettes, tea, candy, and cookies. “Go on,” they would say. “Tell us about the kittens you ate. Where? How many?” You returned to the cell feeling relieved and happy. You looked at the others, who were still being electrocuted, beaten, and tortured, while everything seemed fine for you. It created the illusion that freedom was close because they immediately promised: “We'll convict you quickly, and you'll be exchanged sooner.” You would tell your cellmates, “They'll sentence me now, and I'll be home before you.”

But then the FSB began building an entire case around your “confession.” They started torturing you everywhere and at every opportunity. Everyone in the facility learned that you were supposedly a “rapist and murderer.” There was no guarantee they would even take you to trial. Your life in that prison became a living hell. Twice a day, during inspections, the entire cell would be ordered into the corridor. The guards would ask, “Which one of you is the rapist and murderer?”knowing full well that one prisoner in the cell had incriminated himself. The others would be sent back into the cell without being touched. But the supposed “rapist and murderer” would be beaten mercilessly in the corridor — twice a day, sometimes three times, sometimes four, as often as they wanted.

Once the FSB starts building a case around your “confession,” they start roasting you everywhere they can

Then you tell them you didn't actually “eat kittens.” After another nine-hour interrogation, they change tactics. They say: “All right then. Maybe you didn't eat them yourself, but either you did, or you know who did.” In other words, you can save yourself by identifying someone else. The torture stops, and the officer says, “Well, now you understand what will happen to you tomorrow if you still don't admit to eating kittens.” Then they send you back to your cell, leaving you alone with your thoughts until the next morning. You lie there realizing that you don't know anyone who “ate kittens.” You didn't do it yourself, and by some miracle you survived those nine hours today. You imagine what's waiting for you tomorrow. You don't sleep all night because you're convinced they're going to kill you.

The next day you return and say, “I didn't eat kittens, and I don't know anyone who did. Kill me if you want.” They sit you down in a chair, hand you a pack of cigarettes, and simply start talking. I once asked one of the FSB officers, “Why did you put me through all that?” He replied, “Now we know you're telling the truth.”

It's a strange way to establish the truth. I don't understand how consumed by hatred a person has to be to do something like that. There are polygraph tests, but they don't use those. They use torture.

One method was what they called the “water treatment.” You walk into the interrogation room, they pull a pillowcase over your head, and they start beating you. Even if you don't scream, the blows make you breathe faster, and eventually your mouth opens involuntarily. Then they pour water through the fabric into your mouth. Because you can't control your breathing, you inhale the water, and it goes into your lungs. You start choking and eventually lose consciousness. I experienced that “water treatment” myself. That's why it was so striking later to watch Russian television claiming that it was Ukraine that tortured people with waterboarding.

They were also assisted by the prison's internal administration— the local operational officers. If a prisoner began to waver, they would single out that weak link and keep applying pressure. It was clearly an established policy. Sometimes they deprived people of sleep. One man shared my cell after spending a week in solitary confinement without being allowed to sleep at all. He was forced to remain standing in the punishment cell for an entire week. At the same time, every day he was taken out for inspections and for exercise, where they beat him mercilessly. Seven days in a row — simply to force him to confess to something.

On May 11, 2023, I was transferred to Penal Colony No. 7 in Pakino, in Russia's Vladimir Region. During the intake procedure, no one laid a finger on us. Everything was quiet and calm. Strangely enough, they were playing “Chervona Ruta,” Imagine Dragons, and a mix of other songs over the loudspeakers. In Bryansk, by contrast, every morning had begun with the Russian national anthem. Then, for about an hour, they would play songs by the Ryazanochka folk ensemble, settings of Yesenin's poetry, sometimes Lyube, and “I’m Russkiy” by the unhinged Shaman. When you hear it every single day, you end up memorizing it.

In Pakino, by contrast, the playlist included normal music. Some of the staff even asked us, “Do you really have to listen to that garbage every morning?” One guard was on the night shift until morning, and he'd put on Russian rap, American rap — all kinds of things. He knew I was an Eminem fan. When I heard “Lose Yourself,” I was unbelievably happy. He came over and asked, “Better than the usual stuff?” I said, “Absolutely. It's great.” It was a small thing, but it lifted my spirits.

In Pakino, they brought us to our cell and said, “You haven't slept all night, so you can lie down and get some rest.” We couldn't understand what was happening. It turned out that the International Committee of the Red Cross was making what, as far as I know, was their first — and, as far as I know, only — visit. At least that's who those people of rather dubious identity said they were.

They took down our personal details and gave us some kind of cards. They also recorded my wife's information and her phone number, and I dictated three short sentences for her. They passed the message on. The next morning they came back and brought replies for most of us. But not everyone was included. The sick, the disabled, and those with amputations were not shown to them.

I call them “dubious” because, for example, one of them was introduced as being from England. He supposedly spoke Russian poorly, so they assigned him an interpreter. But I could tell the interpreter wasn't translating what I was saying. I started speaking to the representative in English, and he couldn't understand me. I thought, Wait a minute. What part of London is this guy from? Another man was introduced as being from Turkey. He handed me a three-sentence message from my wife. I was deeply moved because I hadn't heard from her in a year, and I said, “Çok teşekkür ederim” — Turkish for “thank you very much.” He didn't understand me either.

I still don't know what organization those people actually represented or who they really were. But at least we managed to establish contact with our families. They told us, “We've brought you books, cigarettes, and candy. Once everything has been inspected, you'll receive it.” I have no idea what they expected to find in cigarettes or candy. We smiled because we knew we would never receive any of it. At least almost all of us did get toothbrushes and toothpaste.

We remained there until June 26, 2023. Looking back, I realized I'd had it relatively easy there. Hardly anyone laid a hand on me.

Then we were transferred to Penal Colony No. 10 in the settlement of Udarny, Mordovia. It felt as though they had brought us there to die. People died, and the doctor wouldn't come to examine the body until four or five hours later. I heard people dying one after another in the neighboring cells — about ten of them altogether.

The intake procedure in Mordovia was simple: you were stripped naked and forced to lie on the ground. The staff carried four batons and stun guns. They beat the soles of your feet with batons while shocking you from every direction. Every single prisoner went through it.

“Intake” in Mordovia meant lying naked on the ground while the guards beat the soles of your feet with batons and shocked you with stun guns from every direction

You ran into the cell to the sound of a blaring radio. There was no way to turn the volume down. It played a downloaded compilation called Russian Patriotic Songs, interspersed with lectures on Russian history. They broadcast the ravings of some crank who claimed that even the word "Ukraine" had been invented. I listened to it for nearly three years, and now I know the names of every French marshal and every Russian general who fought against Napoleon.

Seven or eight times a day, the playlist was interrupted by the Russian national anthem. Every single time, you had to stand up, put your hand over your heart, and sing it with all the feeling you could muster. You shouted it, barked it. Even if you were eating, you still had to sing. If you didn't finish your meal in time, that was your problem.

At least interrogations were less frequent there. Some prisoners were questioned by local investigators. Some were tortured, others were beaten. And there were still people, even in their second year of captivity, who believed that if they confessed to killing twenty-five civilians, they would quickly be convicted and then exchanged.

There was one inspection a day. We spent fifteen to twenty minutes standing in the corridor, where we were beaten. We tried to figure out whether certain guard shifts were less violent, but there weren't any. They used not only batons and stun guns but also metal-plastic pipes and chair legs. One prisoner was doused with antiseptic and then set on fire with a stun gun. He was burning in the corridor while they stood there laughing.

There was also a white line painted on the floor of the cell. You stepped onto it at six in the morning and didn't step off until ten at night. Except for showers, exercise, and inspections, you stood on that line in silence, facing the wall. You could go to the toilet only on command. The one small consolation was that they allowed you to march in place so your legs wouldn't go numb. But they still became swollen and stiff.

There was virtually no medical care. A doctor or medical orderly would occasionally make a token appearance. Prisoners who had prescriptions from previous facilities — people with hypertension, for example — continued receiving their medication. But if you developed any other medical problem, whether a fever, a toothache, stomach pain, swollen legs, or scabies, at best you received no treatment. There was one doctor everyone called “Evil,” who suddenly disappeared in 2024. If you asked him for help, you'd get shocked on the arm with a stun gun. In other words, if you wanted a pill, you first had to undergo a dose of “electrotherapy.” There was effectively no medical care at all.

Why are prisoners forced to stand? Commentary by human rights advocate Olga Romanova

In Kamyshin, and in other facilities as well, there was another particularly cruel practice: prisoners were forbidden to speak. You had to remain completely silent. One former prisoner from Kamyshin was so deeply affected by this enforced silence that, after returning to Ukraine, he couldn't even speak to his own mother.

That regime remained in place until November 2023. Then we were told that some inspector was coming — the staff jokingly referred to him as “the animal rights inspector.” Overnight, everything changed. Until the middle of December, while they were waiting for him to arrive, no one laid a hand on us. The day after he left, however, they shocked everyone with stun guns during the morning inspection. Even so, things became somewhat easier afterward. They still beat us, but without the previous level of brutality. They understood that someone was watching, even though they kept telling us that everyone had forgotten about us and that Ukraine no longer existed. By then, we had learned to filter out the propaganda. When they started handing us letters, we knew it meant someone had issued an order and that we had not been forgotten.

Prisoners selected for exchange were taken into a separate room, stripped down to their underwear, and photographed from every angle. They also filmed us on video. You had to state your name and say: “I am being held on the territory of the Russian Federation. I am well fed, the medical care is good, and I have no complaints or statements to make.”

A day later they would come for you. On May 5, during dinner, my cell door opened and I was taken out for this procedure. But I didn't leave on May 5. Then, on May 13, the cell doors started opening one by one, and guards began calling out different names. I listened closely. Then my cell door opened. “Ivanov, come here.” That's when I knew I was going home.

Marine musician Oleksandr Mykolaiovych Zui, 30

Oleksandr Zui graduated from the Chernihiv Music College and worked at the Chernihiv Philharmonic Center for Festivals and Concert Programs. He later signed a contract with the 36th Separate Marine Brigade of the Armed Forces of Ukraine, serving as a first-category musician in the brigade's orchestra. At the start of the full-scale invasion, he was in Mariupol. He was taken prisoner on April 12, 2022.

When we were captured, I had a small keychain with a picture of my wife on it. They took everything. They confiscated all my documents, stole all my valuables, even the ring and chain my parents and my wife had given me.

Right after we were captured, they didn't use force or torture. But as soon as we arrived in Olenivka, we got the kind of “welcome” prisoners receive in jail. You stepped into the “corridor,” and they beat you. You ran through it, sat down, they beat you there, and then you waited for your turn. When they finally got to you, you gave your name, went through the registration questions, and then they beat you some more. I saw men who were on the verge of death.

On April 21, we were taken to Russia's Ivanovo Region. I was surprised that they didn't beat us immediately. They jabbed us with stun guns, hit us with batons, and set dogs on us, but for the first three days they didn't actually beat us. They let us wash in cold water. To be honest, I was simply happy to see running water coming from a tap. All I wanted was something to drink.

At first, it seemed as though the food was adequate. There were supposedly three meals a day. But before the war I weighed 100 kilograms. When I returned from captivity, I weighed 62.

The hardest part was the beginning of captivity. They beat you constantly. Any wrong movement, and they dragged you out of the cell and beat you. There were no warnings — they went straight to the stun gun. When I came down with scabies, they “treated” it with electric shocks. They would say, “The ointment is only on Sundays. The stun gun is every day.”

When I came down with scabies, they “treated” it with electric shocks. They would say, “The ointment is only on Sundays. The stun gun is every day.”

In Ivanovo, I shared a cell with Sviatoslav Saltykov from the orchestra of the 36th Separate Marine Brigade. I stayed with him until the day he died. He developed internal bleeding, they took him out of the cell, and he never came back.

One thing I remember especially well was when they brought us a list of “the children of Donbas killed by the Ukrainian nationalist movement.” They forced us to memorize it. We spent about six months learning it by heart.

After Ivanovo, I was transferred to SIZO-2 in Taganrog. Compared with Ivanovo, I felt almost free there. They gave me a book to read and even let me look out the window. I remember thinking, “This is wonderful. I'm happy.”Everything is relative. There were interrogations, but given my position, there wasn't much they could try to extract from me.

I spent the last eighteen months of my captivity in a detention center in Russia's Perm Region. You got up in the morning, did your exercises, and sang the Russian national anthem. Not singing was not an option. The regime was harsh: you were allowed to sit for only three hours a day; the rest of the time you had to stand. There were also mandatory half-hour sessions of running in place. Talking was forbidden. You were allowed to read for one hour a day. One cellmate would take the next book and read it aloud.

In Taganrog, I heard about female prisoners. Among them was Viktoriia Roshchyna, a journalist from Berdiansk. She had become emaciated to the point of severe malnutrition. I never saw her myself, but I heard that she had to be fed with a spoon. She was an extraordinary woman — incredibly strong. She did everything she could to earn the guards' respect.

By the third year, they hardly beat us anymore, but we were forced to stand all day. You were allowed to sit for only three or four hours out of every twenty-four.

Driver-rifleman Oleksandr Volodymyrovych Zadorozhnyi, 57

A native of Kirovohrad, Oleksandr Zadorozhnyi worked as a driver before the war. He volunteered for military service in March 2022. From March to July 2022, he remained in reserve in Ukraine's Mykolaiv Region. In July, he was assigned to the 57th Brigade. In September 2022, he was captured while moving to a combat position.

I spent the first three days in a basement in the village of Bezymenne in the Mykolaiv Region. Then we were taken to Nova Kakhovka and held in garages. From there we were transferred to Sevastopol.

For the first ten days they didn't beat us. The conditions in the barracks were more or less normal as well — no beatings, no insults. Then we were taken to Taganrog for two days, where the intake procedure was extremely brutal. On September 28, we were transferred from Taganrog to Kamensk-Shakhtinsky, where we remained until 2024.

The intake procedure in Kamensk-Shakhtinsky was brutal too. They made us run between two lines of guards, each of whom tried to land a couple of blows. Every day after that, during the morning inspection, in the exercise yard, and in the showers, we were beaten as well — with kicks, punches, and whatever else they had at hand.

People died in Kamensk-Shakhtinsky, though not in our cell. Two men died in neighboring cells. One, I was told, was beaten to death by a special forces officer. I didn't witness it myself, but that's what I was told. Another prisoner had a heart condition and also died. Once, while we were in the exercise yard, I overheard guards talking to each other. One of them said, “We've already buried nine of them.”

I spent the last two years in Kamyshin. During the morning inspection they forced us into the “star” position against the wall. They beat us with wooden mallets and stun guns. We were also beaten brutally in the bathhouse. They made us kneel and struck the soles of our feet and our ribs. The beatings in the bathhouse were carried out by the “bathhouse attendant,” who was also the commandant. If he was on duty, going to the bathhouse felt like being led to an execution. If he wasn't there, everything was relatively normal.

The beatings in the bathhouse were carried out by the “bathhouse attendant,” who was also the commandant. If he happened to be on duty, being taken to the bathhouse felt like being led to an execution

After the Red Cross and other organizations visited Kamyshin, the regime became somewhat less harsh. But the “bathhouse attendant” kept beating people even after those visits.

Before I was exchanged, I weighed 57 kilograms. Before I was captured, I had weighed 80. And I was one of the ones who lost relatively little weight. There were men there who looked like survivors of Buchenwald. In Kamyshin, we often didn't have enough time to finish our rations. The food was basically prison gruel, though it wasn't the worst. The worst food was in Taganrog. It was practically just water with a cabbage leaf floating in it. As for the porridge, if you turned the bowl upside down, it would stay stuck inside.

Rogers is an acknowledged world leader among PCB substrate manufacturers. Its materials, known as laminates, are virtually irreplaceable for high-power microwave and millimeter-wave electronics — which are critical for the radars of air defense systems. In conventional drones, Rogers laminate is also considered the preferred material for the communications module. A sheet of high-quality Rogers laminate measuring 30×45 cm can cost up to $1,300. AGC and Isola, two other companies producing comparable products, have been largely absent from the Russian market in recent years, according to customs data.

In 2023, Russians involved in sourcing such products were complaining that Rogers materials had become difficult to obtain in the country. Some companies stopped taking orders for Rogers-based boards due to a shortage of laminates in stock. Engineers were forced to use Chinese alternatives, sometimes of inferior quality.

Rogers laminates have been imported into Russia by EleсTrade-M. Before Russia’s full-scale war against Ukraine, Rogers laminates were also ordered directly from the manufacturer by the official distributor, Adelantest LLC. Adelantest’s customs transactions involving Rogers laminates are no longer visible, yet the company still actively advertises these products, offering them to order (delivery time: three to five weeks). Furthermore, the Adelantest website contains recent 2025—2026 announcements about trade shows attended by Rogers Corporation managers. This suggests that the break between Rogers products and Russia is far from complete. At the very least, Adelantest receives full and timely information about Rogers’ new products and the company’s participation in industry trade shows.

On the Chinese side, the list of recent sellers has included several intermediary firms or small laminate manufacturers: Shenzhen Viafine-Tech, Your Source International, and Jinan Hope Wish Photoelectronic Technology. In Russia, EleсTrade-M carries a wide range of Rogers products in its catalog. Other Russian retailers’ catalogs also list Rogers products. Additionally, the sellers’ websites feature recommendations for Rogers substitutes.

In January, Republican congressman Joe Wilson sent a letter to Rogers management expressing concern about the use of the company’s products in Russian S-400 and S-500 surface-to-air missile systems, as well as in the radar systems of Su-family fighter jets. According to the congressman, Rogers products are being obtained by enterprises of the Russian defense corporation Almaz-Antey. Wilson called on Rogers to prohibit its subsidiaries and distributors worldwide from supplying the company’s products to Russia.

If the Rogers Corporation is able to better monitor its product supply chain, Russian radar manufacturers will be forced to switch to lower-quality Chinese alternatives. The Insider has sent an editorial inquiry to Rogers.

Special circuit boards for military applications

The circuit boards in ordinary consumer electronics are soldered on inexpensive materials such as textolite. Microwave-frequency equipment, such as radars and electronic warfare systems, especially those operating at high power levels, require a special type of board substrate on which the components are mounted. Such a material must have a low dielectric loss factor, high stability of its dielectric parameters (in particular, the dielectric constant must not vary from batch to batch), good thermal conductivity, and mechanical strength. A phased array antenna, for example — a device that controls the direction of a radar beam by managing the phase of individual antennas — can only be assembled on the basis of such a material.

Footage showing the Admiral Grigorovich in the port of Baltiysk, Kaliningrad Region, was posted by military analyst Massimo Frantarelli on June 16. Based on the surrounding structures, The Insider has determined that the footage was likely filmed from the Northern Breakwater observation point at the entrance to the Baltic Strait.

Shortly before the Admiral Grigorovich was spotted in Baltiysk, British broadcaster Sky News published helicopter footage of another Russian warship in the North Sea. The video appeared on the outlet’s social media the previous evening. 

The footage shows the refuelling and resupply of the frigate Neustrashimy, described by Sky News as “the second Russian warship to escort shadow fleet ships through the Channel.” Neustrashimy, a frigate in Russia’s Baltic Fleet, reportedly returned to its home base of Baltiysk this past February.

On July 10, Neustrashimy was spotted in the waters of the English Channel by the monitoring project Russian Forces Spotter. Given that the Admiral Grigorovich has reportedly been spotted in Baltiysk, it is indeed possible that Neustrashimy will replace it on duty in British waters, escorting shadow fleet tankers. There is, however, no independent confirmation yet that Grigorovich has actually returned to Baltiysk.

Shortly before that, on July 14, some analysts suggested that the Admiral Grigorovich might be escorting a cargo vessel through the English Channel. That assessment was incorrect, Starboard Maritime Intelligence analyst Mark Douglas told The Insider at the time:

“This isn’t true. It seems highly likely that ADMIRAL GRIGOROVICH is heading to resupply with PM-82 off Suffolk. It could still be a new Russian unit doing the escorting, but that seems less likely.”

Over the past three months, the Admiral Grigorovich has regularly escorted at least some of the vessels in Russia’s “shadow fleet” through the English Channel. It was first spotted in the strait’s waters this past April, after British Prime Minister Keir Starmer announced that the military would detain vessels on British sanctions lists. The Royal Navy has tracked the frigate almost continuously since late April.

In mid-June, the frigate made headlines again after firing warning shots at a British leisure yacht. Russia’s Defense Ministry then accused the yacht’s crew of “dangerously approaching” the warship.

The Component will join the Territorial Defense Forces to become one of the pillars of Poland’s East Shield program, which was launched in May 2024 to strengthen security on the border with Belarus and Russia. The project provides for the construction of defensive infrastructure, the development of surveillance systems, and an enhancement of the state’s crisis response capabilities.

The new formation will comprise four brigades covering key sections of the eastern border. The unit’s tasks will include supporting state border protection, conducting reconnaissance, protecting infrastructure, and rapidly responding to threats. The troops will coordinate with the Border Guard and other national security agencies.

The creation of the Border Protection Component is described as another step in strengthening NATO’s eastern flank. It is intended to complement other East Shield measures and enhance Poland’s ability to defend its borders in the face of growing threats. Kosiniak-Kamysz promised to present organizational details and appoint commanders for the new formation. The creation of the unit is set to become one of the key elements of Poland’s long-term defense strategy.

This past September, Poland deployed 40,000 troops to the border with Belarus and Russia ahead of the Russian-Belarusian Zapad-2025 exercises — during which, according to Foreign Minister Radosław Sikorski, “very aggressive scenarios” were practiced.

Lawmakers from President Volodymyr Zelensky’s Servant of the People party applauded Svyrydenko as she left. Opposition lawmakers, by contrast, mocked the decision, saying that if the government was considered successful, it was unclear why it was being dismissed.

On July 16, the Verkhovna Rada appointed Serhiy Koretskyi, the former head of Naftogaz, as the new prime minister.

The government’s resignation and the Yermak case

Svyrydenko had led the government for just shy of a year. Before becoming prime minister, she worked as a deputy to Andriy Yermak, who headed the Presidential Office from February 2020 until being dismissed amid a corruption scandal this past November. Svyrydenko was considered one of Yermak’s closest allies.

In May, Yermak was arrested in a corruption case involving the legalization of assets. A court ordered that he be held in custody with the option of bail set at 140 million hryvnias ($3.1 million). The money was later posted, and Yermak was released from custody.

After news of the “Mindichgate” corruption case broke in the summer of 2025, many Ukrainian politicians called for Svyrydenko’s resignation. Former president Petro Poroshenko, the leader of the European Solidarity party, called the outgoing Cabinet “the government of Mindichgate” while commenting on the reshuffle.

Crisis around the Defense Ministry

The main political event after the government’s resignation, however, was not the change of prime minister.

On the evening of July 15, it became known that Defense Minister Mykhailo Fedorov, who had led the ministry since January 2026, would leave his post. Although the Verkhovna Rada had not yet voted on his dismissal, Fedorov publicly confirmed his departure on July 16, giving a detailed account of his disagreements with the military leadership.

Fedorov said that after becoming defense minister, he conducted an audit of the Defense Ministry and presented Zelensky with a report on systemic problems in the army.

Among them, he listed:

• a chaotic management system;
• constant rotation of commanders;
• manual allocation of weapons and equipment;
• bureaucracy;
• the General Staff’s resistance to reforms;
• decision-making “based on loyalty” rather than data analysis;
• isolation of effective commanders and supporters of change.

Fedorov explained that following his exit from the defense ministry, the report’s findings formed the basis for his proposal that Zelensky dismiss General Oleksandr Syrskyi, commander in chief of the Armed Forces of Ukraine, and Andriy Hnatov, chief of the General Staff.

Fedorov nevertheless agreed to work with Syrskyi after Zelensky refused to change the army’s leadership. Soon afterward, however, Fedorov said all of the Defense Ministry’s initiatives began to be blocked.

As an example, he pointed to the creation of centers of expertise for military technology.

“The General Staff does not sign off on this. There is no need, they say, to bring in new people who can generate ideas. We ‘hacked’ this with unconventional solutions, but overall, if we are talking about a serious system, it does not work,” he said, alleging that Syrskyi preferred “weaving intrigues” to discussing problems directly. Fedorov added that he eventually gave the president an ultimatum demanding Syrskyi’s dismissal.

As an example of the toxic culture that had taken shape in the military leadership, Fedorov cited the generals’ reaction to a scandal involving the 425th Separate Assault Regiment Skelia. In June, the Ukrainian outlet Babel published an investigation citing former and current service members who reported on torture, abuse, and non-combat deaths in the unit. Skelia responded that the allegations concerned the 155th Separate Mechanized Brigade, which it described as “a separate military unit” unrelated to the regiment.

After the publication, the State Bureau of Investigation opened a criminal case. The regiment commander was suspended and Syrskyi called the episode “a shameful story” for the army of a country at war.

However, Fedorov said that instead of focusing on investigating possible crimes, key figures inside the system began looking to punish those responsible for the publication itself. The minister said he was accused of organizing an information campaign against Skelia.

“I am being accused of being the ‘client’ behind the Skelia story. Let there be an investigation. I did not create Skelia, and I did not allow what happened there to happen. But they say I was the one who launched this media campaign. This is the kind of culture that has formed in the system. It needs to be rooted out,” he said.

Syrskyi did not publicly respond to the accusations. In a post on Telegram, he pointed to the Ukrainian army’s role in defending Kyiv, thanked Fedorov for his work, and expressed the wish that he “remain on Ukraine’s team.”

Zelensky confirmed July 16 that there was indeed a conflict between the Defense Ministry and the General Staff, calling it systemic. He said the heads of the two institutions had failed to establish effective communication.

Support for Fedorov

After the defense minister’s remarks, Mykhailo Drapatyi, commander of Ukraine’s Joint Forces, publicly voiced support for the reforms Fedorov had proposed, saying his team was the first to begin changing how the military system works. Drapatyi said that over the past six months, the Defense Ministry had become not just a supplier of weapons for the army, but also a partner that demanded changes in approach, faster decision-making, and support for proactive commanders.

He also effectively confirmed Fedorov’s central accusation. “Today the minister said that many of these decisions had to be pushed through in spite of the system, not thanks to its work. I know this is true… When the right decision has to be pushed through in spite of the system, it means the system itself needs to change,” Drapatyi said.

Journalist Anna Kalyuzhna, who had previously investigated violations in some Ukrainian assault units, also spoke out in support of Fedorov, saying that she had evidence that methods resembling those of “blocking detachments” — a term that refers to the Soviet-style practice of preventing troops from retreating — were used in one unit subordinate to Syrskyi, though not in the Skelia regiment. Kalyuzhna said the material had been prepared before Fedorov became defense minister. According to her, the former minister’s statements about “total lies, sabotage, and crimes” in the military matched the information she had collected.

Fedorov’s dismissal triggered widespread public reaction. In the capital Kyiv, citizens gathered near the Ivan Franko Theater, chanting “Shame” and “Bring Fedorov back” while holding signs that read “Don’t touch what works” and “Vova, what are you doing?”

Rallies in support of Fedorov also took place in Mykolaiv, Kharkiv, Dnipro, Poltava, Odesa and Ternopil, among other cities.

Amid Fedorov’s dismissal, Pavlo Yelizarov, deputy commander of the Ukrainian Air Force responsible for developing small-scale air defense, submitted his resignation. He directly linked the decision to Fedorov’s departure.

“I believe Mykhailo Fedorov’s removal is a great evil for the country’s defense capability,” he said.

The new government

The Verkhovna Rada appointed a new Cabinet:

• Denys Shmyhal — first deputy prime minister and energy minister.
• Tetiana Berezhna — deputy prime minister for humanitarian policy and culture minister.
• Vsevolod Chentsov — deputy prime minister for European and Euro-Atlantic integration.
• Vitaliy Bezgin — minister for communities, territories and internally displaced persons.
• Matviy Bidnyi — minister of youth and sports.
• Andriy Butenko — minister of education and science.
• Ivan Vyhovskyi — interior minister.
• Taras Vysotskyi — minister of agrarian policy and food.
• Mykola Kalashnyk — minister of restoration, infrastructure and transport.
• Vitaliy Kim — minister for veterans affairs.
• Oleksandr Kravchenko — minister of economy and environment.
• Viktor Liashko — health minister.
• Serhiy Marchenko — finance minister.
• Denys Maslov — justice minister.
• Denys Uliutin — minister of social policy, family and unity.
• Oksana Ferchuk — minister of digital transformation.

The president is responsible for nominating the defense minister and foreign minister — previously Andrii Sybiha — as they fall under what is known as the presidential quota. Yevhenii Khmara, formerly the acting head of the Security Service of Ukraine, has been named acting Minister of Defense.

Fedorov, 35, is widely seen as a key architect of Ukraine’s drone-focused approach to the war against Russia. He led the Defense Ministry for six months before being excluded from the new government that is being formed after the Cabinet’s resignation earlier this week.

Pavlo Yelizarov, deputy commander of the Ukrainian Air Force, also submitted his resignation, calling Fedorov’s departure “a great evil for Ukraine’s defense capability.”

In Kyiv, Fedorov’s supporters gathered in the square near the Ivan Franko Theater, chanting “Shame” and “Bring Fedorov back.” Some held signs reading “Don’t touch what works” and “Vova, what are you doing?”

Rallies in support of Fedorov also took place in Mykolaiv, Kharkiv, Dnipro, Poltava, Odesa, and Ternopil, among other cities.

Ukrainska Pravda, citing an unnamed lawmaker from Zelensky’s Servant of the People party, reported that the president had explained the decision as stemming from a prolonged conflict between Fedorov and General Oleksandr Syrskyi, the commander in chief of the Armed Forces of Ukraine. According to the outlet’s source, Zelensky told lawmakers that he wanted to “balance relations between the army and the government.”

The Economist has reported that Fedorov tried to introduce Silicon Valley-style business practices into the military, running into fierce resistance from the generals, led by Syrskyi. An audit of the Defense Ministry launched by Fedorov found overspending of about 300 billion hryvnias, roughly $6.6 billion. After that, Fedorov introduced mandatory polygraph tests for ministry officials and moved procurement of 155mm shells to open tenders. He also sought Syrskyi’s dismissal, but Zelensky did not support the proposal.

During his six months as defense minister, Fedorov announced reforms to mobilization and territorial recruitment centers, promising to make the system transparent, digital, and efficient. He also emphasized drones and the digitalization of the army.

The Financial Times, citing Ukrainian sources, reported that Fedorov was being removed despite support from major technology companies that had provided resources to Ukraine’s defense forces. The outlet mentioned his contacts with Palantir CEO Alex Karp, former Google chief Eric Schmidt, and SpaceX owner Elon Musk.

“As I promised, in the near future I will create our so-called German battalion. Everything is official, and there we will be able to defend our German values,” Krieger wrote on Instagram.

He invited interested volunteers to travel to Russia to discuss joining the unit, listing its proposed principles:

“The values we honor: no drugs, no homosexuals. Party affiliation, nationality, or religion do not matter. Knowledge of German is desirable. Our unit will not be directly on the front line; rather, we will be responsible for drones. Combat experience would be an advantage. We need people who can use their heads. We will not have to kill people here; our war is against drones.”

Krieger claimed that those who “love German values and culture” and want to become “proud and honorable German warriors” would be able to join the battalion. He accompanied the post with the Prussian military motto “Gott mit uns” — “God with us” — which was stamped on the belt buckles of German soldiers fighting in World Wars I and II.

In another post, Krieger used the slogan “Meine Ehre heißt Treue” — “My honor is loyalty” — the motto of the SS. He said he was loyal to his origins and to his “new country,” promising “to build bridges where others dig trenches.”

Several days before announcing the creation of the battalion, Krieger posted a photo of a medal titled “For Military Valor,” along with a certificate. The medal shown is a public award, not a state or departmental one. A medal with that name was established in 2000 by the Russian veterans’ organization “Combat Brotherhood.” It is awarded to military personnel, veterans, and civilians for courage and valor shown in defending the country.

Krieger’s certificate, however, was issued in the name of the commander of the Storm detachment. According to the document, Noah Wolf Krieger was awarded the medal by an order dated July 1, 2026. It is unclear whether he received the official Combat Brotherhood medal or whether the detachment used the public award and its certificate form on its own initiative.

Krieger has previously claimed he is fighting against Ukraine on Russia’s side in the war, and he has posted photos and videos of himself in military uniform with weapons. One of his Instagram stories showed a geolocation tag indicating Bakhmut.

Krieger was the subject of an investigation by the independent Russian publication Important Stories and the German outlet Correctiv, which found that the man using that name is in fact Murad Dadaev, a native of Chechnya who promoted pro-Russian and far-right views in the AfD. He visited Chechnya earlier this spring, meeting with senior regional officials and security officers. While there, he gave the republic’s Deputy Prime Minister, Akhmed Dudaev, a Luftwaffe dagger bearing a swastika.

After the trip, the AfD branch in Lower Saxony began proceedings to expel Krieger/Dadaev from the party, but no public announcement has been made that the process was completed.

Those remarks have been backed up by concrete policy initiatives. For several years now, authorities in Moscow and a number of other regions have been encouraging finishing ninth-graders to opt for vocational college rather than continuing on through the final two years of high school. According to the Higher School of Economics' Education Indicators: 2026 statistical yearbook, in 2024, 42.5% of ninth-grade graduates remained in school, while 51.3% enrolled in vocational colleges. Full data for 2025 will not be available until 2027, but last summer Deputy Prime Minister Dmitry Chernyshenko reported that 62% of students finishing ninth grade had opted to attend vocational colleges in the upcoming school year.

Now the campaign to “rebalance” the education system has begun from the other direction as well. In early February, the Education and Science Ministry announced that it had “revised the higher education system” by eliminating 47,000 tuition-paying places (13%) at Russian universities. Ministry head Falkov later explained that most of the cuts (30,500 places) affected part-time and evening programs. By field of study, the reductions included 13,900 places in law, 7,400 in management, 7,300 in economics, 3,400 in public administration, and 2,300 in advertising and public relations — a sum total of just 34,300 places, meaning nearly 13,000 more spots were cut elsewhere.

Tuition-paying places were cut across 28 bachelor's programs and 12 specialist-degree programs. They include architecture, oil and gas engineering, psychology, conflict studies, business informatics, commodity science, housing and public utilities infrastructure, regional studies, journalism, publishing, philology, linguistics, fire safety engineering, mining, dentistry, engineering design, and technological support for manufacturing, among others.

The Higher School of Economics' statistical yearbook shows that in 2024 Russia had more than 2.3 million fee-paying university students, compared with 2 million studying on state-funded scholarships. (For comparison, in the 2010-11 academic year, 62.8% of students paid tuition, whereas by 2024-25 that figure had fallen to 53.4%.)

Law, economics, and management have indeed been the country's most popular fields of study. Of the 827,600 degrees awarded in 2024, 156,700 (18.9% of the total) were in economics and management, while 97,300 (11.8%) were in law. Teacher education ranked third, with 91,300 graduates (11%).

Cuts by university

A source who attended the Education and Science Ministry's strategic planning session in February 2025 told The Insider that the cuts were to be implemented as follows: for each university, the ministry would calculate the average number of students actually admitted to a given program over the 2023-2025 period and use that figure as the upper limit for future admissions. At the same time, specialized universities would be required to eliminate programs outside their core fields. As an example, the source cited Moscow City University, which was ordered to discontinue all programs except teacher training starting from Sept. 1, 2026.

“Students weren't even allowed to finish their degrees. The Russian Presidential Academy of National Economy and Public Administration, for example, took in journalism students to let them complete their studies,” the source explained.

Speaking at the State Duma back in February, Falkov also addressed the issue of non-core programs, describing them as abnormal and suggesting that the authorities “either rename these universities or put things in order.”

A source at the Higher School of Economics confirmed this description of the new system:

“Universities used to set the number of tuition-paying places themselves, but the figure was largely nominal. Exceeding it wasn't a problem, and the rule of thumb was simply 'admit however many students enroll.' If admissions exceeded expectations by a significant margin, the university would open an extra group and spend the summer looking for instructors who could take on additional teaching hours. Last year, a cap on tuition-paying places was introduced for all universities, and apparently it came into force this year. From what I've heard, the cuts largely spared the top universities. In our case, the quota was simply set at roughly the same level as before.”

According to the HSE lecturer, tuition-paying places are now allocated in much the same way state-funded places have long been: the ministry determines how many places a university receives in a given field of study such as “philology,” then the university then decides how to divide those places among individual programs, such as Romance and Germanic philology, Russian philology, or classical philology.

Information on cuts to specific programs at individual universities remains limited and has emerged only piecemeal from around the country. In the Rostov region, for example, Don State Technical University reduced its tuition-paying intake by one-third, from 11,600 to 7,800 places. The deepest cuts affected the humanities — including economics, law, and psychology. At Southern Federal University, the number of tuition-paying places was reduced by 4%, again primarily in humanities programs.

In Tatarstan, Kazan Federal University also lost one-third of its tuition-paying places, with admissions reduced from 5,100 to 3,300. The university did not disclose which specific programs were affected. Other major universities in the republic said they had not been subject to any cuts.

In the Krasnoyarsk region, Krasnoyarsk State Agrarian University announced cuts to tuition-paying places, closing admissions to economics, management, and public administration programs. Law remained available, but the number of tuition-paying places was reduced. In total, the university eliminated about 200 places. Krasnoyarsk State Pedagogical University had planned to cut places in its linguistics program, but ultimately kept admissions at the 2025 level.

The cuts have affected at least one prestigious university: the Russian Presidential Academy of National Economy and Public Administration (RANEPA), where the academy's website announced a “redistribution of quotas.” A closer look at the changes, however, shows that tuition-paying programs in the academy's flagship field of public administration were among those eliminated. For example, the “Legal Support for State and Municipal Administration” program previously offered 25 tuition-paying places, but under this year's admissions campaign, none are available. Likewise, tuition-paying admissions for the “Digital Government and Economics and Public Administration” programs have been reduced from 40 places each to zero.

Igor (name changed), an education management specialist and former dean at a Russian university, says the main burden of the cuts is falling on the regions, adding that reductions in tuition-paying places are affecting not only non-core programs but also the leading universities in Russia's federal subjects:

“At RANEPA, the places weren't actually cut — they were redistributed. Even so, public administration is precisely the field where the academy has sought to establish a monopoly on teaching. For now, the cuts are not affecting the top universities that are allowed to set their own educational standards, nor institutions whose rectors have direct access to Falkov. But in the regions, higher education is collapsing.”

Quotas for “special military operation” veterans

Another factor affecting the number of university places is the special admissions quota for veterans of Russia's war against Ukraine. Ten percent of all state-funded places have been reserved for this category of applicants. However, The Insider has found that the quota has never been filled.

Ten percent of state-funded university places have been reserved for war veterans, but the quota has never been fully used

In 2025, for example, the Education and Science Ministry allocated 51,000 places to this category of applicants, but just over 28,000 people enrolled. For the 2026 admissions campaign, the ministry has set aside 53,500 places.

Strictly speaking, calling these places a “quota for SVO veterans” is not entirely accurate. Preferential admission applies to participants in other Russian military campaigns as well, along with several other legally equivalent categories.

The applicants for these spots are divided into two groups. The first — which includes Heroes of Russia, children of decorated combat veterans, children of medical workers who died while fighting the COVID-19 pandemic, and now the children of those killed or seriously wounded in Russia's war against Ukraine — may enroll without taking entrance exams at all.

Applicants in the second category — veterans of the war against Ukraine (including those who fought for the self-proclaimed Donetsk and Luhansk “People’s Republics” beginning in 2014), as well as their children, widows and widowers, and the children of veterans of other Russian military campaigns, including Afghanistan, Chechnya, and Syria — must still take entrance exams, but they only need to achieve the minimum passing scores.

A mathematics lecturer at one of Moscow's leading universities says that not everyone admitted under the quota has a connection to the current war, and not all of them are weak students: “We admitted one outstanding student who had won academic Olympiads. He told us right away that he was applying under the quota. Then he added, 'Don't think my father is fighting in the special military operation — he's a veteran of the Chechen War.'“

According to available data, applicants using the special quota most often enroll in medical and teacher-training universities. They are least likely to apply to elite technical institutions such as the Moscow Institute of Physics and Technology (MIPT) or the National Research Nuclear University MEPhI. The mathematics lecturer says quota applicants generally avoid the strongest universities because they realistically assess their chances of academic success:

“These young people aren't fools. They understand that if they come here, they're facing six months of humiliation before being expelled after their first exam session. When the quota was first introduced, a few weak students got in under it and were later expelled for failing their exams. So I can say two things about the quota: it isn't being filled, and those who are admitted under it don't cause any problems.”

A sweeping overhaul

The cuts to university places and the effort to steer more students into vocational colleges are part of a much broader education reform. A year ago, the Education and Science Ministry published a presentation titled “A New Model of Higher Education.” It lays out plans for “regulating tuition-paying admissions,” abolishing the Bologna system, prioritizing technical fields, and introducing “qualifications that are meaningful to employers.”

The idea of “meaningful qualifications” is intended to get students into the workforce earlier. Back in 2024, Falkov said that students should be granted employment qualifications while still studying: “For example, after completing a module or course in chemical analysis, a student could immediately receive a qualification recognized by employers and begin working in a job related to their field of study.”

Last summer, as part of an effort to reduce the country’s teacher shortage, the Duma passed a law allowing students who have completed their third year of university to teach in schools and vocational colleges in their field of study. Igor believes one of the reform's main objectives is to plug gaps in the labor market:

“The trend is to push students into the labor market as early as possible. That solves immediate problems but creates bigger ones down the road. The current system differs from the Soviet one in that it doesn't plan for the long term at all. Before the war, the government invested in universities and launched effective catch-up initiatives such as Project 5-100. Now you're expected either to fight or to work as a doctor, engineer, or teacher.”

Dmitry Dubrovsky, a historian, sociologist, and professor at the Free University, likewise argues that Russia's higher education reform is sacrificing long-term goals for short-term gains:

“Yes, in a few years this may help fill some gaps. It may train new IT specialists to replace those who left the country and strengthen defense-related fields such as drones and cybersecurity. But it's effectively borrowing against the future, and the consequences for science and the economy over the next five to ten years will be significant. The pattern of the cuts shows that policymakers believe they can manage the labor market. They think they can predict what that market will look like five years from now, when today's applicants graduate. But forecasting that far ahead would be extraordinarily ambitious even in peacetime.”

Against the backdrop of rapid technological change, both the job market and the workforce are constantly evolving. That is precisely why the ability to learn and relearn is becoming increasingly important. Universities around the world are moving away from a model centered on the transmission of knowledge in favor of one focused on developing “competencies” — something more than the mere ability to treat illnesses, teach children, draft engineering plans, or write software.

Particular emphasis is placed on so-called transferable skills. The Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD) includes among them “literacy and critical-thinking skills, including problem-solving, analytical thinking, and communication skills.” The European Commission highlights “learning to learn, social and civic competences, initiative, and entrepreneurship,” among others.

According to education management specialist Igor, although officials at the Education and Science Ministry also speak about a “competency-based education,” they mean something very different: “For 15 years, Russia was moving in the same direction as the rest of the world, and quite successfully. But now the ideologues have taken over. In effect, they're rebuilding the education system around a knowledge-based model like the one in the Soviet Union —  memorizing when a particular war took place, rather than knowing how to find that information. Putin thinks the same way.”

The ideologues are now rebuilding the education system around a knowledge-based model like the one that existed in the Soviet Union

Another goal of the current reform, according to The Insider's source, is to reduce students' academic mobility by locking them into a chosen track from the very beginning of their studies.

Until recently, the Bologna system allowed students to change their academic trajectory after completing two years of a bachelor's program, and they could later pursue a master's degree in an entirely different field. Beginning in September 2026, however, the Education and Science Ministry is introducing a new system at 17 universities. Although initially a pilot project, it is intended to be expanded nationwide.

Under the new model, the bachelor's and master's degrees will be replaced by a “basic higher education” program lasting four to six years and a “specialized higher education” program lasting one to two years. During the first stage, students will be allowed to transfer only to closely related fields. During the second, they will only be able to deepen their existing specialization, with no opportunity for a significant change in career direction.

According to Free University historian Dubrovsky, Russia's withdrawal from the Bologna Process amounts to “shooting itself in the foot”:

“The whole idea was that students would retain their freedom of choice during their bachelor's studies. Only after deciding what they actually wanted to do would they move on to a master's degree. Instead, they've revived the Soviet logic, where first-year students are put on tracks they'll follow for the rest of their lives. But today's labor market is nothing like the Soviet one. Modern graduates are likely to change professions two or three times over the course of their careers. The most important thing they learn at university is how to work with information. This reform looks like the authorities expect to reindustrialize the country within five years, even though advanced economies are moving in exactly the opposite direction.”

The growing emphasis on skills-oriented education rather than purely academic knowledge is a global trend, but other countries are implementing that idea very differently from Russia, Simon Marginson, a Professor of Higher Education at the University of Bristol, told The Insider. Marginson is a leading expert on China's higher education system, where the balance of students across university programs is also subject to government regulation. In Russia, however, “the authorities are doing this because they believe the science and engineering disciplines should be prioritized,” whereas China follows a different logic: “Yes, the share of STEM places at Chinese universities is higher, but public demand for those programs is also higher. Families understand that graduates in those fields are needed by the economy. If someone wants to study languages or the humanities, there will be fewer places available, but there will also be fewer applicants.” However, China's education policy is implemented through various forms of financial support rather than by restricting tuition-paying places.

Moreover, Chinese authorities continue to allow universities to exercise considerable autonomy. Even in Hong Kong, academic freedom has remained largely intact despite the territory's integration into China, Marginson argues: “Although civil society faces severe restrictions and university leadership is expected to demonstrate loyalty to the state, scholars in the humanities can still research difficult subjects quite objectively — including topics such as Xi Jinping's biography — without encountering serious problems.”

Mandatory work placements

Another element of the education reform is the expansion of targeted admissions and the growing number of students required to work in assigned jobs after graduation. Beginning with the class of 2026, all graduates from Russia's medical universities and colleges are subject to a new rule: they must spend three years working in clinics within the compulsory health insurance (OMS) system. Officials avoid calling this mandatory service, referring to it instead as “mentorship,” but the substance remains the same.

And Russian officials are increasingly proposing to extend compulsory work assignments to other professions. Members of the State Duma have called for mandatory post-graduation service for teachers.

The idea has also been endorsed by Vladimir Litvinenko, rector of Saint Petersburg Mining University, who proposed replacing state-funded university places with government education grants that would be considered fulfilled only after graduates complete three years of work in industry. Vladimir Medinsky has gone even further, arguing that the same principle should apply across all fields of study: “Someone must always pay for education. If the state pays, there must also be mandatory job placement and an employment contract.”

For now, state-funded university places remain, but the number of targeted admissions — under which graduates are required to work for three to five years in designated positions — continues to grow. For the 2026 admissions cycle, the Education and Science Ministry has approved targets of 33,800 medical students, 19,500 engineering and technology students, and 13,500 future teachers under this system.

Dubrovsky sees the policy as yet another sign of a return to Soviet-era practices:

“They're trying to dress up a purely Soviet idea in market rhetoric. But the logic of the market is exactly the opposite. Students compete for internships at companies and try to prove they're the best candidates. Targeted admissions are risky for employers too. Companies are expected to invest in someone from their first year at university, with no guarantee that the student will become a good specialist by the time they graduate.”

Another way the authorities are steering students toward medicine, teaching, and engineering is by changing the rules for subsidized student loans, which starting from this year will be available only to students enrolling in those three fields. According to education management specialist Igor, this amounts to deliberate pressure on the humanities. “A handful of places can still be reserved for reproducing the elite — institutions like Skoltech, for example. At the same time, the authorities can continue expanding programs such as Time of Heroes, the School of Governors, and similar initiatives.”

Who's in demand — and who's not

When discussing higher education and vocational training, officials often speak of an oversupply of lawyers and economists and, by contrast, a shortage of skilled tradespeople. That conventional wisdom is wrong in two respects. First, only about half of vocational college students are actually training for blue-collar occupations.

Russia's vocational education system is divided into two unequal tracks. The first trains “skilled workers and employees” — essentially the successors to the old vocational schools. According to the Higher School of Economics' statistical yearbook, these programs graduated 163,600 students in 2024. Of those, 106,800 trained for skilled trades and 16,500 for agriculture, while the remainder studied humanities, social sciences, arts, economics, and management.

Another 688,000 students completed “mid-level specialist” programs — the modern equivalent of the former technical colleges. Of these, 274,500 studied engineering, technology, and technical sciences, including computer programming. Nearly 100,000 trained in medicine and pharmacy, while 195,400 studied economics, law, management, social work, and tourism. The remaining graduates qualified as teachers, archivists, and in other professions.

In other words, blue-collar occupations account for only about half of all vocational graduates, and roughly another quarter are the same lawyers, economists, and managers — only with vocational rather than university qualifications.

The second misconception concerns employment outcomes. According to the HSE yearbook, in 2024, 74.5% of recent university graduates were working in jobs related to their field of study. Among graduates of mid-level specialist programs, the figure was 60.7%, while for graduates of skilled worker programs it was just 55.8%.

A study published in May found widespread dissatisfaction with the quality of Russia's vocational education. Thirty-six regions — about 40% of the country — reported that graduates lacked adequate skills. Nationwide, the quality of vocational training received an average score of just 2.97 out of 5. Researchers attributed the poor results to “outdated facilities, obsolete curricula, a shortage of instructors, and insufficient practical training.”

These are precisely the colleges into which Russian ninth graders are now being actively steered. The number of state-funded places in vocational education already exceeds the number available at universities by 40%.

Dmitry Dubrovsky argues that discussions about law and economics graduates who do not work in their chosen fields also overlook those who go on to start businesses:

“People were willing to pay for degrees in those fields because they understood that, one way or another, they would find a place in the economy. The Education and Science Ministry sees that as 'wasted resources' and believes those people are needed elsewhere. And in wartime, it's pretty clear where the authorities would rather have them.”

Universities where little learning takes place

Anton (name changed at his request), a lecturer at one of Moscow's leading universities, believes the reduction in tuition-paying places is, on balance, a positive development. In his view, even Russia's top universities are merely average by international standards, while institutions below that level often provide an education of little value.

“A typical second-tier university is RUDN — I used to teach there. I was told: 'Teach whatever you want, just don't be late and don't fail students.' At a typical provincial university, you can attend classes or skip them altogether — you'll still get your credits because expelling students isn't financially worthwhile. In practice, students spend four or five years not really studying, but going through the motions — showing up for exam sessions in order to receive a piece of cardboard labeled 'Diploma' at the end.”

Anton argues that the demand for mass higher education reflects not only Russians' desire to study but also distortions in the labor market. Human resources departments at many private companies insist on hiring university graduates for virtually every position, he says: “That's bad for people who actually received a good education. I don't think the top universities will suffer from these cuts. As long as it's the lousy universities being affected, I see that as a good thing. I'd fully support reducing tuition-paying places if it weren't for the elephant in the room — the ongoing war and military draft deferments.”

None of The Insider's sources deny that second-tier universities face serious quality problems. As Dubrovsky notes: “In the 1990s, the government essentially abandoned the universities, telling them: 'Earn money however you can.' Some of them effectively started selling diplomas. It's an unhealthy system. Instead of being held accountable through peer review, higher education is regulated by [state education oversight department] Rosobrnadzor, many of whose own experts have histories of academic misconduct.”

Tuition keeps rising

As the number of tuition-paying places shrinks, the cost of studying continues to climb. According to the Education and Science Ministry's figures, average tuition fees across Russia rose by 10.7% in 2026.

The increases have been even steeper at elite universities. According to RBC, annual tuition for the economics department at the Higher School of Economics rose by 30%, from 770,000 rubles in 2025 to 1 million rubles. Law increased by 35%, from 520,000 to 700,000 rubles. At the Russian Presidential Academy of National Economy and Public Administration (RANEPA), the sharpest increase was for “Economics: Entrepreneurship and Business Performance Management,” where annual tuition rose from 600,000 to 750,000 rubles. At Plekhanov Russian University of Economics, “Economics and Business Planning” increased from 530,000 to 695,000 rubles, while at Moscow State University, annual tuition for economics rose from 750,000 to 900,000 rubles.

According to education specialist Igor, some universities have even raised tuition retroactively for students already enrolled: “The contracts allow for indexation, but it used to be considered bad form to actually enforce it. Now many universities are doing exactly that. HSE and RANEPA have also abolished all of their old tuition discounts, replacing them with a single new one that's less generous.”

Igor believes one objective of the current reforms is to strip universities of their remaining financial autonomy. During a working group preparing the reforms, he says, officials openly argued that “the leading universities need to be brought to heel.” In his view, that is why the reforms are being imposed through mandatory directives that even the country's top institutions cannot ignore. “August will be the moment of truth. In the past, if more fee-paying students enrolled than originally planned, universities were allowed to increase their admission quotas. We'll see what happens now.”

For students unable to secure one of Russia's increasingly scarce scholarship places, there is another option: more and more Russians are enrolling at Chinese universities. In the 2024-25 academic year, the number of Russian citizens studying in China reached 21,000.

A Moscow family originally from the Russian Far East, whose son graduated from high school this year, told The Insider that they are sending him to Dalian Polytechnic University to study business administration: “It's affordable and the quality is good. The campuses are excellent. The first year is devoted to learning the language, and at the end there are two exams — mathematics and Chinese — after which students move into the first year of the degree program. Tuition costs 10,400 yuan a year (about 120,000 rubles, or $1,535), and the dormitory is another 6,400 yuan (about 73,500 rubles or $941).”

According to the same HSE statistical yearbook, the average tuition for one semester at a private Russian university is 73,700 rubles ($943), compared with 95,000 rubles ($1,216) at a public university. By that measure, studying in China can actually be cheaper. More importantly, there is no Unified State Exam (EGE), no compulsory “mentorship” program after graduation, and no risk that a chosen degree program will suddenly be abolished as “unnecessary for the labor market.”

The Insider reviewed customs data and found that in 2025 Danieli imported spare parts into Russia for repairing steel rolling mills, for a gas-cleaning installation area, and for an electric steelmaking production section that included a vacuum degasser bag filter housing, a support roller centering device, bearing replacement devices for a breakdown stand, and an oscillating table stand.

The goods were received by the Balakovo metallurgical plant in the Saratov Region and by Danieli’s own subsidiary, Danieli Volga LLC, in Dzerzhinsk in the Nizhny Novgorod Region. The deliveries were made directly by Danieli subsidiaries controlled by the parent company: Danieli Metallurgical Equipment and Service Co. Ltd. in China and Danieli Co. Ltd. in Thailand. In all, $1.6 million worth of equipment was imported into Russia.

The business activities of several other European companies investigated by The Insider have followed the same pattern: announcing their departure from Russia while continuing to do business in the country. They include Germany’s Gühring, Italy’s Beretta, and the German-Japanese holding DMG.

The Insider sent Danieli a request for comment.

Dmitry Markin, an expert with Greenpeace Central and Eastern Europe, said the Sea of Azov was frequently exposed to oil pollution even before the start of Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine. However, the war has significantly increased both the frequency and scale of spills.

“Today the Sea of Azov is under significant pressure from oil pollution, including spills linked to the war Russia started. But it is important to understand that the problem did not begin only now,” Markin said. “Even before the full-scale war, the waters were actively used to transport petroleum products. Several oil terminals are located there, and heavy shipping traffic regularly polluted the water. Under wartime conditions, spills have become more frequent, and their consequences are far more extensive.”

Markin said the environmental consequences for the Sea of Azov are especially serious due to its characteristics. The sea is one of the shallowest in the world, and in recent years reduced river runoff and climate change have significantly increased the water’s salinity, weakening the ecosystem’s ability to withstand additional stressors.

“The ecosystem in the Sea of Azov is already undergoing profound changes under the impact of the climate crisis, so it will never again be what it once was. Today, the only question is reducing the consequences of the damage already done and preventing new pollution.”

Markin noted that the situation demonstrates the link between dependence on fossil fuels, the climate crisis, and the consequences of armed conflict.

Strikes on Russian shipping

According to Ukraine, 136 Russian vessels were hit between July 6 and July 15. Of those, 116 were in the Azov Sea, and 20 were in the Black Sea.

The commander of Ukraine’s Unmanned Systems Forces, Robert “Madyar” Brovdi, said Ukrainian units are striking the ferries and tankers that Russia uses to transport oil and petroleum products. He said strikes are also regularly hitting transshipment infrastructure in Crimea. As a result, traffic through the Kerch Strait has been halted, and cargo unloading has been reduced to a minimum.

The Sea of Azov remains one of the key transport corridors for fuel, petroleum products, and agricultural goods moving to Russian-occupied Crimea. Russian pro-war bloggers have previously acknowledged that protecting tankers and other vessels from Ukrainian drones is extremely difficult, partly because Russia lacks a unified system to defend shipping. Analysts at the Institute for the Study of War have also said Russia’s air defense system has not been able to adapt quickly enough to Ukraine’s rapidly changing methods for using naval and aerial drones.

The SBU said its Mamai naval drones struck the vessels, which are under Ukrainian sanctions. The Banda, however, is not listed in the Ukrainian military intelligence agency’s registry of Russia’s “shadow fleet.”

The SBU said Russian aircraft tried to destroy the sea drones during the attack, firing machine guns at them and dropping aerial bombs, but failed.

According to Ukraine’s military intelligence agency, HUR, the Louise 1 was used to export Russian oil in violation of the G7 and EU oil embargo and the price cap mechanism. The vessel carried oil from ports in the Baltic and Black seas while using tactics such as switching off its automatic identification system, or AIS, including in the Gulf of Finland.

In February 2026, the tanker carried nearly 735,000 barrels of Urals crude from Russia’s Primorsk port to Turkey. In March, it delivered more than 1 million barrels of Urals crude from the Sheskharis terminal at Novorossiysk to India. The seller was Redwood Global Supply FZ-LLC, a company registered in the United Arab Emirates that Britain sanctioned in December 2025 for activity in Russia’s energy sector.

According to Ukrainian intelligence, Redwood is part of a network of companies linked to 2Rivers Group, considered to be one of the largest operators of Russia’s “shadow fleet.” In May, the Louise 1 again carried more than 1 million barrels of Urals crude from Novorossiysk — some of it on behalf of sanctioned Russian energy giant Lukoil. Ukraine imposed sanctions on the vessel on Feb. 12, 2026.

According to Starboard Maritime Intelligence, the Louise 1 sails under the Panamanian flag. The tanker last transmitted an AIS signal at about 9:30 a.m. Moscow time on July 16, then turned off its transponder. Because of large-scale AIS spoofing — the falsification of a vessel’s location data — its exact location cannot be determined. The latest available data indicated that it was near Novorossiysk. The tanker arrived in the Black Sea about a week earlier after calling at an Indian port.

According to Starboard, the Banda arrived in the Black Sea on June 19 after sailing from Pakistan. However, due to AIS coordinate manipulation, its exact location also cannot be determined. At the time of the attack, the vessel was in the Black Sea, likely in its eastern part. The SBU said the Banda had carried Russian oil from the ports of Ust-Luga, Kerch, Novorossiysk, and Nakhodka.

The SBU noted that a week earlier, a Ukrainian Sea Baby naval drone had attacked the sanctioned tanker Blue in Ukraine’s exclusive economic zone in the Black Sea.

“No Russian naval vessels are currently visible in the Mediterranean. Since 2013, Russia has maintained a continuous naval presence in the region. Today, that continuity appears to have been interrupted.”

According to the analyst, one of the main reasons has been the ongoing closure of the Turkish Straits to warships since the start of the full-scale war against Ukraine, which has prevented Russia’s Black Sea Fleet from freely rotating its forces. In addition, the analyst assessed that Russia’s naval logistics facility in the Syrian port of Tartus is gradually becoming a limited logistics node rather than a base sustaining the country’s permanent naval presence in the Mediterranean.

“Russian deployments appear increasingly intermittent rather than continuous. The continuity has been broken. The question now is whether it can be restored or whether this marks a lasting shift in Russia’s Mediterranean naval posture.”

Mark Douglas, an analyst at Starboard Maritime Intelligence, told The Insider that ships heading to the Mediterranean must now depart from Northern Europe (and return by the same route). Russia must also “negotiate with various nations to be able to support the vessels at a time when doing so is not going to get you many friends in Europe.”

Douglas also noted that other factors are affecting the distribution of Russian naval forces: “Russian naval vessels have been struck in St Petersburg, which also led to the requirement to escort Putin’s yacht further north, while others are tied up escorting vessels around UK waters and occasionally firing warning shots at yachts.” In Douglas’s view, all of these factors have combined to reduce Russia’s ability to maintain a permanent presence in the Mediterranean.

The analyst nonetheless believes the absence of Russian vessels from the region is temporary:

“It’s likely that Russian vessels will be back [in the Mediterranean] — it is a question of when, not if.”

Following the fall of Bashar al-Assad’s regime in December 2024, Russia began withdrawing forces and equipment from Syria. In late 2024 and early 2025, significant quantities of weapons and military vehicles were evacuated from the naval base at Tartus. The transfers, carried out by sea, were marked by several incidents. Overnight into Dec. 24, 2025, the cargo ship URSA MAJOR, owned by Oboronlogistika, sank in international waters between Spain and Algeria.

The company stated that the sinking was caused by a “terrorist attack” that involved three explosions on the ship’s starboard side before it went down. After that, Oboronlogistika vessels transporting cargo from Syria began to be escorted by Russian warships. Later, a fire broke out on the Russian roll-on/roll-off vessel Sparta as it was in transit from Tartus.

In January, Reuters reported that Russia had also begun withdrawing troops from the Qamishli air base in northeastern Syria. According to the outlet, some personnel and equipment were transferred to Hmeimim air base, while the rest returned to Russia.

At the same time, Moscow is attempting to repurpose Tartus for commercial use. On July 11, Reuters reported that the Syrian company Rus Line is involved in preparations to establish a logistics hub at the port of Tartus for the transshipment of Russian cargo including grain, coal, timber, and steel. According to Rus Line CEO Jinan Mubadda, one of the port’s berths will be used for commercial cargo, while the other will retain its military purpose.

The drop in refining led not only to lower output of petroleum products, but also to a decline in oil production. Refineries began taking in less crude, and it was impossible to quickly redirect the freed-up volumes for export, the bulletin’s authors said. As a result, oil companies had to cut production in line with reduced refinery utilization.

Refinery outages also hurt freight turnover. The volume of oil and petroleum products that needed to be transported between fields, refineries, oil depotsб and consumers fell. The bulletin does not give a separate estimate for the decline in freight turnover caused by refinery shutdowns, but it identifies transport as one of the sectors affected by the drop in refining.

Wholesale trade also declined. That sector moves petroleum products from producers to oil depots, gas station chainsб and other consumers. In effect, refinery shutdowns caused by Ukrainian attacks affected the entire refining-linked chain, from crude production and transportation to the distribution of finished fuel.

Excluding oil production, refining, wholesale tradeб and freight turnover, output in Russia’s core sectors in April and May was on average 0.6% higher than in the first quarter, adjusted for seasonality. That means sectors linked to refining noticeably worsened the overall economic picture. The bulletin’s authors describe the situation as a “negative supply shock” and warn that, under such constraints, actual GDP growth rates should be interpreted with extreme caution.

The refinery outages also affected inflation. The drop in petroleum product output coincided with a seasonal rise in demand. As a result, motor fuel prices rose 6.5% in June and added about 0.3 percentage points to overall price growth. The bulletin notes that higher fuel prices have a significant effect on inflation, as companies  pass higher transport and production costs on to consumers by raising the prices of other goods and services. According to the bulletin’s authors, the duration of that effect will depend on how long restrictions on the fuel market persist.

By July 5, Ukrainian drones had successfully attacked Russian refineries at least 194 times since the start of the year, 11 times more often than in the same period of 2025, the Financial Times reported, citing data from Rochan Consulting. In May alone, analysts confirmed a monthly record of 16 hits on oil refining facilities.

According to Reuters, after several of Russia’s largest plants were shut down, gasoline production fell to a level that would cover only about 65% of demand. At the height of the summer season, the country has experienced shortages running to between 40,000 and 45,000 metric tons of gasoline a day. On July 10, Deputy Prime Minister Alexander Novak directly acknowledged for the first time that the shortage emerged because refineries were “partly going out of service for repairs because of incoming strikes.”

By the end of June, fuel shortages, supply disruptions, or sales restrictions had been recorded in 88 of the 89 regions under Russian control, according to The Insider’s count. In June, gasoline prices rose by 6.9% while diesel prices rose 7.1%. From July 7 to 13, prices increased by another 2.3% and 3.2%, respectively.

Reliable data on the total number of Russians who left the country after February 2022 is hard to come by. Statistics of the Federal Security Service count the number of border crossings — 23.2 million exits by Russian citizens in 2022 and 31.5 million in 2025. However, these figures mostly count the number of tourists as their travel destinations confirm: in 2025 the leaders were Turkey (6.6 million), the UAE (1.7 million), Egypt (1.6 million), China (1.3 million), and Thailand (886,000). Among these countries, only Turkey and the UAE are also popular for emigration.

Based on data from host countries, the number of Russians who emigrated in 2022 can be estimated at 600,000—650,000 people. Kazakhstan led in terms of inflow (146,000), followed by Armenia (110,000), Turkey (77,000), Israel (75,000), Georgia (74,000), and Serbia (around 30,000).

However, the statistics here are not entirely accurate either, as each country counts immigrants differently: Georgia includes stays exceeding 180 days, Armenia focuses on the registration of social services cards and banking activity, Kazakhstan counts the number of individual identification numbers issued, Turkey looks at residence permits, while Israel only counts passports obtained by migrants.

Methodology changes in Armenia only add to the confusion. In 2022, the country recorded 110,000 emigrants from Russia, but in 2025 the number of newcomers dropped to 1,400 — simply because they switched to counting by residence permits, which are much harder to obtain. Serbia has issued 67,000 one-year temporary residence permits, but it is unknown how many of them were renewals. In short, all estimates of the number of Russian emigrants should be considered approximate at best.

To track the emigration trajectories, the independent think tank Center for Analysis and Strategies in Europe (CASE) developed three models: transit (arriving in one country with a plan to move to another within 6—18 months), anchoring (deciding to stay in the host country, obtaining a residence permit or passport, integrating into the local labor market), and circulation (frequently moving between two or three countries without a clear plan of settlement). According to the research findings, while the “transit” model dominated in 2022—2023, in 2024—2025 the share of those “anchoring” began to grow.

Importantly, the majority of Russians who left their home country in 2022—2024 were highly skilled professionals, according to the 2025 report of the OutRush project, which based its findings on a survey of 8,500 emigrants across more than 100 host countries. 41% of respondents turned out to be from the IT sector, and another 21% worked in culture, science, and media. According to the findings, approximately 7% of those who left started their own business after relocating, and 28% plan to do so in the future.

Moreover, the researchers conclude that, “contrary to official statements about the number of returnees, reversing the brain drain in the short term appears unlikely”: from summer 2023 to summer 2024, only 8% of respondents moved back to Russia. Among those who do not plan to return in the near future, 54% said doing so would be possible only if there is political change in the country.

How the immigrants are affecting host economies

As a rule, an influx of immigrants accelerates GDP growth, increases productivity, and stimulates innovation in host countries — both developed and developing ones. But this is conditional on people being able to work legally and the state conducting an active integration policy. A meta-analysis of 41 studies published in Economies (MDPI) illustrates this reality.

In Armenia, Georgia, and Serbia, Russian émigrés have occupied a noticeable share of the labor market and consumer demand. As a result, the average annual GDP growth rate in Georgia from 2022-2024 spiked to 9.4% after averaging 4.4% between 2012 and 2021. Since the start of the war, Armenia’s average annual GDP growth rate increased from 3.6% to 9%, and Serbia’s, from 2.1% to 3.5%.

Newcomers are often “fiscally positive” — meaning they bring additional revenue for the budget, CASE writes. After all, aside from very rare exceptions, they do not receive social benefits, but they do pay indirect and sometimes direct taxes (especially in Serbia).

Migrants from Russia do not receive social benefits, but they pay indirect and direct taxes

Furthermore, Russian émigrés are noticeably wealthier than the population of the host countries listed above. Their average monthly household income in Serbia borders on €3,500 despite a national average of around €900. In Georgia, it’s €3,300 per household versus €650 for local residents, and in Armenia it is €2,500 versus €300. This difference increases the economic value of Russian emigrants as consumers, especially in the upper segment of the services market.

The income gap is explained not only by the newcomers’ higher levels of education, but also by the fact that for the majority of relocants to these countries (63%), their main source of income is located in another country — and for 31%, it is not even Russia, but a third country. This fact can be explained by the high proportion of IT specialists in the sample. By comparison, for 79% of those who emigrated to the EU, the source of income is located in the country of residence. Therefore, in Georgia, Armenia, and Serbia, Russians contribute less to competition on the labor market.

Serbia: Russians are not willing to overpay

Following the start of the full-scale war, thousands of Russians moved to Serbia, attracted by the visa-free regime. From February 2022 to December 2024, Russians received 67,236 temporary residence approvals. The newly arrived Russian population in the country is usually estimated at around 100,000 people, with most of them settling in the capital, Belgrade, and the northern city of Novi Sad. It is to these cities that many Russian IT companies relocated their employees.

Russians are actively investing in Serbian real estate and have become the leading group of foreign buyers in the country. Demand peaked in 2022, but purchase and rental prices remained at a high level before the market began to cool off in 2026.

“There is a perception that all Russians are rich, that they don’t care how expensive the rent is, and that the landlord can ask for the maximum possible price, but based on my experience both here and in Montenegro, that no longer works,” a local real estate agent says, as quoted by a Serbian publication. In addition, some Russians have returned to their home country, while others have moved on, also contributing to the decline in rental rates.

Entrepreneurial activity also gained a boost. According to data from the Agency for Business Registers, in 2022 Russians opened more than 2,000 legal entities in Serbia and another 3,000 registered as sole proprietors — mostly in the tech sector, but also including consulting firms, coffee shops, kindergartens, and beauty salons. By 2024, the country had already registered 8,000 sole proprietors of Russian origin.

According to the map of physical spaces opened by Russian immigrants, coffee shops and restaurants (over 140 venues) dominate, with bars (over 50 venues) also high on the list. The third most popular sector was beauty salons, and the popular chain TT includes bistros, restaurants, and barbershops.

Kirill, an emigrant who spent several years in Belgrade, says that TT “are the go-to guys whose services everyone used.” TT co-founder Yevgenia Kaminskaya told Forbes that local commerce is “perfectly suited for the hospitality industry.” According to Kaminskaya, the clientele of her establishments is now evenly split between Russians and local residents.

In Serbia, Russians mostly opened coffee shops, restaurants, bars, and beauty salons

Kirill also mentioned the Stories chain: “The owners opened several trendy little restaurants in the center. After a couple of years I noticed that Serbian places were already trying to copy them.” The couple who opened Stories — Vadim Nikitin and Katerina Iksanova — moved to Serbia in the spring of 2022. There is also the Sloj cafe, Kirill adds, “one of the few places with Easter kulich cakes.”

Another emigrant, Andrei, speaks of the demand newcomers have brought for national cuisines. For example, emigrants from Kazan opened the Fomin Bar Beograd, offering Tatar dishes. And both Russians and Serbs come to the Russian-owned Process bar.

In a conversation with The Insider, émigré Yana noted that one of the innovations Serbian cafes picked up from Russian-owned establishments was mate tea, which has become a hit among locals. Following the appearance of emigrant venues, some Serbian establishments also began opening smoke-free coffee shops and bars, Yana observes.

Serbia also has bookstores opened by emigrants — Auditoria, which has several branches in the Balkans (another store in the Montenegrin city of Budva); Lav i Žabac, specializing in children’s literature; Dobar Dabar, combining a bookstore and cafe; and Bela Vrana stores in Novi Sad and Belgrade.

Armenia: the rental split

Russians can enter Armenia with nothing more than a domestic ID — a crucial benefit for those fleeing political persecution who did not already have an international passport. According to Armenia’s Minister of Economy Vahan Kerobyan, in 2022 alone, around 110,000 Russians moved to Armenia.

But Armenia received more than just political activists. According to data from the Arca agency, in 2022 more than 800 Russian companies opened offices in Armenia, and in 2023 that figure increased to 3,000 companies (around 40% in the IT sector).

In addition, many Russian IT specialists found jobs in Armenian companies — 5,000 of them by July 2022 alone, according to a Modex study, accounting for 14% of the overall positions in the country. In total, in 2022 the sector grew by 20% and accounted for 4.5% of Armenia’s GDP.

As a result of the influx, the Armenian dram was able to appreciate, thereby significantly slowing inflation. Money transfers from Russians to Armenia in 2022 amounted to $1.75 billion, twice as much as in the pre-war year of 2021 ($856 million).

Money transfers from Russians to Armenia in 2022 amounted to $1.75 billion, twice as much as in the pre-war year of 2021

Moreover, the rise in rental prices made real estate a desirable asset, leading to a construction boom. The rise in rents also invigorated the secondary housing market. “People with savings were buying real estate on the secondary market to rent it out. Currently, the highest demand is for properties renting at $300—500, which reflects the income level of the population,” explains Andranik Harutyunov, founder of the Silver REA real estate agency and a member of the Armenian Association of Real Estate Agencies. It was the immigrants, especially those working in IT, who drove up the rates, and cases of landlords terminating contracts with local tenants in order to rent apartments to newcomers at several times the price became common in the local media.

However, IT specialists have now started to move elsewhere — around 3,750 left the country in 2025. Of them, 2,586 (69%) are Russians, Ukrainians, and Belarusians. One of the reasons is the increased rental rates, argues economist Sevak Hovhannisyan: “Even in Tallinn, renting an apartment will cost 22% less.”

Local residents have also been forced to look for cheaper housing. Yerevan resident Suzanna complains that she and her family had to leave the apartment they were renting after the landlord doubled the price: “In 2022, when Russians arrived in Armenia, the rent for this apartment doubled. We offered the landlord a long-term contract for 120,000 drams [$300], but he refused.” For a year, a family of four was forced to live in one room in a dormitory, paying 100,000 drams ($250) per month.

By 2025, the rental market had stabilized. Experts note a 30% decline in rates compared to the peak at the start of the full-scale war. However, these “shock” years have contributed to the growth of the Armenian economy through the payment of a 10% rental income tax.

Georgia: money came, prices rose

Neighboring Georgia is another popular destination for Russian immigrants, and even four years after the start of the full-scale war, a considerable number of newcomers have chosen to stay there. Media, citing sources in the country’s Interior Ministry, report that by 2026 immigrants from Russia, Ukraine, and Belarus totaled 108,222 people, a figure representing 2.6% of Georgia’s population. Of these, 72,000 are Russians.

According to the National Statistics Office, by 2024 more than 37,000 companies founded by Russians had been registered in Georgia. The overwhelming majority of them (89%) are small businesses. The situation in the IT sector overall resembles that in Armenia: a boom in 2022—2023 and a 12% decline in 2024. The same trends apply to GDP growth: a sharp rise (10%) in 2022, followed by a slowdown in 2023 (7%) and a decline to 4% in 2024.

The Gnomon Wise research institute names money transfers from Russia as one of the main growth drivers. In 2022, the number of transfers grew by a factor of 6.3, with the total sum amounting to $2 billion. However, total transfers decreased by 26% the following year.

The rental market in Georgia also saw a major boost during the first year of the war. According to a TBC Bank study, in May 2022 year-on-year rental prices had more than doubled (+101.4%), and rental yield reached 11.4%, exceeding the May 2021 figure by 4.6 percentage points. Russians have also contributed to the real estate market. According to the Georgian Ministry of Justice, 4,520 Russian nationals purchased 6,062 properties in the country in 2022, and another 1,679 Russians bought 2,187 properties in the first quarter of 2023. Direct Russian investments in Georgia in 2022 reached a historical high, with Russians ranking sixth after citizens of the United Kingdom, Spain, the Netherlands, the United States, and Ireland.

If we assess the overall impact of Russian emigration on Armenia, Georgia, and Serbia, their economic benefit is undeniably positive. Among the benefits are an increase in real estate transaction volumes and tax revenues. The overall upturn is probably not entirely attributable to the newcomers, but denying their contribution would be a mistake. Even if we explain this effect by pointing to other factors (for example, Georgia’s and Armenia’s GDP could have been influenced by grey imports of sanctioned goods into Russia), one cannot fail to notice the connection between IT sector growth and the arrival of Russians.

At the same time, some of the potential downsides are largely neutralized by the specifics of this migration wave. One cannot say that the newcomers have caused a crisis in the labor market, as the majority of immigrants work remotely, often for foreign companies and clients. Some earn a living locally, of course, but in many cases such workers are hired by their fellow immigrants — for example, in bars or Russian-language private schools.

Cultural life

Russian emigrants have influenced not only the economies of host countries, but also the cultural milieu and public environment. In Armenia over the years of war, emigrants have opened vegan restaurants, bars, bookstores, theaters, and branches of streetwear brands.

Among the new cultural projects is the Common Ground bookstore-cafe in Yerevan, which, according to co-founder Grigory Karelsky, aspires to “enter the local context without abandoning its Russian past.” The project’s team consists mainly of Yerevan humanities students, with a young Armenian writer, Aram Avetis, working as a sales consultant. Journalist Mark Grigoryan compared Common Ground to Yerevan’s cafes of the 1970s — “islands of freedom” where people would discuss the latest news and pass around samizdat books.

The troupe of the Arten international theater sees its mission as introducing the audience to a new theatrical language, says co-founder Alexander Teterev-Kosach —  “because Armenia, like everywhere throughout the post-Soviet space, is faced with a problem of a heavy institutional legacy,” he explains.

The theater seeks to enter the local context without pretending to have completely abandoned Russian culture and its Russian roots:

“We can simultaneously put on productions related to the political situation in Russia and gradually immerse ourselves in local contexts. Armenian culture absorbs many different things without losing its identity. Therefore, if your presence here maintains a creative flow, you will not feel out of place even speaking about things not directly related to Armenia.”

The theater has also hosted performances by Armenian artists. Among them, the work “Planned Power Cut” stands out — a documentary production about a difficult childhood in the 1990s and power cuts against the backdrop of the Karabakh wars.

Georgia also experienced a boom in Russian cultural and social spaces after 2022. Tbilisi has at least four émigré bookstores: Auditoria — a blend of bookstore, bar, coworking space, and event venue; Itaka — a bookstore by Stas Gaivoronsky, creator of the once-popular Moscow bookstore Khodasevich; and the recently opened stores Kenekethem and Odradek. Kenekethem has a large selection of feminist literature and autofiction, while Odradek carries titles not only in Russian, but also in Ukrainian, Belarusian, Georgian, and English.

Besides bookstores, Tbilisi has seen the launch of multiple music venues. The best-known is a bar located under the Baratashvili Bridge with the ironic name Revolution. It hosts jazz jams and noise evenings featuring Russian and local underground performers, as well as internationally acclaimed foreign musicians.

The electronic music scene has seen a particularly powerful émigré influence. Moreover, since the capitals of Georgia and Armenia are only a few hours apart by car, the processes taking place in these countries overlap considerably: Russians living in Armenia often organize events in Georgia, and touring Western artists frequently include concerts in both Tbilisi and Yerevan.

Matvei Vysochkin, co-founder of the BAN club and the DOD promo group, told The Insider that the arrival of a new wave of professionals and audiences from Russia in recent years has acted as a powerful catalyst:

“The main outcome is that an environment emerged in which local artists and organizers had to compete and collaborate far more actively. The musical landscape of Armenia and Georgia has become more complex, more diverse, and, if you will, more ferocious. Immigration brought fresh air, new competencies, and a demand for complexity. We, DOD Promo, focus on unconventional experiences — we have brought in Container, Elvin Brandhi, Jozef van Wissem. This often happens in conjunction with Nazlo Records (a noise and ambient label), which creates an environment for those who find standard techno too confining.”

At the same time, according to Vysochkin, concert organizers face a range of challenges, often of financial nature:

“Demand has grown, but touring acts still barely break even, and the classic sponsorship market is often limited to the ‘scam sector’ (casinos, dubious fintech). Nevertheless, some cases of skillful resource management have emerged. For example, the MOST / Hayfilm venue: these guys demonstrate the highest level of skill in working with partners. Thanks to them, Yerevan hosts legends of the caliber of Miss Kittin, Juan Atkins, and DJ Stingray. Importantly, they create a bridge not only with Europe but also with Tbilisi, providing a platform for Georgian DJs who currently find it harder to perform at home due to political pressure and club closures.”

In fact, according to Vysochkin, the most interesting developments are unfolding at the grassroots level, where music serves as a tool for building connections between people: “There is SEC (Sound Enthusiastic Community), an independent educational platform and community. The guys are building sound systems with their own resources, conducting synthesis lectures, and helping newcomers enter the industry. In addition, Armenia is becoming a hub not only for music but also for instruments. Slava (VG Line) and SOMA (Vlad Kreymer), together with local craftsmen like Art Tadevosyan (Spielwiese), Madsound Factory, Sound Labs, and Microrack, design and assemble synthesizers of world-class quality.”

Tightening the rules for immigrants

Overall, the influx of Russian immigrants has had a positive effect on the economic growth of the host countries. However, a sharp rise in prices and the newcomers’ weak integration into local society are causing serious discontent.

Authorities in Georgia are reacting to this most noticeably, with a systematic tightening of immigration policy and business regulations. In mid-April, the Georgian parliament adopted amendments to the Law on Labor Migration, which require foreigners to obtain a residence permit and a work permit before gaining employment with Georgian companies or performing services for clients inside the country.  At the same time, many immigrants fear fines and complain about unclear application timelines and the absence of clear responses from the Ministry of Justice after submitting a work permit application.

Immigrants fear fines and complain about unclear application timelines and the absence of clarity from the Ministry of Justice

Maxim, co-owner of the Odradek bookstore, describes the current situation: “News about the regulation changes started appearing last year. A little later, a wave of inspections swept through Tbilisi. Discrepancies were identified, warnings and fines were issued.”

The main problem, says Maxim, is the absence of legal clarity:

“The more you try to figure it out, the deeper you sink into an almost Kafkaesque process: different sources contradict each other, and there are no clear instructions. For example, at the House of Justice, I was told that if the work permit application process has already been started, one can continue working. At the same time, the employee added that it would be better to additionally clarify this with the migration service, but it turned out to be impossible to get through to them: all of their phone numbers either do not answer or are blocked. The lawyers we consulted gave the diametrically opposite recommendation: working without an approved permit is not allowed. As a result, we have diametrically different interpretations of the same situation. It creates a feeling of artificially created chaos — a classic ’go do that thing, I don’t know what.’’”

For now, Maxim is trying not to dwell on the negatives. However, on May 1, when the amendments to the law came into force, Odradek nonetheless closed temporarily, until the Georgian Ministry of Justice processes the submitted application.

The Mikhail Britnev was escorted by a large landing ship

The Mikhail Britnev is a 136-meter-long general cargo vessel with a deadweight of 12,700 tons. With five cargo holds and a reinforced structure for heavy loads, it is equipped to carry standard and refrigerated containers. Its Ice Class 1A rating allows the cargo ship to operate on Arctic routes.

According to data from Starboard Maritime Intelligence, the Mikhail Britnev departed from the port of Arkhangelsk on June 3 and called at the port of Baltiysk in the Kaliningrad Region on June 11. En route, the crew reported that the vessel’s draft had increased to 6.7 meters (indicating partial loading). The ship remained in Kaliningrad for a week without unloading (according to data transmitted by the crew).

The OSINT project SONARROW published a satellite image from June 16, taken while the Mikhail Britnev was docked in the port of Baltiysk. According to the project’s analysts, the vessel appeared to be loading Russian military equipment, including infantry fighting vehicles and armored personnel carriers.

On June 18, the cargo vessel set off through the Baltic Sea and the English Channel into the Atlantic. As The Insider previously reported, after leaving Kaliningrad via the Fehmarn Belt between Germany and Denmark, the Mikhail Britnev was accompanied by the large landing ship Aleksandr Shabalin, which was equipped with an anti-drone net covering part of the superstructure on the bow side.

After passing through the English Channel on June 23, the Mikhail Britnev turned off its AIS system. However, the maritime OSINT project Russian Forces Spotter reported that on June 25 the Mikhail Britnev was photographed west of Portugal — still under the escort of the Aleksandr Shabalin.

Mikhail Britnev reappeared on tracking services only on July 9 at the port of Lomé (Togo). The day before its arrival, it had listed Dakar, Senegal, as its destination.

Russia has previously shipped armored vehicles to Africa via a similar route

The Mikhail Britnev’s voyage may represent only one of multiple deliveries of equipment to Russian units and Moscow’s partners in Africa. In March, the OSINT project SONARROW reported on the arrival of the Russian cargo vessel Sabetta (IMO: 9347061) from Kaliningrad at the port of Conakry in Guinea. According to the project’s assessment of satellite imagery of the Kaliningrad port, a large quantity of Russian military equipment, including armored vehicles, had been loaded onto the cargo ship before its departure.

Fighting around Africa Corps positions in Mali

The Mikhail Britnev’s arrival in Lomé came shortly after large-scale attacks on positions of the Malian army and the Russian forces supporting it. In early July, Tuareg rebels and al-Qaeda-linked jihadists attacked Anéfis, Agelhoc, and Gao in northern Mali, Sévaré and the Konna area in the center of the country, as well as a prison south of the capital Bamako. One of the main targets was Anéfis in the Kidal region, where units of Russia’s Africa Corps are stationed, along with counterparts from the Malian army. Malian and Russian forces had retreated there from Kidal and Tessalit after an earlier rebel offensive.

Representatives of the Tuareg Azawad Liberation Front stated that their fighters had entered Anéfis and taken control of the city, while Russian and Malian forces remained in a nearby camp. The Malian army, for its part, claimed that all attacks had been repelled.

Tuareg rebels later claimed that they had shot down a military helicopter linked to Russia’s Africa Corps. The Russian pro-war Telegram channel Afrikar also reported the loss of a Mi-24 and around ten vehicles after a Malian army column heading from Gao to reinforce the group near Anéfis was ambushed.

After breaking ties with France and other Western partners, Mali’s military junta made Russia one of its main external military allies. Russia’s Africa Corps, linked to the Ministry of Defense, replaced the Wagner Group and helps the Malian army hold territory and fight jihadists and Tuareg separatists.

The significance of Lomé

The deep-water port of Lomé is capable of receiving large container ships and military vessels. Previously, the port of Conakry in Guinea was used to deliver supplies to Russian forces in Mali. Lomé could become an alternative logistics hub, as the port is connected by a transport corridor to Burkina Faso, which borders Mali. In October 2025, the Russian government ratified a military cooperation agreement with Togo. The document provides for joint military exercises, training of Togolese military personnel, and intelligence sharing. Official military cooperation between Moscow and Lomé has been developing since 2022, when Togo received Mi-35 and Mi-17 helicopters from Russia. After Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine began, there were also reports of the recruitment of Togolese military personnel to fight on the Russian side.

The Security Council attributed the growth to online recruitment using “social engineering methods,” which it claims are employed by “Ukrainian nationalists.” The Security Council provided no concrete examples or evidence, and it did not indicate what share of the 196 teenagers had allegedly been recruited by individuals linked to Ukraine.

The umbrella term “crimes of a terrorist nature” is used in Russian official statistics to cover a broad range of charges, from mass casualty attacks and acts of sabotage to “public justification of terrorism” and participation in a “banned organization” (such as the late Alexei Navalny’s Anti-Corruption Foundation). The number of underage individuals classified by the authorities as having committed acts of an “extremist nature” rose from 62 to 87, according to the Security Council. The number of armed attacks on educational institutions also increased. According to the agency, 26 such attacks occurred between September 2025 and May 2026. The Security Council described this figure as the highest since 2017, but did not specify which incidents were included in the statistics or what exactly was interpreted as an armed attack.

The agency attributes the rise in attacks to “the spread of the destructive ideology of Columbine and Maniac Murder Cult,” including allegedly via gaming platforms.

Russia’s Investigative Committee regularly reports on cases against teenagers accused of arson attacks on military enlistment offices, police vehicles, railway equipment, and energy infrastructure. Some of these arsons were carried out in protest against the war in Ukraine; others, according to investigators, were committed by teenagers for money at the direction of online recruiters.

Since the start of the full-scale war, Russian security forces have been classifying such actions as terrorist attacks and acts of sabotage. Against this backdrop, at least 12 Russian regions have banned or decided to ban the sale of fuel to minors, citing (among other reasons) the need to prevent them from being drawn into criminal activity.

The human rights project Pervy Otdel (Dept.One), however, maintains that a significant share of such cases arise following deliberate entrapment by Russian security services, which often target teenagers with no prior criminal record.

Restrictions have been imposed against eight Russian nationals and one entity responsible for torture and other forms of cruel, inhuman, and degrading treatment of Ukrainian prisoners of war and civilians in the occupied territories of Ukraine. Seven more individuals have been added to the sanctions list under a separate EU regime targeting human rights violations and abuses in Russia.

The assets of all individuals and organizations listed under both regimes will be frozen. EU citizens and businesses are prohibited from directly or indirectly providing them with funds or other economic resources. The individuals are also banned from entering or transiting through EU territory.

The sanctions lists include:

• Dmitry Neelov, first deputy head of the penal colony in Yelenivka, Donetsk Region
• Alexei Khavetsky, head of security at Penal Colony No. 7 in Pakino village, Vladimir Region
• Yan Zanevsky, officer of the Federal Security Service
• Alexander Gnutov, head of Penal Colony No. 10 in Udarny village, Mordovia
• five subordinates of Alexander Gnutov
• Galina Mokshanova, head of the medical unit of Penal Colony No. 10
• Several senior staff members and employees of the Yelenivka colony who participated in cruel and degrading treatment of Ukrainian prisoners.

Some of the individuals listed in the EU Council’s statement are not named.

The only entity to be added to the sanctions list is the Investigation Detention Centre No. 2 in Taganrog (SIZO-2), where Ukrainian civilians, including journalists and women, were held along with prisoners of war. According to the EU, prisoners were systematically tortured, and in some cases the torture led to death.

Yelenivka

According to the EU Council, Dmitry Neelov was involved in torture, beatings, and the humiliation of Ukrainian prisoners of war and civilians at the Yelenivka colony. The EU holds him directly responsible for the mass death of Ukrainian prisoners of war on the night of July 28–29, 2022, following a Russian strike on the colony. According to the statement, Neelov deliberately delayed the evacuation of the wounded.

Also added to the sanctions list were several senior staff members and employees of the colony who participated in the degrading treatment of Ukrainian prisoners.

Torture at Penal Colony No. 7 in Pakino

According to the EU Council, Alexei Khavetsky, head of the security department of Penal Colony No. 7 (IK-7) in Pakino, Vladimir Region, organized the systematic cruel treatment of Ukrainian prisoners of war. Under his supervision, prisoners were tortured with electric shocks, deliberately starved, subjected to sexualized violence, and subjected to extreme forms of humiliation for the entertainment of the colony’s staff.

Former Kherson mayor Volodymyr Mykolaienko, who spent nearly three and a half years in Russian captivity, reported to The Insider on the torture and abuse at IK-7. According to Mykolaienko, prisoners were regularly beaten, forced to walk with their heads down and arms raised, kept under constantly bright lights, and subjected to Russian propaganda. In February 2025, after a new guard shift arrived, the beatings intensified. One guard kicked Mykolaienko in the chest, after which his cellmates spent about an hour trying to revive him.

Until mid-2024, prisoners were given small portions of porridge, potato peels, and bread. During walks, the prisoners picked nettles growing beyond the fence and divided a few leaves each to get at least some vitamins.

Torture of civilians in the occupied territories

Federal Security Service officer Yan Zanevsky, according to the EU Council, was involved in the unlawful detention and torture of civilians in the temporarily occupied territories of Ukraine, including in the Kherson, Mykolaiv, and Zaporizhzhia regions. Among the torture methods cited by the EU are beatings, suffocation, and sexualized violence.

SIZO-2 in Taganrog and the death of Viktoriia Roshchyna

Investigation Detention Centre No. 2 (SIZO-2) in Taganrog was also added to the sanctions list. Ukrainian prisoners of war and civilians were held there, including journalists and women. According to the EU Council, those held at the detention center were systematically tortured. In some cases, the torture led to death. It was at this facility that Ukrainian journalist Victoriia Roshchyna died after a year in captivity. Her body bore numerous signs of torture.

A forensic examination found that the journalist had a fractured occipital bone. Ukrainian media also reported that she had been subjected to electric shock torture and suffered numerous injuries across her body. By the end of her detention, Roshchyna weighed around 30 kilograms. In critical condition, she was transferred to SIZO No. 3 in the city of Kizel, Perm region, where she died on Sept. 19, 2024 — one week after arriving.

It was only in May 2024 that Russian authorities officially acknowledged they were holding the journalist. After Roshchyna’s death, her body was returned to Ukraine as part of an exchange of the dead. Before the handover, her eyes, brain, and part of her larynx had been removed. A fractured hyoid bone was also found.

Penal Colony No. 10 in Mordovia

Seven more individuals were added to the sanctions list by the EU Council under a separate regime targeting human rights violations and abuses in Russia.

The restrictions apply to Alexander Gnutov — head of Penal Colony No. 10 (IK-10) in the village of Udarny — five of his deputies, and the head of the colony’s medical unit, Galina Mokshanova. According to the EU Council, all of them bear responsibility for the cruel treatment of prisoners — primarily Ukrainian civilians and prisoners of war — by the colony’s staff.

IK-10 held hundreds of Ukrainian POWs as well as civilians captured in the occupied territories of Ukraine. Former prisoners reported inhuman and degrading treatment and torture, including:

• electric shocks
• beatings
• being forced to remain in painful positions for extended periods, leading to the development of pressure sores
• sexualized violence
• mock executions
• denial of medical care

Civilians were subjected to the same treatment as prisoners of war. They were held in captivity without trial or official status.

The so-called “shadow fleet” plays a key role in facilitating the continued export of Russian oil amid the Kremlin’s ongoing war against Ukraine. Estimates of the fleet’s size vary widely. In 2025, an investigation by Western journalists estimated it at 230 tankers, while the total number of suspected vessels can range from 1,000 to 1,800, depending on the source.

The term “shadow fleet” refers to vessels that evade international restrictions on Russian oil exports. That can include shipments to “friendly” countries that bypass price caps, ship-to-ship transfers on the high seas meant to disguise Russian oil as non-Russian, or exports by or to sanctioned companies.

The main destinations for shipments by the shadow fleet are India, China, Pakistan, and Turkey, though Georgia, Romania, and even Italy are sometimes added to the list.

The “shadow fleet” operates outside standard international cargo insurance systems, and many of its ships are in poor condition. They are typically aging, run-down vessels sailing under the flags of third countries — mostly African ones.

Companies that service “shadow fleet” vessels — as owners, charterers, managers, and crewing firms — are often registered in opaque jurisdictions that are difficult to monitor, making them harder to target with international sanctions. Aside from professional sailors, the ships themselves may carry GRU agents and former members of the Wagner Group, as highlighted in a recent investigation.

The Insider has previously identified several of these ships, along with the companies that utilize them.

Among the clear signs that a vessel belongs to the “shadow fleet” are the deactivation of its ship-tracking beacons, abnormally long periods at sea (as recorded in maritime traffic databases), changes in draft while on the high seas, and discrepancies between its declared and actual ports of departure and destination.

In this investigation, The Insider classifies vessels as being part of the “shadow fleet” if they are currently subject to sanctions by at least one country.

Why crewing companies matter

While sanctions against shipowners, operators, charterers, shippers, and consignees of “shadow fleet” vessels certainly make a positive difference in the struggle to deprive the Kremlin of oil export revenue, there is another category of company that also enables the seaborne trade in Russian energy: crewing companies. Sanctions authorities have largely overlooked them, but the firms that supply the sailors for vessels of the “shadow fleet” may be easier to pressure, as many of them operate in more accessible jurisdictions. Without access to the services of foreign crewing firms, Russia’s shadow fleet would face even more serious obstacles than it already does.

After all, vessels can be owned or chartered by opaque companies, and their counterparties may be equally murky oil sellers and buyers. Crewing firms, by contrast, often operate openly, posting job ads on maritime forums and Telegram channels. They depend on the capacity to operate openly, rendering them vulnerable to pressure from the coalition of countries seeking to enforce restrictions on the shipment of Russian oil.

Who recruits sailors for the “shadow fleet”

The Insider analyzed more than 20,000 posts from a number of popular Telegram channels where seafarer recruitment ads are posted, finding that over one thousand of them turned out to be seeking crew members for sanctioned “shadow fleet” ships. While most of these ads were posted before a given vessel was formally sanctioned, The Insider asserts that market participants are well aware which ships are engaged in which types of transport even before a ship is formally designated as a violator. A vessel’s name is also usually not specified in the ad, but its deadweight tonnage, year of construction, and flag are listed. This data is almost always sufficient to identify the precise vessel.

A significant proportion of the announcements seeking crews for vessels that are now under sanctions came from four companies:

The Insider reached out to the aforementioned companies with inquiries but received only one response — from the Cypriot firm CYMARE. It did not provide any substantive clarification, but did criticize Ukraine’s classification of the vessels in question as being part of the “shadow fleet”:

“Ukraine does not use the G7/OFAC/EU compliance framework as its baseline. Instead, it applies a wartime economic logic. Under this logic, distinctions between ‘compliant’ and ‘non-compliant’ shipping are irrelevant. There is an intentional labelling, not a legal classification of factual and analytical evidence.

The content purposely holds false factual claims and skipping verification entirely, not bothering of any due diligence.

No need to say that intelligence agencies are, by definition, secretive and manipulative, often using the media to shape public opinion or serve strategic national interests, and advance their own narrative to others to become a tool for their agenda.”

The company stated that, at the present moment, it “is not recruiting a crew” for the tankers Grace Leon, Ocean Embrace, Asteri, Ursus Maritimus, and Cauveri. However, an analysis by The Insider showed that the deadweight, year of construction, and flag of the vessels listed in the Cypriot company’s crewing advertisements fully match the characteristics of these exact vessels.

Most public job postings appeared before the vessels in question were designated. In some cases, however, recruitment continued even after the ships had been added to sanctions lists. For example, in 2025, the Odesa-based firm MJSML recruited seafarers for the vessel Hornet. The Kazakh firm LLP TS Agent Crew recruited seafarers for the tanker Dignity, while Euromarine Service recruited for the gas carrier Ziran, and YCrewing recruited for the LBS.

When The Insider called Euromarine Service, the representative on the other end hung up immediately after our journalist mentioned that the company had posted a job listing for the Ziran, a ship with a deadweight of 50,400 metric tons.

The Telegram channel Krymsky Veter (lit. “Crimean Wind”), reported a “powerful strike” on the Balaklava plant on the morning of July 14, citing local residents. The channel’s subscribers said the strike hit the station building, causing damage to the facility that included large dents in structures, holes in walls, and blown out windows. There has been no independent confirmation of that report.

Mikhail Razvozhayev, the Russian-appointed head of Sevastopol, confirmed a “large-scale attack” on energy infrastructure but did not specify which facility was damaged.

“A special regime has been introduced at the sites, and specialists are assessing the scale of the damage. All emergency services are on full alert,” he wrote.

Razvozhayev said Sevastopol came under drone attack twice overnight into July 14. The first attack began around 2:18 a.m. local time. Russian authorities claimed five drones were destroyed in the Balaklava District. A second air alert was declared at around 4:19 a.m. No casualties were reported.

After the attack, part of the city was left without electricity. Because of the limited capacity of the power grid, Sevastopol temporarily introduced the aforementioned electricity rationing schedule of two hours on, six hours off. He urged residents to conserve mobile phone battery power, avoid using high-consumption electrical appliances unless necessary and reduce electricity use even during periods when power is available. Businesses were advised to temporarily limit the use of energy-intensive equipment. Trolleybus service was halted because of the power disruptions.

Sevastopolenergo, the city’s power utility, blamed the restrictions on a “technological disruption.” Razvozhayev said specialists were trying to reconfigure the system and use available reserves to shorten the outages by evening.

What is the Balaklava thermal power plant?

The Balaklava thermal power plant, along with the Tavricheskaya thermal power plant near Simferopol, was built by Russia following its 2014 annexation of Crimea in order to reduce the peninsula’s dependence on electricity supplies from mainland Ukraine. The project became especially important after an energy blackout in the fall of 2015, when power pylons in Ukraine’s Kherson Region were blown up by activists, leaving Crimea almost completely cut off from electricity.

The first generating unit at the Balaklava plant began continuous production in October 2018, and the second was connected to the grid in December of that year. The official commissioning ceremony took place in March 2019 with Vladimir Putin in attendance.

Four Siemens gas turbines were installed at the Balaklava and Tavricheskaya plants after being brought into annexed Crimea in violation of EU sanctions in 2017. The equipment was manufactured by a joint venture between Siemens and the Russian company Power Machines. Under the contract, the turbines were intended for a power plant in Taman, in southern Russia, but Russian entities later moved them to Crimea. Siemens said it had been misled and tried through a Russian court to secure the return of the equipment and to have the deals declared invalid. The court rejected the German company’s request.

After the turbine transfer became public, the EU imposed additional sanctions on three Russian companies and three individuals involved in the prohibited delivery. German prosecutors later brought charges against former Siemens executives in connection with the transfer. 

The Ukrainian navy also said there were dead and wounded among the crew of the Izumrud. Russia had not commented on the claim as of the time of publication.

Ukraine’s navy later published a satellite image of the attacked ship, showing that it was partly submerged.

“It was the Izumrud that took part in the attack on Ukrainian navy ships in the Kerch Strait on Nov. 25, 2018. Retribution is inevitable. To be continued,” Ukraine’s navy stated.

The Kerch Strait incident

On Nov. 25, 2018, the FSB border patrol ship Izumrud played a key role in the pursuit and seizure of three Ukrainian vessels — the Berdyansk armored artillery boat, the Nikopol armored artillery boat, and the Yany Kapu tugboat — that were traveling from Odesa to Mariupol through the Kerch Strait. Russia claimed the Ukrainian ships had violated the rules for passage through the strait, which Moscow describes as its territorial waters. Ukraine insisted it had notified Russia in advance and had the right to free passage under a 2003 treaty that designated the Kerch Strait and the Sea of Azov as shared internal waters of the two countries. Kyiv did not and does not recognize Russia’s claims to waters off the coast of annexed Crimea.

Russian ships tried to stop the Ukrainian flotilla, and a large cargo ship was then placed under the Crimean Bridge, blocking passage into the Sea of Azov. After waiting for approximately eight hours, the Ukrainian ships turned around and headed back toward Odesa.

The Izumrud and the FSB patrol ship Don then began pursuing them — demanding that the Ukrainian vessels stop while using sound, light, and pyrotechnic signals. During the operation, the Russian vessels rammed the Ukrainian tug Yany Kapu several times. The Izumrud then fired warning shots and later warned the crew of the armored boat Berdyansk that it would fire to kill. At 8:55 p.m., the Izumrud opened fire on the Ukrainian boat.

Russia said the shelling took place inside the 12-mile zone off Crimea, which Moscow has claimed as its territorial waters since illegally annexing the peninsula in 2014. However, Bellingcat investigators concluded that the coordinates published by the FSB itself pointed to neutral waters — even under Russia’s official definition. Ukraine said Russian forces opened fire only after the Ukrainian vessels had left the 12-mile zone.

After the shelling, the Berdyansk stopped. The boat’s commander reported casualties and requested help. Three Ukrainian sailors were wounded, and all 24 crew members were detained by Russia. They returned home as part of a prisoner exchange in September 2019. Russia handed the seized vessels back to Ukraine in November that year.

The ban is temporary and will remain in place “until the domestic market is saturated or common markets for oil and petroleum products are formed” within the Eurasian Economic Union. It applies to fuel exported by road or rail.

The government made exceptions for naphtha, fuel oil, and heating oil. Those products may be exported for processing abroad, but the finished products must be returned to Kyrgyzstan.

The Cabinet said the measure was intended to prevent shortages of petroleum products and protect the country’s energy security. Kyrgyzstan already had a ban on fuel exports outside the Eurasian Economic Union, but it had not applied to other members of the bloc. Kazakhstan has introduced a similar ban.

Fuel shortages have spread across Russia’s 11 time zones, resulting in rationing, long lines at gas stations, and record increases in gasoline prices. Russia has begun seaborne gasoline imports from India and has discussed fuel purchases from other countries to ease the shortage, Reuters reported.

Russia has also moved to prevent domestically produced petroleum products from being sold abroad, imposing a diesel export ban until July 31 (though shipments agreed to under existing government contracts, including with Mongolia, were exempted).

According to The Insider’s calculations, varying degrees of fuel sale restrictions are now in place in 88 of the 89 regions controlled by Russia.

Pancreatic cancer is among the most difficult types to treat. According to the American Cancer Society, the overall five-year relative survival rate across all subtypes is about 13%. But around 90% of pancreatic tumors harbor a mutated KRAS gene, a biomarker that can be targeted with precision medicine. At the 2026 ASCO conference, researchers presented a study showing that overall survival in patients with pancreatic cancer doubled with daraxonrasib therapy. The drug also halted or reversed tumor growth significantly more often than standard treatment, benefiting 33% of patients with cases featuring this mutation, compared with 11% receiving conventional therapy.

At the same conference, researchers presented other striking results for targeted therapy, this time involving lorlatinib for patients with ALK-positive non-small cell lung cancer (NSCLC). NSCLC accounts for approximately 80–85% of all lung cancer cases, according to the American Cancer Society. However, the ALK-positive subtype is relatively rare, occurring in only about 3–5% of patients, according to a review published in Cancers. Lorlatinib achieved a seven-year overall survival rate exceeding 50%, compared with just 3% for patients receiving the previous-generation drug.

Both studies achieved these results thanks to advances in targeted therapy, one of the most successful developments in oncology in recent years.

How targeted therapy works

Cancer is often classified by the tissue in which it originates, such as the lung or breast. However, it has long been known that cancers arising in the same tissue may be driven by tumors with entirely different genetic mutations, protein profiles, cellular programs, tumor microenvironments, and clinical behavior. Moreover, tumors can differ not only between patients but also between different regions of the same tumor and between the primary tumor and its metastases. A review published in Nature Reviews Clinical Oncology describes this remarkable molecular diversity.

Conventional chemotherapy works indiscriminately, attacking cells that divide more rapidly than others. But several healthy tissues in the body also renew themselves quickly, including the lining of the mouth and intestines, hair follicles, and bone marrow. As a result, these tissues are damaged alongside the tumor, causing familiar side effects such as nausea, mouth ulcers, hair loss, and impaired blood cell production. Targeted drugs take a more precise approach by attacking specific molecular targets, known as biomarkers. Increasingly, oncologists begin by asking what is happening inside the tumor itself. This assessment, known as biomarker testing, looks for genes, proteins, and other characteristics in a tumor sample that can help determine which treatment is most likely to benefit a particular patient. The role of these biomarkers is explained by the U.S. National Cancer Institute in its overview of tumor markers. Two people with the same type of cancer may therefore require different treatments due to the fact that their tumors differ at the molecular level.

Even a single tumor can resemble a mosaic. Cells in different regions may have distinct appearances, rely on different molecular pathways for growth, and respond differently to treatment. A striking example is lung adenocarcinoma, in which different areas within the same tumor sample can exhibit different tissue structures, molecular characteristics, and patterns of gene activity. This diversity arises due to the fact that tumors are constantly evolving. As cancer cells divide, they accumulate new genetic mutations, while the DNA repair systems in many tumors function less effectively than in normal cells. Additional differences emerge through changes in gene and protein activity, meaning that cells with nearly identical DNA can activate different programs that regulate growth, survival, and migration.

The tissue surrounding a tumor also influences its behavior. Fibroblasts, immune cells, and blood vessel cells in the tumor's immediate environment release signaling molecules that can accelerate cancer growth, help tumor cells invade neighboring tissues, or enable them to survive treatment. As a result, the tumor gradually develops into a complex ecosystem of cells with different characteristics and varying sensitivity to therapy, as described in this review.

The first targeted therapies emerged around the turn of the century. One of the earliest was imatinib, a drug developed to treat chronic myeloid leukemia (CML), a disease in which blood cells receive a continuous growth signal from an abnormal BCR-ABL protein — imatinib was specifically designed to block that signal. In 2001, the U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA) approved imatinib for patients with Philadelphia chromosome-positive chronic myeloid leukemia. Years later, it became clear just how dramatically the drug had changed the disease's prognosis. According to a long-term study cited by the U.S. National Cancer Institute, patients who remain in remission after two years of imatinib therapy have a life expectancy comparable to that of people of the same age in the general population.

A similar transformation occurred in the treatment of breast cancer. In some patients, tumors produce excessive amounts of the HER2 protein, which promotes cell growth and division. In 1998, the FDA approved trastuzumab (an antibody that targets HER2) for the treatment of HER2-positive metastatic breast cancer. It was one of the earliest examples of a therapy selected not simply according to the organ affected, but according to the tumor's molecular characteristics.

Not just targeted therapy: what else ASCO 2026 revealed

Targeted therapy is no longer the only path toward precision cancer treatment. At the ASCO 2026 annual meeting in Chicago, researchers presented a wide range of promising advances in oncology. Although these approaches differ in how they work, they all share the same underlying principle: first identify a tumor's unique vulnerability, then design a treatment specifically to exploit it.

Personalized mRNA cancer vaccines

The word “vaccine” is usually associated with disease prevention, but in oncology it refers to a therapeutic treatment given to people who already have cancer. This approach is individualized and highly specific. Doctors first obtain a sample of the patient's tumor, analyze its mutations, and create a vaccine targeting molecular features that are unique to the cancer and absent from healthy cells. The vaccine then trains the immune system to recognize and attack the tumor.

One of the biggest announcements at ASCO 2026 was the five-year follow-up of the personalized mRNA vaccine Intismeran Autogene (mRNA-4157), developed by Moderna and Merck. In patients with high-risk melanoma, the vaccine can be combined with the immunotherapy pembrolizumab to reduce the risk of recurrence or death by 49%, and maintain the benefit over five years of follow-up. The vaccine is now being evaluated in large Phase III clinical trials for melanoma, lung cancer, and kidney cancer.

CAR-T therapy reaches solid tumors

CAR-T therapy uses a patient's own immune cells as treatment. Doctors collect immune cells from the patient, genetically engineer them in the laboratory so they can recognize cancer cells, and then infuse them back into the body. In effect, the treatment itself is a living drug. For many years, this approach proved highly effective against blood cancers but was largely unsuccessful against solid tumors.

On June 24, 2026, China's National Medical Products Administration approved Satricel, developed by CARsgen, for the treatment of gastric cancer, making it the world's first CAR-T therapy approved for a solid tumor. In clinical trials, the treatment roughly doubled the length of time before the disease began progressing again. The approval demonstrated for the first time that engineered immune cells can be successfully adapted to target solid tumors that had previously resisted this form of therapy.

An antibody that delivers medicine directly to the tumor

This approach has a long technical name — an antibody-drug conjugate (ADC) — but the concept is straightforward. The antibody acts as a navigator, locating the cancer cell on its own. Attached to it is a drug payload that is released only after the antibody enters the cell, allowing the treatment to attack the tumor while largely sparing healthy tissues.

At ASCO 2026, researchers presented results for sacituzumabgovitecan. In patients with triple-negative breast cancer, a disease that is notoriously difficult to treat, the drug kept the cancer under control for significantly longer than standard chemotherapy: about 11 months versus 8 months when used in combination with immunotherapy. Another experimental drug, Izabren, the world's first dual-target “navigator” directed at both EGFR and HER3, produced responses in nearly half of patients with lung cancer.

Striking the RAS target once considered “undruggable”

Mutations in the RAS gene are found in many types of cancer, yet for decades researchers were unable to develop drugs capable of targeting them. The protein was widely regarded as “undruggable.” Daraxonrasib, discussed above in the section on pancreatic cancer, is among the first drugs to overcome this obstacle. According to the study presented at ASCO 2026 and published in the New England Journal of Medicine, it marks the beginning of a new generation of pan-RAS inhibitors that can finally attack this long-elusive target. If these findings are confirmed in larger clinical trials, they could offer an effective treatment option to patients who previously had few, if any, therapeutic alternatives.

Detecting tumors through a blood test

To strike a tumor's weak point with precision, doctors first have to find it. That is why diagnosis has become just as important as selecting the right therapy. One of the fastest-growing advances in oncology is the liquid biopsy — a blood test that detects fragments of tumor DNA circulating in the bloodstream. These fragments can help doctors choose an appropriate targeted therapy and, in the future, may allow cancers to be detected before they become visible on medical imaging. At ASCO 2026, liquid biopsy emerged as one of the conference's central themes. Dozens of presentations explored evidence that the test can not only predict patient outcomes but also guide treatment decisions, helping physicians determine when therapy should be intensified — or, conversely, de-escalated. In one study, for example, measuring circulating tumor DNA at the end of lymphoma treatment predicted relapse more accurately than conventional PET/CT imaging.

Vaccines, engineered immune cells, antibody “navigators,” and molecules designed with the help of artificial intelligence may seem like a diverse collection of technologies. Yet they all follow the same principle as lorlatinib and daraxonrasib: identify the tumor's specific vulnerability and attack it with precision. Only the method of attack differs.

The 2026 ASCO meeting revealed a wealth of new ways to do exactly that. Participants noted that the conference was among the most practice-changing in recent years, with an unusually large number of presentations reporting results that have the potential to reshape the standards of cancer care.

Artificial intelligence in the fight against cancer

Artificial intelligence is increasingly doing more than simply screening existing molecules — it is designing entirely new ones and identifying the biological targets they should attack. The first major proof that this approach works was published in Nature Medicine in 2025. Rentosertib, developed by Insilico Medicine, was designed by AI to attack a molecular target that the AI itself had previously identified. The drug successfully completed an early-stage clinical trial. Although rentosertib was developed to treat pulmonary fibrosis rather than cancer, the study demonstrated that the AI-driven drug discovery approach is viable. Another company attracting close attention is Isomorphic Labs, a Google DeepMind spinout created by the team behind AlphaFold, the AI system that revolutionized protein structure prediction. The company expects to begin the first clinical trials of its AI-designed cancer drugs by the end of 2026.

Artificial intelligence is increasing the speed of evolution in target therapy. Precision oncology depends on integrating data from genomics, transcriptomics, proteomics, and clinical practice — AI can rapidly identify hidden patterns across these datasets and match a tumor's molecular profile with the most appropriate treatment strategy. Platforms such as Watson for Genomics and similar systems analyze genomic alterations together with the latest medical research to recommend targeted drugs and drug combinations tailored to specific mutations.

Today, AI has become one of the central tools not only in targeted therapy but in oncology as a whole. It helps detect cancer earlier, select more effective treatments, and support patients throughout the course of therapy. AI algorithms can analyze CT scans, MRI images, mammograms, and other medical images, identifying tiny tumors and precancerous changes that may escape the human eye. This improves the sensitivity of cancer screening for lung, breast, prostate, and several other cancers. Machine learning systems also compare a patient's medical history, imaging results, biopsy findings, and biomarkers with vast databases of clinical cases and treatment guidelines, producing therapeutic recommendations that have been shown to approach expert-level decision-making.

Given the rapid pace of AI development, next year's ASCO meeting is likely to showcase even more groundbreaking research.

When the full-scale invasion began, I was working as a journalist. After about a year, I had this growing feeling that what I was doing as a journalist wasn't really making a difference. At the same time, many of the people around me, including my closest friends, are Ukrainians. Almost all of them either enlisted during the first days of the war or have been directly supporting the military ever since. There wasn't just one single reason that made me decide to join, but I remember the exact moment. In the summer of 2023, my wife Natasha and I were in the Carpathian Mountains on what was essentially a short vacation. As we were hiking, the thought suddenly occurred to me: what if I enlisted? I gave myself until the end of the summer to think it over. No one was pressuring me, and no one could have drafted me into the Ukrainian military against my will. By the end of the summer, the desire hadn't gone away, so I began looking for a unit that would be willing to take me and where I myself wanted to serve.

At the time, Ukraine had just passed a law allowing foreign nationals to serve in the National Guard. I knew very little about the military or warfare and understood that I needed proper training. From the very beginning, I set my sights on becoming a drone operator. I enrolled in a drone training course and went to a firing range with friends to practice shooting. In the spring of 2024, I signed my contract.

Again, there wasn’t any single trigger that led me to make that choice, but I had plenty of examples in front of me. One of them was Andriy Bashtovoy, the former editor-in-chief of the Ukrainian edition of The Village. He enlisted during the first months of the war, and I remember seeing him off. Then, in the fall of 2022, during the counteroffensive in the Kharkiv region, where he was serving as an assault infantryman, we ran into each other by chance in Izium. It was the second or third day after the town had been liberated.

That was the first time I saw someone close to me transform from a journalist into a soldier, and it made a profound impression on me. Meeting a friend I had been deeply worried about, seeing him alive — unharmed, healthy, and victorious — was probably the most powerful positive moment I experienced during the war.

Even if I had had no ties to Ukraine, I would still consider the decision to enlist entirely natural. What have we actually accomplished in Russia? Where did we end up? We had a vision of what we wanted our country to become, and in 2022 all of that was wiped away. In fact, it had begun unraveling around 2014, but by 2022 any remaining illusions had finally been dispelled.

We had a vision of the kind of country we wanted Russia to be, and in 2022 that vision collapsed completely

Trying to change anything inside Russia through the methods we were used to — simply doing our jobs or engaging in human rights advocacy — now seems pointless. It doesn't lead anywhere. But if you're fighting for Ukraine, that matters. You're part of something much larger than yourself. You're helping people who are suffering. You're standing with those who need protection. And ultimately, you're simply fighting against injustice.

I remember how demoralized my friends in the Russian community were at the start of the war. They had no idea what to do. At the same time, the Ukrainian community was remarkably focused and energized because people there knew exactly what their role was: some became volunteers, others enlisted. It's now been two years since I joined the military, and it's become very difficult for me to imagine doing anything else.

I don't spend much time thinking about distant goals, such as what will happen if and when the Ukrainian military reaches Ukraine's internationally recognized borders — whether it would then be necessary to advance on Moscow or whether I would take part in that. That's simply not the question we're facing today. Right now, we're in survival mode. The only question is whether we'll hold out.

What it's like to be a drone operator

I remember that when I was still in high school, I read an article in Esquire about American service members who suffered severe psychological trauma from serving as drone pilots during U.S. military operations in the Middle East.

The drone pilots fighting in this war bear little resemblance to the American operators we know from Hollywood movies — people sitting safely in the basements of the Pentagon, directing aircraft against convoys of terrorists. Today's drone operators are on the battlefield themselves. They are constantly being hunted. They may not face the same level of risk as infantry soldiers, but they are in danger all the time. They are wounded, and they are killed. And now, with the widespread use of fiber-optic drones, the “gray zone” — the area where you can be struck — has expanded significantly.

I remember being in a forest position once, and over the course of an hour a total of 19 guided aerial bombs landed within about a one- or one-and-a-half-kilometer radius of our position.These are enormous bombs carrying about 500 kilograms of explosives. When they're falling all around you, it's an incredibly unpleasant experience. Later, your brain erases much of the fear, but at the moment when everything around you is shaking and clouds of dust are rising, it's terrifying.

One time I did get hit. An explosion went off right beside me. I fell to the ground and felt a jolt shoot through my leg, like a powerful electric shock. My first thought was, “Damn, I've lost my leg. That sucks.” Then I looked and realized it was still there. Blood was already seeping through my trouser leg, and it was obvious that a fragment had struck me. I wasn't afraid. When you're in survival mode, your emotions are put on hold.

One of my comrades was only a few meters away, and he was seriously wounded. A fragment pierced his helmet, and he collapsed. The shelling was still going on, so it was impossible to crawl over to him. We could see blood coming from his ears, and we thought he was dead. But after a while he regained consciousness and started shouting. We were incredibly lucky that a rapid evacuation team arrived. We got him out. Thank God he survived. The fragment lodged in his skull but did not damage his brain. He did lose one finger. We're still in touch and exchange messages from time to time.

There's no major difference between pulling the trigger of an assault rifle and pressing the button on a drone controller. The only difference is that an infantryman first has to survive long enough to reach the point of direct contact, making it to the position while avoiding enemy reconnaissance and attack drones.

There's no major difference between pulling the trigger of an assault rifle and pressing the button on a drone controller

Once you're in the trenches and it comes down to “you or them,” no one has trouble pulling the trigger. Adrenaline takes over because you're fighting for your life. If you don't pull the trigger, someone else will — and they'll be shooting at you.

Drone operators also need to be physically fit because they often have to cover long distances on foot while carrying heavy loads — wearing body armor and full combat gear. Actually flying a drone accounts for only a small part of the job; it’s perhaps 10% of what determines success.

Effective drone operations depend on far more complex factors: planning, the team's technological capabilities, and much else besides. People usually see only the final stage — the drone flying to its target and striking it — but behind that lies the work of a great many people. There are engineers who design, assemble, and prepare the systems. And there are logisticians who deliver them and help determine when and where to use them. While a drone operator's piloting skills are certainly important, they are far from the deciding factor.

The experience of people in different roles varies enormously. Someone who spends 100 days holding infantry positions will have a completely different experience from someone who is deployed only for specific operations. It's not even primarily about adrenaline; it's about seeing the war from entirely different perspectives. For the most part, though, war is surprisingly monotonous, filled with routines that repeat day after day. It's not an action movie where you gun everyone down and then speed away in a pickup truck, embracing a beautiful woman with one arm while firing at your pursuers with the other.

On Russia

The war hasn't changed my identity in any way. I identified as Russian before, and I still do. That's simply who I am. I don't feel any inner conflict between what I'm doing and who I am.

Do I realize that I may never set foot in Russia again? Yes, that's certainly a very real possibility. I can also imagine other scenarios in which I return to Russia in one capacity or another. But I don't see returning home as a goal worth sacrificing everything else for. Nor do I feel nostalgic for the homeland in some sentimental sense. I'm doing work that I consider important and meaningful, surrounded by close friends.

Besides, it's obvious that the Russia where I was born and raised no longer exists and never will again. Something different will emerge in its place. Something new. Will I be part of that? Hell if I know. I don't think it's possible to answer that question yet. First Ukraine has to be defended. Only then will it make sense to think about what lies ahead for Moscow, for Russia, and whether I want to return there. For now, that's a prospect too far in the future.

The Russia where I was born and raised no longer exists and never will again

Of course, I understand that my relatives and friends who remain in Russia could also end up being caught in the crossfire. War is, unfortunately, an ongoing cycle of violence. But I think it's important to always remember how it started and why it continues. You can't simply equate the two sides by saying, “Well, they're both launching drones.” If Putin had not launched the invasion, none of this would have happened.

On civilian life

Our entire sector of the front is in the Kharkiv region, so civilian life is never far away. Kharkiv, Ukraine's second-largest city, continues to function despite being only a few dozen kilometers from an active combat zone. The city is still very much alive — with bars, restaurants, spas, gyms, and all the other amenities of everyday life. At the same time, Ukraine's civilian population is also affected by the war. It's not just Kharkiv – Kyiv is regularly targeted by missile and drone attacks as well. So it would be wrong to say that people in the cities don't feel the war.

On friends in Russia

Almost everyone I was close to in Russia, especially in Moscow, left during the first months of the war. Most of them are journalists — or at least that's true of my closest friends and immediate circle. I still exchange messages from time to time with those who remained in Russia. In all the time I've been serving, I haven't received a single negative comment directed at me personally. Not everyone necessarily agrees with my decision — and, in that respect, it doesn't really matter whether they're still in Russia or have left — but no one has ever condemned me to my face. Everything I've received from my friends and acquaintances has been support and affection, and that's meant a great deal to me.

Communication with old friends has become much less frequent. At the front, you're occupied with military matters around the clock, and almost everyone you interact with is also in the military. Your former life gradually recedes into the background — not because you're deliberately trying to cut yourself off from it, but simply because you've acquired a new life.

On the Khartiia Corps

Khartiia was formed shortly after the full-scale invasion began, when volunteer defense units started springing up across Ukraine. Khartiia was established in Kharkiv. It later became a brigade — an official unit of Ukraine's National Guard — and last year it was expanded into a corps, incorporating several well-established brigades with their own histories, traditions, and combat records. Like the Ukrainian military as a whole, it brings together people from very different backgrounds. Alongside career soldiers, there are businesspeople, journalists, athletes, and many others. In other words, it's a cross-section of Ukrainian society.

The Russians serving in our unit are mostly people who were already living in Ukraine at the time the full-scale invasion began. In essence, they are part of Ukraine. Their families and friends are here. They aren't volunteers who came from abroad. Their motivation, like that of other Ukrainians, is to defend their home.

I consider myself fortunate to have ended up in Khartiia. I now have a fairly good sense of the standards across different Ukrainian units, and in my view, Khartiia is better organized than most. I think that is primarily due to the corps commander, Ihor Obolenskyi, callsign “Kornet.” The unit's entire evolution from a small volunteer formation into one of the best-known corps in the Ukrainian military has taken place under his leadership. He personally approved my service in Khartiia, and I'm deeply grateful to him for that.

How to join Khartiia

If you live outside Russia, hold a Russian passport, and want to help Ukraine, there are several ways to do so. The simplest is to provide financial support. You can make targeted donations to ensure the money goes exactly where it's intended — for example, by contributing directly to my UAV unit. (Just don't make any transfers if you live in Russia!)

If you want to come to Ukraine and enlist, or if you have an engineering or technical background and would like to contribute remotely, you can contact us via our secure email address. (This also applies only to people who no longer live in Russia.)

On joining Khartiia

I don't want to lie to anyone. People who come to Ukraine to serve, like most foreign volunteers, have to prove themselves in combat first. And that really is the most dangerous part. I'm not going to pretend we're inviting people to something relatively safe. I'd rather scare someone off now so they decide not to come, because once you're there, there's no turning back. Of course, this isn't about “human-wave assaults” of the kind associated with the Russian military. Ukrainian and Russian forces employ assault troops in fundamentally different ways. I know how things work inside our unit: how operations are planned, how they're carried out, and how hard people work in order to minimize the risks to personnel. Even so, you have to understand that assault operations are the most dangerous thing there is in war.

On pacifism and ethics

Why doesn't pacifism work? Because when there's no one who can protect you except yourself, you have to take responsibility for your own defense. If someone is trying to kill you, you have two choices: surrender and face defeat or death, or defend yourself using methods that would be considered unacceptable in peacetime — because we are not living in peacetime.

Under conditions of pacifism, the side with fewer moral restraints will always have the advantage: it holds the initiative. I take no pleasure in violence or in killing. I don't enjoy it at all. But when war is forced upon you, there is no alternative except to resist. Well, there is another option — you can surrender — but that carries even graver consequences. Over the past four years, this war has provided ample evidence of what happens to civilians living under occupation.

Although I don't think pacifism works in the context of the war in Ukraine, it is at least a consistent position. What I truly cannot understand are people who argue that a Russian can never fight against the Russian military, even when it is waging an aggressive and unjust war. To me, that is a hypocritical position. I can't see any logical way to justify it.

On exhaustion

People are undeniably exhausted after five years of war. Civilians are exhausted. So are the soldiers, many of whom have been serving for years — some since before the full-scale invasion. But for all that exhaustion, society has not been broken. I don't see anyone who is ready to stop resisting or simply give up.

Russia's triumphant declarations no longer persuade anyone. We all remember what happened with Kupiansk, which Russian officials repeatedly claimed to have “finally captured,” only for the city to be liberated instead — in an operation led by our Khartiia Corps. People can see that Russian forces are no longer advancing. Instead, Ukrainian forces are making gains of their own and increasing their strikes inside Russia. For the first time in a long while, the international climate has also become more favorable, in part thanks to Viktor Orbán's electoral defeat in Hungary. Developments like these matter to people. Five years of war inevitably take their toll, both on those serving in the military and on civilians living in Ukraine. So, for the first time in a long time, genuinely positive news has begun to emerge, and that is certainly encouraging.

On the primary target

Oh, that's the easiest question of all! If it were possible to kill Putin with the press of a single button, I think that button would be pressed a great many times. There used to be a TV game show where contestants had to guess the most popular answer to a survey question. In this case, I think everyone would give the same answer.

The people listed have been subjected to asset freezes, and they are now banned from entering the UK, receiving trust services, or holding management positions in British companies. A range of “internet sanctions” were also imposed, requiring social media platforms, internet providers, and app stores to restrict British users’ access to content and resources operated by those on the list.

The UK government considers all 10 people added to the list to have been involved in destabilizing Ukraine and undermining its territorial integrity, sovereignty, and independence. They are:

• Denis Vulf, director of Rybar LLC. He is also listed under the name Denis Shchukin.
• Valeriia Zvinchuk, the company’s creative director. The sanctions list includes several of her aliases, including Valeria Pobochnaya.
• Tatiana Kosterova, head of Rybar’s foreign-language resources department. According to the independent investigative Russian outlet Agentstvo, Kosterova previously appeared in records as a military police officer and has taught at St. Petersburg State University since 2019, including at its military training center.
• Daria Rosliakova, also known as Daria Kabakova, head of the regional analysis department.
• Aleksandr Kan, head of the video department.
• Aleksandr Minin, chief content officer for the project TEXASvsUSA. The U.S. State Department said Rybar used that X account to inflame tensions in discussions about undocumented migrants at the Texas border.
• Olga Kuznetsova, regional manager.
• Natalia Chebotaeva, video producer.
• Maksim Matveev, designer and head of the content team. According to the sanctions document, Matveev lives in occupied Donetsk.
• Evgeniia Grebneva, an administrator of Telegram networks linked to Rybar.

Rybar presents itself as a “military analysis center.” Its main Telegram channel has more than 1 million subscribers. The project was founded by Mikhail Zvinchuk, a former employee of the Russian Defense Ministry’s press service. In 2024, the U.S. State Department offered a reward of up to $10 million for information on people involved in the project. U.S. authorities accused Rybar of interfering in U.S. elections through the propaganda campaigns #HOLDTHELINE and #STANDWTHTEXAS.

Both Rybar LLC and Zvinchuk himself were placed under UK sanctions in December 2025 (along with neo-fascist ideologue Alexander Dugin and his Center for Geopolitical Expertise). In February 2026, OpenAI blocked a network of accounts linked to Rybar, as the project’s team had used ChatGPT as a “content farm” to generate texts in Russian, English, and Spanish.

Separately, the UK government said it would designate Iran’s Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, or IRGC, as a prohibited organization, according to reports by Sky News and the BBC. Security Minister Dame Angela Eagle told Parliament in a written statement that Britain had identified “activity linked to the IRGC involving threats to life and intimidation on UK soil.”

The UK government also prohibited the Iran-linked group Islamic Movement of the Companions of the Right Hand, or IMCR. The decision followed a series of attacks on Britain’s Jewish community. The law was also applied to a volunteer corps linked to Russia’s GRU military intelligence agency over “sabotage and other activity directed against the UK and Europe.”

Nikita Smagin, a journalist focusing on Iran, told The Insider that the consequences for the IRGC would be minimal.

“Britain is not the first country to recognize the IRGC as a terrorist organization, and previously that did not have much impact either on the organization itself or on Iran as a whole. Now it will have almost no significance,” Smagin said. “This is a symbolic action: Britain is stating its political position. In theory, it could limit some interactions between Iran and Britain, but those are already at a minimal level.”

In May, the Metropolitan police announced the creation of a special unit to protect London’s Jewish communities. In April alone, 140 antisemitic incidents were recorded in the capital. A pro-Iranian group, Harakat Ashab al-Yamin al-Islamiyya, claimed responsibility for some of the attacks, including attempted arson attacks on synagogues.

The EU decision said Max was developed under the supervision of Russia’s Federal Security Service (FSB) and that its rollout was accompanied by state-backed restrictions on WhatsApp and Telegram, as well as measures limiting the use of VPN services that allow users to access content blocked in Russia.

According to analysis by numerous experts, Max functions as spyware that monitors users by collecting data on apps installed on their phones, address books, geolocation, and VPN use. The EU also noted that information collected through Max has already been used as grounds to fine a Russian citizen.

As for VK itself, the EU said the company actively cooperated with Russian authorities and aided repression, including by providing the country’s security services with data on users who posted content criticizing Russia’s war against Ukraine or other “banned” information. VK also took part in the government’s campaign to block VPNs.

“Therefore, VK provides technical support for the repression of civil society and democratic opposition,” the EU decision said.

Apps linked to VK had previously been removed from Apple’s App Store.

In addition to VK and Communication Platform LLC, the EU sanctioned three other legal entities: VAS Experts, Norsi-Trans and Citadel. The companies are involved in developing and supplying software and equipment for SORM, Russia’s system for operative-search measures, a surveillance infrastructure used by the FSB to monitor citizens.

The list was also expanded to include 11 individuals, including Elena Bagudina, general director of Communication Platform LLC, as well as executives at VAS Experts, Norsi-Trans and Citadel: Dmitry Gachko, Sergei Ovchinnikov, and Mikhail Fomin.

Since the start of 2026, the state messenger has been operated by a legal entity called Max LLC, led by CEO Farit Khusnoyarov. Neither he nor the company he heads was included in the sanctions list.

The EU also imposed restrictions on people linked to Penal Colony No. 10 in Mordovia: its former head Alexander Gnutov, deputy officials Alexei Anashkin, Yegor Averkin, Alexander Grishanin, Semyon Kuznetsov and Ivan Veshkin, and medical unit head Galina Mokshanova. The EU accuses them of involvement in torture and other human rights violations.

Separately, the EU imposed sanctions on nine people and four organizations it says were involved in Russian cyberattacks. The list includes private companies, along with people described as Russian military intelligence officers, cybercriminals, and pro-Russian hacktivists. The EU says they took part in attempts to destabilize EU member states and international partners.

The Official Journal of the EU, reviewed by The Insider, lists the people targeted. Vitaly Kovalev is described as one of the leaders of the Trickbot and Conti hacker groups and is linked to the Wizard Spider group. Alexander Volosovik is described as the owner of Media Land, a hosting provider whose infrastructure was used to carry out attacks. Denis Degtyarenko is identified by the EU as one of the main hackers in the Cyber Army of Russia Reborn group. Yuliya Pankratova is described as a member of the same group and founder of Z-Pentest. Maxim Voronin and Maxim Gordienko are described as developers and distributors of LummaC2, a data-stealing malware program.

Evgeniy Bashev and Roman Puntus are linked to GRU Unit 29155, whose activities have been extensively covered by The Insider. Bashev provided hackers with technical infrastructure through the company Impuls (lit. "Impulse"), while Puntus organized and coordinated cyberattacks. 

The ninth person listed is Lt. Gen. Ivan Kasyanenko, deputy head of the GRU’s Special Operations Service. He was added to a separate sanctions list over his involvement in Unit 29155’s activities.

The Council of the EU also blamed a number of cyberattacks on Russia’s FSB 16th Center. Brussels says the unit controls several hacker groups, including Turla, which has been linked to hacks of government networks and sabotage against critical infrastructure in EU countries and Ukraine.

According to the Council of the EU, the operations targeted France, Germany, Poland, Cyprus, the Netherlands, Austria, Slovakia, Romania, and Finland. In France, the FSB’s 16th Center has conducted cyberespionage against state institutions since 2010 and began attacking defense industry companies in 2025. In Germany, state agencies were targeted, while in Poland the unit is linked to sabotage attacks on critical infrastructure, including combined heat and power plants.

The EU says Russia uses a network of state and nonstate actors to carry out cyberattacks. In addition to intelligence services, the network includes cybercriminal groups, hacktivists, and private companies that act on orders from or under the control of Russian authorities. The EU said it intends to coordinate its response with the UK, NATO, and other international partners.

The Insider previously reported that Turla has been linked to the FSB’s 16th Center and other cyberespionage campaigns. In 2025, Microsoft said hackers disguised the ApolloShadow malware as antivirus software from Kaspersky Lab and used it to attack foreign embassies in Moscow.

A year earlier, researchers at the Slovakia-based cybersecurity firm ESET found Turla-linked malware called LunarWeb and LunarMail in the network of a European country’s Foreign Ministry and in three of its diplomatic missions in the Middle East.

In 2023, the FBI dismantled a global network of computers infected with Snake, malware created by Turla and used to steal confidential documents from NATO countries and to spy on journalists.

In his post, Brovdi said the strikes hamper deliveries of scarce gasoline to Russian-annexed Crimea, leaving railways and fuel tanker trucks as the only available options to supply the peninsula. Those land routes are also risky, as they, too, can be targeted by Ukrainian strikes.

“The paralysis of Russia’s ‘feeder’ fleet — small and medium flat-bottomed ‘courier’ tankers about 140 meters long, with a capacity of 7,000 tons — as an important part of Russia’s shadow fleet effectively makes it impossible to export ‘black gold’ from Russian port oil transshipment bases and oil depots through the Volga-Don Canal and the Sea of Azov to larger tankers,” Brovdi wrote, adding thatUkrainian drones have attacked 116 vessels over the past nine days.

Responding to the news of the latest strikes, the Russian Transport Ministry’s press service said that it was “taking all necessary measures to ensure cargo logistics” in the Sea of Azov amid increasingly frequent Ukrainian attacks.

“The Commission is ending the funding to the Venice Biennale. Culture and sport must not become vehicles of whitewashing aggression,” Kallas said.

The EU’s foreign ministers also strongly condemned the International Olympic Committee’s decision to allow Russian athletes to return to international competitions.

“The International Olympic Committee's decision to invite Russian athletes back to international competitions is blind to reality. [The] ministers strongly condemn such a decision, as it coincides with Russia killing a record number of Ukrainian civilians. So, it looks like the International Olympic Committee is rewarding such attacks,” Kallas added.

This year, Russia took part in the Biennale for the first time since the start of its full-scale invasion of Ukraine. The Russian pavilion’s presence at the exhibition drew strong condemnation from Ukraine and its allies and was accompanied by protests from the groups Femen and Pussy Riot.

Pietrangelo Buttafuoco, the exhibition’s president, described Russia’s return as a “real truce” and “foreign policy.” On April 21, Kallas said the EU intended to pull €2 million in funding for the Biennale, allocated for the 2025-2028 three-year period, over Russia’s return to the event. In early May, the European Commission warned the Italian government and the exhibition’s organizers that Russia’s participation violated EU sanctions.

Nadezhdin was taken to a police station in Dolgoprudny, a city outside Moscow, The Insider’s source said.

“He is at the Dolgoprudny police station. He is being charged under Article 20.3 of the Administrative Code, ‘displaying extremist symbols,’” the source said.

The official cause behind Nadezhdin’s detention was a link he posted to a YouTube video mentioning the late opposition leader Alexei Navalny. The text of the police report later appeared on Nadezhdin’s Telegram channel.

The link appeared in a post on Nadezhdin’s Telegram channel published in November 2023. It has since been deleted. The link led to a video on activist Elvira Vikhareva’s YouTube channel titled “Candidate Against Putin 2024.”

Nadezhdin was eventually released from the police station after signing an obligation to appear in court on Friday, according to a report by the independent outlet SOTAvision.

Shortly before that, on July 10, Russia’s Justice Ministry added Nadezhdin to its “foreign agents” registry. The label is used by Russian authorities to stigmatize people and organizations accused of being under foreign influence while simultaneously imposing restrictions that effectively stifle the expression of opposition to the Kremlin.

The “foreign agent” status automatically bars a person from running in elections at any level. Nadezhdin had earlier announced plans to run as a self-nominated candidate in the upcoming elections to the State Duma, Russia’s lower house of parliament, and his campaign team had begun collecting signatures in several cities.

Nadezhdin served in the State Duma from 1999 to 2003 as a member of the Union of Right Forces. In 2024, he tried to register as an anti-war candidate in Russia’s presidential election. His nationwide signature drive saw tens of thousands of Russians brave winter weather and the surveillance cameras of law enforcement to stand in line and sign their names in support of Nadezhdin’s inclusion on the ballot. However, the Russian Central Election Commission ruled that some of the collected signatures were invalid and refused to register him.

On June 14, independent Russian film director Alexander Sokurov marked his 75th birthday by publishing an open letter to pro-Putin colleague Nikita Mikhalkov, once again raising the issue of censorship in contemporary Russian society. Sokurov argued that the Kremlin’s restrictions had deprived him and others of “the opportunity for professional development.” Sokurov urged Mikhalkov to “review the list of films banned by the Ministry of Culture from being screened in the country” — currently 37 titles — and help fellow filmmakers “lift these bans and restore the constitutional rights of our talented compatriots.”

Mikhalkov, who has served as chairman of the Board of the Russian Filmmakers' Union since 1998, responded by seizing on Sokurov's description of him as “one of the leaders of the Russian state,” retorting: “I have never been, am not, and never will be.” He then suggested that Sokurov “redirect this letter to someone who actually runs the state,” effectively leaving Sokurov's appeal unanswered and refusing to take any responsibility for the censorship that prevails in Russia.

The list of banned films cited by Sokurov has been circulating online for quite some time. In addition to Sokurov's own works, it includes films by some of the most prominent directors in contemporary Russian cinema: Ilya Khrzhanovsky (several films from the DAU cycle, which premiered at the Berlin International Film Festival), Natasha Merkulova and Aleksei Chupov (Captain Volkonogov Escaped, which premiered at the Venice International Film Festival), Vladimir Munkuyev (Nuuccha), Stepan Burnashev (Aita), Natalia Meshchaninova (the television series Alice Can't Wait, plus One Small Night Secret, which premiered at the Rotterdam International Film Festival), Alexander Molochnikov (Monastery, a television series), Klim Shipenko (December), Viktor Ginzburg (Empire V), Rezo Gigineishvili (Patient No. 1, which premiered at the Tallinn Black Nights Film Festival), Semyon Serzin (Ryzhy), and Yury Bykov (The Owner, which premiered at the Geneva International Film Festival).

The Insider has previously written about the issue in detail, but since then, not only has Alexander Sokurov's letter appeared online, so has the website Shelved Cinema, which now lists 66 banned films, most of them feature productions. Left out of that tally, however, is a vast number of documentary films that have never been cataloged.

On May 27, two guilds within the Russian Filmmakers' Union — the Guild of Film Scholars and Critics and the Guild of Producers and Film Industry Organizers — held a roundtable discussion titled “Independent Russian Cinema: The Problem of Censorship and Self-Censorship.”

The immediate trigger for the event was the Ministry of Culture's decision to remove the anthology film Love in Winter from the program of the Mirror International Film Festival in Ivanovo, held in June. One of the film’s directors was the well-known film critic Sergey Kudryavtsev, author of 5,000 Films: Reviews Over 50 Years.

At its core, Love in Winter is an ordinary love story containing erotic scenes, and according to Kudryavtsev, no one ever explained the official reason for banning it. On social media, he wrote: “Apparently, we encroached on traditional moral values. But how is the country supposed to improve its demographic situation if even heterosexual romantic relationships are now banned from the screen?”

Participants in the roundtable at the Russian Filmmakers' Union decided to establish a Screen Commission — apparently modeled on the Conflict Commission of the Soviet Filmmakers' Union, which during the Gorbachev years dealt with the backlog of films that had been banned and shelved under Leonid Brezhnev. The new body was expected to take up the issue of newly banned films; however, after announcing the roundtable, the union's website never mentioned it again, while the plenary session itself, according to a report published on the same site, instead established a Commission on Film Education and Media Pedagogy.

The grounds for banning films in Russia are expanding ever more rapidly. On July 31, 2025, a law came into force that, in addition to other draconian measures, prohibits the distribution of films containing material deemed to discredit Russia's traditional spiritual and moral values, the definition of which remains extremely vague. The determination is left to the discretion of the public — though in practice, that means the people whom the state appoints to represent “the public.”

Producer and director Alexander Voytinsky acknowledged in an interview on RBC TV that the film industry maintains “blacklists” of actors and directors rejected by the authorities. That interview, however, was soon removed from RBC's website.

The creative community has long been calling on the state to establish clear rules of the game based on codified legal principles, but that demand has yet to receive a clear response. A 2025 proposal from presidential special representative for international cultural cooperation Mikhail Shvydkoy to create a “civilized” censorship system modeled on the Soviet one has gone nowhere (Shvydkoy himself noted that establishing such an institution would require substantial funding). Meanwhile, in an interview with Expert magazine, presidential aide and former Russian culture minister (and Ukraine peace talk delegation leader) Vladimir Medinsky argued that Russia's film industry needs stronger state oversight when it comes to the quality of the films it produces.

“What we have,” he said, “is a heap of mediocre film product,” adding that “control should exist at every stage: the idea, the screenplay, the filming, and the release.” In Medinsky's view, this was how the Soviet film industry functioned: censorship “undoubtedly had artistic value” because “shoddy work was not allowed into distribution.”

Pro-war cinema continues to flop

The purpose of the censorship now being imposed is not so much to improve the artistic quality of films as to maximize the propaganda value of the money invested in the film industry. Movies produced with that goal in mind fail to attract audiences to theaters and generate little meaningful box-office income, and if television channels or streaming platforms acquire such content at all, it is usually bundled together with similar films and series that are increasingly filling Russia's media landscape.

In an interview with TASS on the sidelines of the St. Petersburg International Economic Forum, current Russian Culture Minister Olga Lyubimova said that the box-office revenue for Russian films in the first five months of 2026 had been 23.7 billion rubles. She did not mention, however, that after Hollywood films disappeared from the Russian market in 2022, the industry's revenues fell by one-third, and as many as 40% of movie theaters were forced to suspend operations. Nor did she note that only five of the 50 feature films produced last year with state financial support managed to recoup their production costs at the box office.

Only 5 of the 50 feature films produced in Russia with state support recouped their production costs at the box office

The minister takes particular pride in films about the so-called “special military operation” (SVO). According to Lyubimova, however, there is no quota for such productions: “Our task is to support every worthy screenplay devoted to the special military operation and our heroes, the boys on the front line.”

However, according to other estimates, last year the Ministry of Culture and the Cinema Fund backed only 12 films about the war, most of them documentaries. Yet even those failed to achieve any meaningful success at the box office. The quality of the remaining projects was apparently considered too poor even by the standards of the officials overseeing the film industry.

The most prominent of these films, The Kid, starring Gleb Kalyuzhny, tells the story of an apolitical rapper from Donetsk who volunteers to “liberate” Mariupol in order to rescue his mother from the besieged. During the project’s 13-week theatrical run on 234 screens, it grossed just over 43 million rubles, meaning upwards of only 120,000 people saw it in theaters. Its production budget is not publicly known, but is estimated at no less than 180 million rubles. Since cinemas typically retain around half of box-office revenue, the producers ultimately recovered only around 12% of the production budget.

The melodrama Call Sign “Passenger,” based on a screenplay by Alexander Prokhanov and starring Anton Shagin, performed only slightly better. Here too, the protagonist is an apolitical young man — a writer and carefree Moscow bon vivant — who travels to the Donbas after learning that his brother has gone missing there. Over a nine-week run on more than 2,000 screens, it grossed 57.5 million rubles, corresponding to roughly 150,000 admissions and a cost-recovery rate of about 16% (though as in the previous case, that figure does not include advertising expenses).

The second major priority of the Russian state’s thematic funding policy remains the Great Patriotic War, particularly as it relates (at least in the contents of screenplays) to the “special military operation.” These historical films tend to attract more attention, perhaps because they tend to be based on literary works that have remained popular since the Soviet era. Among them are Not Listed, adapted from Boris Vasilyev's novel, a heroic drama about the defenders of the Brest Fortress, and August, based on Vladimir Bogomolov's novel In August 1944, a psychological wartime thriller with Sergei Bezrukov in the lead role.

Public attention, however, does not necessarily translate into commercial success. Not Listed, starring Vladimir Mashkov, opened last year's Moscow International Film Festival, but despite a production budget of one billion rubles, it earned only about one-third of that amount at the box office, attracting an audience of approximately 1.5 million.

August, starring Bezrukov, performed better. Its box-office receipts exceeded one billion rubles, covering more than half of its production budget while drawing 2.3 million moviegoers. Although it is impossible to compare box office performance in the digital age with ticket sales from the Soviet era, Sergei Bondarchuk's They Fought for Their Country (1975) sold 40.6 million tickets, Vladimir Rogovoy's Officers (1971) drew 53.3 million viewers, and Stanislav Rostotsky's The Dawns Are Quiet Here (1972) reached an audience of 66 million.

Audiences prefer fairy tales

Today's moviegoers consistently show a preference for films centered on peaceful, non-political themes. Last year's biggest box-office hits included The Wizard of the Emerald City, Daddy's Daughters, and Finist: The First Bogatyr. The leaders of the first half of this year are Cheburashka 2, Prostokvashino, and Pinocchio. Each of these projects has earned between four and five billion rubles at the box office, corresponding to roughly 11-13 million admissions — a very strong result by today's standards.

It is easy to see that nearly all of these films are based on Soviet or post-Soviet franchises, the only genuine exception being The Prophet: The Story of Alexander Pushkin, starring Yura Borisov. The film is bold, fast-paced, and distinctly Hollywood-inspired in its emphasis on spectacle.

Even here, however, the Soviet experience — so often invoked by today's cultural officials — poses an awkward comparison. The opinion leaders of the 1970s and 1980s, as reflected in the annual readers' poll conducted by Sovetsky Ekran magazine, selected films such as The Red Snowball Tree, White Bim Black Ear, Office Romance, Moscow Does Not Believe in Tears, You Never Even Dreamed, A Cruel Romance, and The Messenger as the best films of their respective years. These were not only commercial successes, they also introduced new ideas and artistic visions. The classics created by Vasily Shukshin, Eldar Ryazanov, Vladimir Menshov, and Karen Shakhnazarov had no obvious predecessors to imitate, and it is no coincidence that in the post-Soviet era they have inspired remakes, parodies, and countless references in popular culture. That trend naturally irritates many viewers, who conclude that today's artistic also-rans have little of their own to offer (and not without reason).

The Russian authorities are redirecting funding toward officially approved themes and favored names while depriving filmmakers such as Alexander Sokurov, Boris Khlebnikov, and Natalia Meshchaninova the opportunity to work, effectively subjecting them to a professional ban.

Paradoxically, however, films of genuine artistic ambition continue to emerge. Sometimes private investors step in to finance artistically ambitious projects, resulting in films like Sergey Chliyants's The Wind, which Russia's two most prestigious film awards — the Nika and the White Elephant — both named the best film of last year. At other times, the Ministry of Culture provides funding on a residual basis for a biographical film about a great Russian poet, as in the case of Bakur Bakuradze's Lermontov, in which the brooding genius is portrayed by stand-up comedian Ilya Ozolin as a man for whom “life is tedious and dreary, and there is no one to offer a hand in a moment of spiritual distress.”

Low budgets, combined with the affordability of modern filmmaking equipment, have become the saving grace of contemporary Russian auteur cinema. Most audiences, both in Russia and abroad, know little about it, but artistically sophisticated films that grapple honestly with reality continue to be made — and some even manage to overcome the barrier of state distribution certificates.

According to the experts behind the White Elephant Award, the most notable examples include Eternal Winter (directed by N. Larionov), Yura Was Here (S. Malkin), Vacation (A. Kuznetsova), Portraits of Friendly Relations (S. Raizman), Dad Died on Saturday (Z. Abdrakhmanova), Fireworks in Broad Daylight (N. Volova), and A Blank Page (P. Kondratyeva).

In the auteur segment, Russian cinema has long existed as the country's counterpart to European art-house filmmaking — modest in scale, but marked by confidence, artistic integrity, and (at times) even remarkable moral courage. It has also embraced equality: the majority of the directors on the above list are women. The same cannot be said of the visible, official part of the cinematic iceberg, which continues to be shaped by an enduring nostalgia for the grand Soviet style so fervently championed by Vladimir Medinsky and Nikita Mikhalkov.

The dire state of Russia's theatrical film market

Speaking before the State Duma on June 17, Nikita Mikhalkov reminded lawmakers that a year earlier he had appealed to Vladimir Putin “with a proposal to introduce quotas on American films.” He suggested imposing “an entry fee of five million rubles for any film submitted for release in Russia.” The proposal was immediately endorsed by another leading media executive, Channel One CEO Konstantin Ernst, who said the money “would support Russian cinema — it's the right idea.”

The problem, however, is where to find enough American films to make such a scheme meaningful. Hollywood imposed sanctions on the Russian media market in 2022 in protest against Russia's invasion of Ukraine, and of the 50 films listed in Russia’s theatrical release schedule for June, only seven were American — mostly from small independent studios rather than the major Hollywood companies.

The rest of the lineup included films from countries considered friendly to Russia, such as India, China, and Kyrgyzstan (whose distributors are unlikely to be willing to pay five million rubles for access to the Russian market). More importantly, even under the current policy of giving priority to domestic productions, the Russian film industry has the capacity to supply, at best, only about 30% of the repertoire needed by theaters.

That, incidentally, is the same figure cited by Culture Minister Lyubimova, who boasts that Russia has succeeded in reclaiming that share of the domestic market from foreign films. In reality, however, theaters have long been patching holes in their schedules, partly compensating for the absence of new Hollywood releases by reissuing classic international films. In June, these included Jean-Luc Godard's Pierrot le Fou, Federico Fellini's 8½, and Quentin Tarantino's Kill Bill. Meanwhile, three of the 15 Russian titles in theaters were not films at all but stage productions by Valery Gergiev, Andrei Konchalovsky, and Yegor Peregudov that had been adapted for the screen.

The theatrical market has long been patching holes in its schedule, partly replacing Hollywood premieres with reissues of classic world cinema

Taken together, the situation bears an unsettling resemblance to the final years of Stalin's rule — the era of the “few films” policy, when the lack of a sufficiently broad theatrical repertoire was offset by the release of films captured from the archives of defeated Germany and also from filmed Soviet stage productions. The underlying reason for the shortage was that Soviet directors were either unable or unwilling — due to fear of repression — to tackle contemporary subjects, preferring instead to portray acceptable historical figures in a light acceptable to Stalin’s Kremlin.

The difference between that era and today's mainstream cinema — which likewise avoids genuinely contemporary subjects — is that fairy tales have largely replaced biopics as the industry's safest commercial bet. According to Lyubimova, fairy tales accounted for at least 20% of the projects presented at the latest pitching session of the Cinema Fund.

This means that in the coming seasons audiences are likely to see reprises of the Snow Maiden and Old Khottabych, Dunno and the Mistress of the Copper Mountain, Tsar Saltan and Elektronik. At least families — the audience that Culture Minister Lyubimova has repeatedly described as the industry's top priority — will probably be satisfied.

In an interview with Expert, the aforementioned Medinsky argued that Russian cinema suffers from “too much state money and too few market mechanisms.” Yet almost in the same breath, apparently without realizing the contradiction, he proposed eliminating those very market mechanisms in a call for state oversight “at every stage: the idea, the screenplay, the filming, and the release.” Such a step would, in practice, mean the end of entrepreneurial filmmaking and the replacement of state support with a state commissioning system.

In practice, the formula Medinsky expressed in the interview — “If you make a lousy film, remake it” (at your own expense) — would lead to the complete collapse of the industry. With the tacit consent of the expert community, Nikita Mikhalkov's jingoistic patriotism would bring theatrical distribution to a standstill, while Medinsky's concern for “quality” would paralyze film production itself.

On October 20, 2025, Anna Yarina was appointed director of the Russian Ministry of Culture's Department of Cinematography — the first time the post went not to a film scholar or an economist with a specialized education from VGIK, Russia's leading film school, but to a media management specialist. Yarina is 25 years old and the daughter of Andrei Yarin, head of the Presidential Administration's Directorate for Domestic Policy. Her appointment is yet another sign that the film industry's primary purpose is to serve propaganda.

According to the NYT’s sources, the GRU’s Tokyo operation is run by 49-year-old Maxim Vladimirovich Filchenkov, who is posing as an employee of the Russian state airline Aeroflot. In reality, however, Filchenkov is sourcing military equipment and organizing its delivery to Russia, representatives of several Western intelligence services say.

The Insider has confirmed that Filchenkov is a GRU officer. He was previously registered at 4 Marshala Biryuzova Street — the address of a dormitory for students of the GRU’s Military Diplomatic Academy. His residential address matches that of Anatoly Chepiga (Boshirov), one of the GRU officers who traveled to Salisbury, England in 2018 as part of the Kremlin’s operation to poison Sergei Skripal. Based on the parking records of Filchenkov’s car, he also frequents the GRU headquarters on Khoroshevskoye Highway.

The NYT notes that the tradition of the GRU using Aeroflot positions as cover for sourcing Western technology goes back to the Soviet era. Filchenkov arrived in Tokyo in February 2024, when Russia was in acute need of high-tech components. The war in Ukraine was increasingly turning into a confrontation of unmanned systems, and as a result of Western sanctions, the Russian military-industrial complex was unable to procure critical machine tools.

According to the newspaper’s sources, Filchenkov began establishing contacts with logistics companies transporting cargo from Japan to Russia. Through such connections, GRU officers can acquire sensitive technologies under false pretexts and then export them via third countries, in some cases using forged shipping documents.

One of Aeroflot’s partners in Japan is Proco Air, a company calling itself “a bridge between Japan and Russia.” It charters space on cargo flights to countries that Aeroflot continues to service, including Sri Lanka and Uzbekistan. From there, the cargo can be transshipped onto Aeroflot planes and delivered to Russia.

The scheme itself does not violate the law, since many categories of goods are still permitted for delivery to Russia. However, Western intelligence representatives claim that such logistics routes are crucial for the operations of the GRU’s 20th Directorate.

As Proco Air owner Takehiko Miki told the NYT, he met Filchenkov around 2018, but their active cooperation did not begin until the Russian’s return to Tokyo in 2024. According to two knowledgeable sources, Miki later asked a Chinese partner, who was introduced to him by Filchenkov, to help ship goods that are banned from delivery to Russia.

Miki denies knowing about Filchenkov’s connection to Russian intelligence and says he made no attempt to transport prohibited goods. He claims that Proco Air delivers only permitted goods to Russia, mainly medical equipment and cosmetics.

To corroborate his words, Miki showed journalists an airway bill for medical equipment shipped via Sri Lanka. Miki attempted to black out the names of the companies involved in the deal, but journalists established that the recipient was the Moscow pharmaceutical firm R-Pharm.

R-Pharm itself is not under sanctions. However, its founder Alexei Repik is on the sanctions lists of the United Kingdom, Australia, and Canada due to his ties to Vladimir Putin. Japan has not joined the sanctions against Repik, thus Proco Air has not been charged with any violations.

According to international freight data cited by the NYT, Japan is the world’s largest exporter of the sorts of sensitive dual-use technologies that are of interest to Russian authorities. The main destination for exports of such Japanese goods is Vietnam, which is also the largest supplier of sensitive technologies to Russia.

Weak espionage legislation and a developed high-tech industry have turned Japan into an important hub for Russian operations, the newspaper writes. Japan has no distinct foreign intelligence service, and the existing restrictions imposed on its intelligence-gathering activities are largely tied to the country’s postwar constitutional structure.

According to estimates from Ukrainian authorities, Japanese components are present in 90% of Russian missiles and drones. In May, following a Russian strike on a residential building in Kyiv that killed at least 24 people, Ukrainian investigators found Japanese parts in the guidance system of the Kh-101 cruise missile that caused the damage.

Kyiv has repeatedly warned Tokyo about Russia’s use of Japanese-made electronics in its weapons. In April 2025 alone, Ukraine sent at least eight diplomatic notes to Japan’s Foreign Ministry with photographs and lists of components found. Another eight notes were sent over the course of the year.

Among the manufacturers of the discovered parts were Nippon Electric Corporation, Panasonic, and Toshiba. There is no evidence that they knowingly sold their products to Russia, and the companies stated that they comply with sanctions and export restrictions. Nippon also noted that the discovered components were manufactured long ago and had not been sold for several years.

Japan’s Ministry of Economy, Trade and Industry says it warned companies about attempts to circumvent sanctions, blacklisting dozens of foreign organizations suspected of helping Russia. Japan’s Foreign Ministry stated that Tokyo, together with its Western allies, has banned the export to Russia of goods for military use.

Meanwhile, the Japanese authorities have yet to take any public measures against Filchenkov. NYT journalists visited the Tokyo office of Aeroflot three times and also attempted to contact him by email and on Telegram. Filchenkov refused to provide any comment.

According to the WSJ’s estimate, up to 500 Wagner Group members remain in hard-to-reach areas along the upper reaches of the Ubangi. Following the death of the group’s founder Yevgeny Prigozhin — in an August 2023 plane crash that occurred inside Russia two months after his abortive march on Moscow — a significant portion of Wagner’s foreign operations was absorbed by the Russian state. In the CAR, however, the former Wagner Group entities have retained their economic assets, ties with security agencies, and control over part of the smuggling routes. The WSJ asserts that they are now led by Prigozhin’s son, Pavel.

The prescription drug tramadol is intended to treat pain, but when consumed in large doses it produces an addictive stimulating effect. A standard single dose of the drug is 50 to 100 mg, but in the CAR, pills containing 200 mg or more of the active substance are widely sold. According to researchers, the drug is taken by laborers at gold mines in order to allow them to work longer hours, by participants in pro-Russian rallies to suppress hunger and fatigue, and also by fighters of armed formations.

Nathalia Dukhan, a researcher at the Global Initiative Against Transnational Organized Crime, told the WSJ that in combat conditions tramadol is consumed in particularly high doses, as it suppresses fear and increases alertness. According to researchers, commanders of Wagner-affiliated formations distribute tablets to fighters before battles to increase their aggression. A former member of Wagner entities also told the publication that the drug is supplied to members of the Central African Republic’s presidential guard and the pro-government youth group Les Requins (“the Sharks”), whose members patrol the capital Bangui, attacking opposition supporters.

According to the WSJ report, a significant portion of the tramadol entering the CAR is manufactured in India before being exported to firms in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC). Officially, the shipments are documented as standard-dosage tablets — 50 mg — but high-potency formulations are also concealed among them. The publication does not name the manufacturers or the importing companies.

In the DRC, the high-dosage tablets are repackaged and shipped from Kinshasa to the border town of Zongo. From there, smugglers transport them into the CAR across the Ubangi River, which has become an important supply route for fuel, weapons, and illegal drugs. Wagner fighters and associated armed groups control the distribution of tramadol within the country, as well as its onward shipment to neighboring states. According to traffickers, a batch that costs around $7,000 in the CAR can be sold for $21,000 after being smuggled into Cameroon. However, the smugglers must first pay around $4,000 in bribes to Wagner fighters and associated armed formations.

Tramadol trafficking is not the former Wagner Group’s only source of income in the CAR. The Global Initiative estimates the group generates around $180 million in annual revenue from the export of gold. According to the WSJ, opioid trade profits are also used to import weapons and support a network of controlled militias.

The Wagner Group first appeared in the CAR in 2018 following an agreement with the country’s president, Faustin-Archange Touadéra. The Russian mercenaries helped the government repel a rebel advance on the capital in exchange for access to gold deposits and other resources. Today, they remain deeply integrated into the country’s army and pro-government formations. As International Crisis Group analyst Charles Bouëssel tells the WSJ, Moscow is avoiding open conflict with the Russian mercenaries.

According to the outlet, the strengthening of Wagner-affiliated formations has been accompanied by a rise in violence. In February 2025, the Anti-balaka militia, linked to Russian mercenaries, killed around 130 members of the Fulani people near the border with Cameroon. ACLED called the massacre the deadliest attack on civilians in the country since March 2022. The number of deaths in fighting over mineral-rich areas has grown by nearly 20% over the past year — to approximately 500 people, according to Uppsala University data cited by the WSJ.

The unprecedented rise of Ukraine’s military-industrial complex

Ukraine is rapidly reshaping its relationship with Europe, emerging as a legitimate defense industry partner thanks to an expanding network of co-production agreements and joint innovation projects.

At the outset of Russia’s full-scale invasion, Ukraine’s defense-industrial base remained largely rooted in Soviet-era production structures and was ill-equipped to sustain a prolonged, high-intensity conflict. Domestic manufacturers could repair and modernize legacy platforms but lacked the capacity to produce a sufficient quantity of the advanced systems required on the modern battlefield. Consequently, Ukraine initially relied heavily on Western military assistance to replace losses and maintain combat effectiveness. Over the past two years, however, this relationship has progressively evolved from one centered on equipment transfers to one increasingly based on industrial cooperation, technology sharing, and co-production with European and, to a lesser extent, North American partners.

Few observers could have predicted this transformation. In four years, the Ukrainian defense sector’s production capacity has reportedly grown by 5,400%, from $1 billion to $55 billion, while the number of specialized defense technology companies has increased by an astonishing 12,400%, from 10-12 to an estimated 1,500, with even higher growth rates for firms operating in specific segments such as uncrewed aerial vehicles (UAVs).  

In four years, the Ukrainian defense sector’s production capacity has reportedly grown by 5,400% — from $1 billion to $55 billion

Beyond the numbers, Ukraine’s military-industrial complex has also changed structurally, evolving from a largely state-controlled, heavily bureaucratized Soviet legacy sector into a hybrid, more decentralized, dynamic, and fast iterating ecosystem encompassing large defense conglomerates, small start-ups, and everything in between. Such a change, forged amidst the enormous challenges of a brutal invasion, has allowed the sector to increase domestic production of various capabilities, establish unique defense technology, and develop innovation clusters centered on continuous feedback loops with frontline units to design, test, and iteratively improve new capabilities under combat conditions.

As a result, Ukraine has developed a relative innovation advantage in selected capability areas where speed of adaptation and operational feedback matter more than production volume alone. This is most evident in the areas of FPV drones, uncrewed ground vehicles, battle management software, electronic warfare, and counter-drone technologies. In contrast, Russia’s more centralized and vertically integrated defense industry has generally struggled to replicate this speed and flexibility, though it has also adapted and improved over the past two years, narrowing the gap with Ukraine. 

This transformation has brought more international connections to the Ukrainian defense industry, allowing it to look beyond the context of the ongoing war and embrace a more structured and sustainable long-term vision.

The benefits of international cooperation

In this respect, while the Danish model has attracted considerable attention by directing foreign funding into Ukraine’s domestic production, Kyiv’s “Build with Ukraine” (BWU) initiative represents a complementary and increasingly ambitious approach. The Danish program was launched in 2024 and revolves around partner countries investing directly in Ukrainian defense manufacturing. BWU, on the other hand, seeks to establish joint production facilities, manufacturing hubs, and research and development partnerships all across Europe, allowing Ukrainian companies to expand output, access foreign investment, and integrate into the European defense and industrial base. Rather than relocating production wholesale, the BWU model is designed around joint ventures and licensed manufacturing arrangements based on intergovernmental agreements in which part of the production of Ukrainian defense items located abroad is destined for Ukraine’s armed forces and the remaining part is either acquired by the partner country or cleared for export. The BWU addresses wartime necessity while also seeking to make the Ukrainian defense sector a more competitive supplier on the European and broader international defense market.

First, and most obviously, it would allow Ukrainian companies to establish production in secure facilities that are beyond the reach of Russian missile and drone attacks. This would unlock extra capacity backed by stable energy supplies and modern industrial infrastructure, with more equipment to sustain the country’s military needs.

Second, the bilateral arrangements with partner countries would provide Ukrainian defense enterprises access to much needed financial support, thus compensating for the Ukrainian government’s insufficient funds, a factor that previously prevented the sector from taking advantage of its abundant excess capacity. This is particularly important as the country faces record defense expenditure needs for 2026 — projected at $158.2 billion, a 20% increase year-on-year. 

Ukraine faces record defense expenditure needs for 2026 — projected at $158.2 billion, a 20% increase year-on-year

Third, production abroad can become an avenue for exporting defense material, which is currently very difficult — if not impossible — due to a slow and convoluted bureaucratic process and the tight export controls necessitated by the war. Ukrainian defense firms have long lobbied for a simpler, clearer, and more permissive export policy in order to take advantage of growing market opportunities, consolidate their business, and reinvest part of the revenues into increasing production. The BWU initiative is the government’s response to these demands and a complement to other policies such as the Defence City special regime aimed at scaling domestic defense production through favorable fiscal and regulatory conditions.

Fourth, co-production abroad can pave the way for Ukrainian enterprises to benefit from deeper integration into the European defense-industrial ecosystem, thereby gaining exposure to innovative production processes and technologies, diversifying its supply chains, and facilitating the EU and NATO certification process. Hence, from Kyiv’s perspective, the program represents a pathway toward the long-term sustainability, competitiveness, and international integration of its defense-industrial sector without losing the right to exercise political oversight.

Partner countries also derive significant benefits from these arrangements. Cooperation with Ukrainian firms provides access to battle-tested technologies and associated operational concepts, as well as rapid innovation cycles that bring a gust of fresh air to a traditionally conservative and slow manufacturing sector. Ukrainian companies have demonstrated an exceptional ability to iterate designs quickly, particularly in robotic platforms, electronic warfare, battle management software, and counter-drone systems. European manufacturers gain exposure to these innovation processes while also benefiting from access to highly skilled Ukrainian engineers, technicians, and defense specialists. As a result, “Build with Ukraine” can become a win-win solution rather than a traditional donor-recipient relationship — one in which Western partners contribute capital and industrial capacity in exchange for battle proven technologies, rapid innovation, and unique expertise.

How Ukraine is integrating into the European defense industry

After a slow start, the program seems to have gained significant steam in recent weeks, with nearly four dozen defense-production agreements involving at least twenty-one partner countries across Europe and North America as of late June, based on statistics compiled by this author. 

Germany alone accounts for more than one-fifth of the total, making it Ukraine’s single most important co-production partner. The cooperation between Kyiv and Berlin extends from FPV drones and autonomous systems to counter-UAS technologies, aviation systems, and missile-related projects, reflecting Germany’s growing role as both an industrial and technological hub for Ukraine’s defense-industrial integration. The Czech Republic and Finland rank second with four agreements each (8.5%), while the United Kingdom, Denmark, and Spain each account for three joint production deals (6.4%). Additional countries whose defense industries have established joint ventures with Ukraine include France, Norway, Poland, the U.S., and Canada. Together, these data suggest that “Build with Ukraine” has evolved from a series of bilateral initiatives into a wider diplomatic and industrial effort that could generate significant return on investments for both Kyiv and its partners.

The scope and focus of the projects also reveal the strategic areas driving cooperation. More than two-thirds of the identified agreements focus on uncrewed and autonomous systems, including air, ground, and surface vehicles, loitering munitions, and counter-drone technologies. Notable examples include Quantum Systems’ multiple joint ventures with Ukrainian firms in Germany, UK-based production of Shark and PD-2 reconnaissance drones by Ukrspecsystems in a £200 million facility, Portugal’s production of Ukrainian uncrewed surface vessels, Finnish-Ukrainian partnerships on UAVs and ground robots, and joint ventures with Romanian, Danish, and Baltic companies focused on manufacturing various types of drones.

This reflects both Ukraine’s comparative advantage in rapidly evolving drone technologies and Europe’s realization that future military operations will depend increasingly on scalable autonomous systems, electronic warfare, and cost-effective munitions. Other capability areas covered by joint production deals include artillery and armored vehicles production, and as these partnerships mature, strategic assets such as cruise and ballistic missiles will get more attention.

Another noteworthy development is the parallel focus on collaborative research and development. While scaling production of drones and other urgently needed military equipment remains the priority area, Ukrainian and European firms are now looking at next-generation technologies.

Recent projects include cooperation between Hensoldt and Fire Point on the Ukrainian Freya ballistic missile-defense system, between MBDA and the Luch Design Bureau on the Neptune-2 anti-ship cruise missile, and between Airbus and Ukrainian drone developer SkyFall to integrate Ukrainian high-speed drone interceptors into advanced command-and-control architectures.

Additional initiatives will focus on missile seekers, propulsion, and related technologies. Programs such as BRAVE Germany and the other national Brave chapters exemplify the growing emphasis on defense innovation and collaborative technology development, and provide joint grant schemes for promising Ukrainian and European startups, along with hackathons and networking opportunities to foster long-lasting defense tech collaborations. For the leadership in Kyiv, this also serves to demonstrate to the EU and its Western allies that Ukraine is not a mere recipient of military assistance but also a committed contributor to Europe’s future defense innovation ecosystem. 

From a financial standpoint, co-production relies on a patchwork of resources that reflect both the urgency of wartime demands and European strategic interests. Funding has two primary sources: national contributions from partner countries, typically managed by the Ministry of Defense or other national administration offices, and EU funds pooled through various mechanisms. Occasionally, these resources may be augmented with windfall profits from frozen Russian assets, which have already been used to support Ukrainian military needs.

At the same time, leading Western companies and, in some cases, Ukrainian ones, are expected to contribute part of the capital to kickstart joint projects. In this context, the role of the European Union has become increasingly central to overcoming budget deficits and unlocking greater cooperation in the long term. Ukraine can now participate in EU-funded research and development projects via the European Defence Fund (EDF) and receive funding through the Ukraine Support Instrument (USI) within the European Defence Industry Programme (EDIP), which allocates €300 million for 2026-2027 specifically to bolster Ukraine’s defense capabilities and integrate its enterprises into European supply chains. These tools add to the resources disbursed via the Security Action for Europe (SAFE) loan mechanism, which allows Ukrainian firms to participate as contractors or subcontractors in defense projects involving at least one member state. SAFE has already been activated for multiple joint defense production initiatives in Poland, Romania, and Greece.

Bureaucratic, financial, and organizational hurdles

Despite these promising developments, implementing and expanding the Build With Ukraine program still presents a challenge.

Notwithstanding some important updates and changes made by Ukrainian authorities, strict export controls on military equipment – originally intended to prioritize domestic supply in the face of the Russian invasion – currently hinder the full potential for co-production and international sales under joint ventures. As a result, additional reforms, along with effective implementation of new rules, are necessary.

Access to capital represents another constraint, particularly for smaller Ukrainian companies seeking to expand production abroad. Although EU instruments such as the SAFE, EDIP, and EDF provide important sources of support, guaranteeing access to long-term investment remains elusive. The provision of credit from partner governments can shift with the political cycle, while high start-up costs can limit the pace of expansion — or kill a project outright when most of the financial burden falls on private actors.

Regulatory and governance issues present an additional challenge. Ukrainian companies must comply with a complex web of national, international, and NATO certification and quality-control standards and information-security procedures, along with national export controls laws. 

Ukrainian companies must comply with a complex web of national, international, and NATO certification and quality-control standards

These regulations, as well as differences between Ukrainian and foreign legal frameworks, can complicate the setup of joint ventures and become a serious administrative burden, especially for smaller enterprises that have limited internal audit capacity and expertise. The recent bilateral agreement with Finland for the development of a joint framework for quality assurance of defense equipment is promising and could be a template for similar initiatives with other partners.

In general, regulatory delays are quite common, as seen in Denmark, where authorities had to repeal domestic environmental and building regulations to authorize the establishment of a fuel and component production facility for missiles made in cooperation with the Ukrainian company Fire Point.

The fragmented nature of European defense procurement also continues to favor national industrial champions, potentially limiting broader integration opportunities for Ukrainian firms even after a joint venture begins operations. This can also lead to siloed projects and diminished economies of scale.

Additionally, legal challenges related to integrity and oversight, including investigations into potential corruption within Ukrainian defense firms, can affect the partner’s political will and delay project implementation. Effective due-diligence mechanisms will therefore become increasingly important as cooperation deepens.

Human capital and technology protection represent other potential areas of friction. Expanding cross-border production will require greater mobility for engineers, technicians, and defense specialists, and cooperation between public and private entities operating under different legal frameworks must be facilitated. Critically, Ukrainian companies opening production abroad face the risk of losing skilled Ukrainian engineers, technicians, and specialists attracted by better-funded European firms. 

Ukrainian companies opening production abroad face the risk of losing skilled Ukrainian engineers, technicians, and specialists attracted by better-funded European firms

Equally important, Ukrainian companies remain concerned about protecting intellectual property and preserving the competitive advantages they have developed through wartime innovation. Successful joint ventures and multinational collaborative projects depend on transparent and well-defined agreements that take all of these factors into account.

At this stage, the Build With Ukraine initiative has certainly gained traction and promises to give a lifeline and international exposure to the country’s growing defense industrial sector while scaling up the production of essential military equipment for national defense. It is also becoming a framework for integrating Ukraine into the European defense technological and industrial base through a combination of co-production, investment, technology transfer, and collaborative research and development. Still, its success depends on the removal of structural barriers in multiple areas and at different levels, both within Ukraine and in partner countries. 

At the St. Petersburg International Economic Forum in early June, Putin said the launch of an Oreshnik missile at Ukraine during a massive aerial attack on May 24, 2026 had been a test that resulted in a hit on a “shed.” He said two missiles were launched: one at the city of Bila Tserkva and another at what he called the “perimeter of the main fortified area” of the Donetsk “People’s Republic” (DPR). 

“In fact, there has not been a single combat use of Oreshnik on Ukrainian territory in the full sense of the word. And the latest one was, to be honest — I will reveal a great military state secret to you — we simply struck where it was convenient to look at the results. This applies to Bila Tserkva, and even more so to the DPR area, along the perimeter of the main fortified area. Our drones later flew there, to that shed we hit, and simply looked at how the separating blocks had landed and measured everything down to the millimeter. This is important for us so we can make future decisions on the full-scale use of Oreshnik against targets, including in urban areas,” Putin said.

The Oreshnik strike on Bila Tserkva, a town located about 80 kilometers from Kyiv, did cause debate among experts regarding the target, as there are no significant military facilities there apart from a transport aviation airfield.

The visible aftermath of the attack on Bila Tserkva was indeed seen in an area filled with storage garages. Ukraine’s State Emergency Service said a fire engulfed three of them. According to prosecutors in the Kyiv region, a building belonging to an unidentified enterprise was also damaged. It was likely one of the objects Putin referred to as a “shed.”

As for the “fortified area in the DPR,” video appeared online of Oreshnik warheads falling somewhere on the northern outskirts of Donetsk. There are still no publicly available satellite images or ground-level photos showing the aftermath of the missile impact — this despite Putin’s characterization of the system as a “wonder weapon” with a destructive force comparable to the Tunguska meteorite.

What military effect did the Oreshnik have?

Until recently, both Putin and Russia’s Defense Ministry spoke of Oreshnik’s outstanding characteristics, saying all military objectives set for the missile launches had been achieved. After its first use against a facility in the Ukrainian city of Dnipro, Putin said “kinetic strike elements” had been heated to “the temperature of the surface of the sun.”

“The destruction is very serious. Everything at the center turns to ash, breaks down into its component elements, and targets located three or four floors down, perhaps even deeper, are hit. And these are not just floors, but fortified structures. The force of the strike is colossal,” he claimed.

Putin said the results of using Oreshnik were the same “as using nuclear weapons” — but without radioactive contamination. In June 2025, he claimed the Oreshnik had “proved itself very well in combat conditions.” In August 2025, the Russian leader said the first serially produced system had been delivered to the troops, meaning mass production began before all testing had been completed, which contradicts standard defense industry practice.

Putin claimed the Oreshnik had “proved itself very well in combat conditions”

In May 2026, Putin said Oreshnik had been placed on combat duty in 2025. At an expanded meeting of the Russian Defense Ministry board on Dec. 17, he promised to put the system on combat duty “before the end of the year,” referring specifically to a road-mobile missile system. Russia says Oreshnik has been on combat duty in Belarus since December.

Russia’s Defense Ministry, for its part, said the “objectives of the strikes were achieved” and that “all assigned targets were hit” in all three known uses of Oreshnik: against Dnipro on Nov. 21, 2024, against Lviv on Jan. 8, 2026, and against and Bila Tserkva (1, 2, 3) on May 24, 2026. Notably, in all three cases, Russia reported its Oreshnik launches had been made in response to Ukrainian actions the Kremlin considered “escalatory.”

Each of Russia’s Oreshnik launches has been justified by the enemy’s “escalatory” actions

The strike on Pivdenmash in Dnipro came, Putin said, “in response to the use of American and British long-range weapons.” At the time, Ukrainian forces had been using ATACMS and Storm Shadow missiles to hit command posts and ammunition depots in the Kursk and Bryansk regions.

The attack on an aircraft repair plant in Lviv followed what Russia called “a response to a terrorist attack” on the Russian president’s residence in the Novgorod Region in late 2025. The attack itself has not been conclusively independently confirmed.

The latest strike on Bila Tserkva, meanwhile, was presented as “retaliation” for a strike that killed more than 20 civilians at a college in Starobilsk.

The Insider has previously explained in detail why Oreshnik’s stated characteristics do not match reality and why its use with nonnuclear payloads makes little military sense due to its high cost and low accuracy. In none of the cases listed above is there evidence of substantial damage caused by a weapon of “colossal force.”

According to Ukrainian estimates, the kinetic effect of Oreshnik’s inert blocks — mass-dimensional mock-ups or heavy decoys — is equivalent to between 52 and 95 kilograms of TNT, comparable to a Shahed drone warhead. The strike elements found after the attack on Bila Tserkva turned out to be “ordinary billets,” made not from steel or tungsten, which could theoretically provide high penetrating power, but from cast iron.

The kinetic effect of an Oreshnik block is comparable to the impact of a Shahed drone

There is no particular reason to test a weapon of Oreshnik’s class on enemy territory. It is far more convenient to do so at domestic test ranges, especially if the goal is to measure the effects of impacts and collect all necessary telemetry.

Another possible explanation — testing the weapon under enemy air defense conditions — does not fit either, since Ukraine does not have systems capable of intercepting this type of munition. At best, Russia could observe the work of Europe’s missile attack early warning system. But as far as can be judged, Oreshnik launches comply with the 1988 agreement on ballistic missile launches, meaning the United States receives advance notification and then passes the relevant information to Ukraine. That means Russia cannot even achieve surprise.

The Insider has previously noted that the strike on a “shed” — an obviously civilian object — directly contradicts repeated statements by Russian officials that only military targets are attacked.

It is also difficult to understand why Russia would conduct tests on enemy territory, handing the enemy missile parts that make it possible to study the weapon’s design. Together with accumulated remnants from missiles used against Lviv and Dnipro, experts have gained a comprehensive picture of Oreshnik’s component base and design principles (1, 2):

• a layout rooted in the Cold War era;
• Russian- and Belarusian-made components;
• parts and devices manufactured no later than 2018.

In other words, the missile is not a new development, but a legacy from the period when work on the RS-26 Rubezh project had officially been halted. This likely makes it indirectly possible to assess the design of missiles used in the Topol and Yars systems.

Notably, none of the strikes used the principle of a MIRV system — multiple independently targetable reentry vehicles, which allow for  targets up to 100 kilometers apart to be hit.

Moreover, Dallas Analytics published internal correspondence between Russian defense industry enterprises indicating that Oreshnik is equipped with the Soviet-era GU-503 gyroscope and that current contractors cannot calibrate the device before final assembly. For that reason, the warheads’ deviation from the target could reach tens of kilometers. Some experts, however, have questioned this conclusion.

What political effect did the Oreshnik have?

Launching a missile designed to deliver nuclear weapons with inert warheads — in other words, dummy payloads — makes sense only as a signal of readiness to escalate. It serves asa warning that demonstrates the weapon’s capabilities without crossing the political line that would be crossed if it were used with a full combat payload.

But it can only be used that way once — for the simple reason that a repeated warning without further action inevitably results in a loss of credibility. The same applies to demonstrative steps to create infrastructure for the Oreshnik in Belarus, along with military exercises involving its use. The next step on the escalation ladder declared by the Kremlin after launching missiles with inert warheads would be the use of tactical nuclear charges, and so far there are no signs of any readiness to take that step.

A repeated warning without further action inevitably costs credibility

In any case, the warning clearly did not work. Deliveries of Western long-range weapons are continuing, Ukrainian drone raids on Russian territory have reached a qualitatively new scale, and massive Ukrainian airstrikes have hit Moscow for the first time.

Ukrainian forces have also reported strikes on Kapustin Yar (apparently unsuccessful), where known ground infrastructure for servicing Oreshnik is located, and on the Votkinsk plant (visibly successful), where the missile is produced. Moreover, Ukraine’s Flamingo missile caused significantly more damage to the Votkinsk plant, as confirmed by satellite images, than Oreshnik has caused in all its known uses.

Why the Oreshnik does not affect the course of the war

The Oreshnik intermediate-range ballistic missile is considered a development of the RS-26 Rubezh project. Support vehicles for the system shown by Russia’s Defense Ministry are identical to those used in the Yars road-mobile missile system, while some components match those of the Topol missile system.

In the current war in Ukraine, there are no suitable targets for this system using nonnuclear warheads, and political restrictions remain on using a nuclear warhead. Militarily, investment in drones and counter-drone measures could have an incomparably greater effect than occasional Oreshnik strikes.

Some experts note that in its current form, Oreshnik serves as a “psychological weapon” without real operational value when measured by cost, combat power, and accuracy. The repeated nominal use of the “wonder weapon,” with its focus shifting from an external audience to a domestic one, reflects not readiness to raise the stakes in an escalation game, but rather a deadlock in the war and a degree of “inflation” in Putin’s traditional “trading in threats.”

In its current form, Oreshnik serves as a “psychological weapon.” However, pro-war Russian Telegram channels have also noted (1, 2, 3) Oreshnik’s diminishing psychological effect, along with a steady decline in the significance of the chosen targets: from a strategic missile enterprise and an aircraft repair plant to a “shed” in a garage cooperative.

During the St. Petersburg forum, it also emerged that a ride called “Oreshnik” had opened at Divo Ostrov, a local amusement park. Visitors are lifted on a platform and then suddenly dropped down. The observed function of the real Oreshnik is not very different from that attraction: a thrill that results in no real harm to anyone.

If we approach history not as a sequence of random events but as a succession of institutional models, it becomes clear that the world we have lived in for the past few decades was, on the whole, something of an anomaly. We have come to regard the “rules of the game” as something fixed — a kind of natural state of civilization. Yet what we call the “global world order” is in fact the product of a brief historical moment that began after 1945.

Today that order is in severe crisis, and contrary to popular belief, the problem goes beyond the reality of Donald Trump. Even if the White House were home to a president more aligned with the norms of conventional diplomacy, returning to the model of the past 80 years would no longer be possible. The world is sliding toward a state akin to global chaos, and the current American administration is merely accelerating that process.

The world order, with its established rules, is sliding toward global chaos, and the Trump administration is accelerating that process

This is a dramatic reversal. Until recently, it was assumed that obedient global citizens would enjoy a more or less predictable future, while states that broke the generally accepted rules would bring upon themselves a predictable response. That logic kept even the most militarized pariahs in check. North Korea could live in its “isolated corner” with a nuclear bomb, and no one attacked it so long as it refrained from trying to redraw the global map.

But now the very architects of the rules are beginning to employ direct force. The United States — the central systemic actor that once won the race against the Soviet Union precisely by betting on the power of stable institutions — is now shifting to tactics of outright coercion. And that means the old model of a “rules-based order” has ceased to exist.

North’s theory: How the world found order

To understand the reason why this is happening, it is worth turning to the work of Nobel laureate Douglass North and his co-authors John Wallis and Barry Weingast. Their concept of “open and limited access orders” is perhaps the most appropriate tool for analyzing today’s reality.

North made a compelling case that the vast majority of human societies throughout history have existed under “limited access orders” (or the “natural state”). In this kind of setup, elites hold power and resources, and the rule of the strong replaces the rule of law. As a result, all relationships are, at their core, merely personal arrangements. A monarch grants a baron land, peasants, and income from their labor in exchange for the baron’s payment of taxes to the royal treasury in peacetime and his contribution of men for the king’s army during wartime.

If one of them dies, the terms of the agreement may be renegotiated — with land transferred to another baron, or with the baron swearing loyalty to an heir to the throne. If one side disagrees, the dispute is resolved by force — usually with devastating consequences for the population. The same dynamic plays out in relations between states. Historically, this kind of zero-sum game, in which individual players endeavored to grow their share of largely fixed resources, went on for centuries, even if devastating interclan wars sometimes led to temporary periods of “playing by the rules.”

As North, Wallis, and Weingast showed, agreeing to surrender the struggle is rational provided that the new  “non-aggression regime” can offer compensation comparable to what could be gained from waging war. Such compensation — or rents — can emerge if the state erects barriers to business activity or if there is insufficient competition in the economy. Maintaining such barriers requires enforcing limited access to political power — which is precisely why North and his co-authors define this type of society as a “limited access order.”

Such “non-aggression pacts,” however, tend to be short-lived, because over time the power of key players may wane and new players may emerge, hungry for their own piece of the pie. Natural disasters, technological progress, or geographic discoveries can also radically shift the sources of rent available to elites — and, in turn, alter their calculations of the costs and benefits of maintaining a “non-aggression regime” versus going to war.

Nevertheless, agreements reached by elites promote the emergence of institutions, which uphold the agreements in peacetime and facilitate progression toward more mature forms of “limited access” in which violence stays within certain boundaries. Rules provide a higher degree of predictability, and predictability provides incentives for productive labor and cooperation. Ultimately, this creates opportunity for a transition to “open-access orders” — systems in which access to economic activity, resources, and governance is based on rules rather than determined solely by proximity to those in power.

North and his co-authors believe that the success of the West starting from the 19th century became possible precisely because Britain, France, and the United States (and later other Western European countries) accomplished the difficult transition to an “open access order.” Its key element was the development of the rule of law, even if at first it only applied to the elites, whose personal privileges became impersonal, whose rights and assets became inheritable, and whose social status was thus secured.

The West’s economic success rests on the fact that these countries transitioned to the rule of law — that is, to an “open access order”

Historically, a key role was played by England’s Magna Carta, which King John was forced to sign in 1215 amid a profound crisis. War was raging, and John had little choice but to promise freedoms and rights to the barons in exchange for their support. He later tore up the charter, of course, and executed the most active barons. Yet the document survived, and in the Glorious Revolution of 1688, Britain returned to it.

It can take centuries of evolution before even a “limited access order” is achieved. Moreover, this progress can be reversed. While we tend to think of development as a forward-pointing arrow, institutional history demonstrated that regression is possible. North and his co-authors wrote about this explicitly in relation to “limited access orders.”

At the same time, they argued that “open access orders” are far more internally stable — and are no longer subject to the risks of regression. Yet before our very eyes, countries that North would have classified as having reached the “open access” stage are beginning to slide back into the “natural state,” in which politics once again becomes a projection of the interests of individual clans.

One possible reason lies in the fact that, despite having long since transitioned to open access institutions domestically, the ruling elites of developed countries continued to follow the logic of “might makes right” on the international scene. This was the fundamental cause of World War I: the interests of major national corporations became the interests of the state. Whenever businesses needed new markets, colonies, or access to mines, politics transformed itself to serve those needs, justifying expansion through appeals to the “greatness of the nation” — even as open access institutions were already functioning within those same countries.

This triggered a catastrophe that led to the deaths of millions and the destruction of economies across Europe. The deep disillusionment with the values proclaimed by the elites of developed countries gave rise to alternatives to the model of free markets and liberal democracy that the most advanced countries had embraced in their domestic policies at the start of the 20th century.

Those alternatives were the Bolshevik dictatorship of the proletariat in Russia and the fascist model, which originated in Italy and was then implemented in its most aggressive form in Nazi Germany. Attempts to create international mechanisms for resolving conflicts — in the form of the League of Nations and a system of international rules — proved unsuccessful in the interwar period. The result was an even bloodier and more destructive world war. 

Disillusionment with the free-market model led to a Bolshevik dictatorship in Russia, fascism in Italy, and Nazism in Germany

The international order that emerged after 1945 had two distinct tracks: one governing relations between the two blocs that had formed around the USSR and the United States, and another internal track within each bloc.

In the case of the Soviet Union, the formal requirement was loyalty to communist ideology — which in practice meant unconditional subordination to Soviet leadership in exchange for resources from Moscow. Any display of disloyalty was suppressed by force — as happened in Hungary in 1956 and Czechoslovakia in 1968.

In its confrontation with the Soviet Union, the Western bloc, centered on the United States, needed its own ideological foundation. That role was filled by the ideas of market competition, political democracy, and freedom of speech. The declaration of rule-of-law principles was equally important.

In the United States and Western Europe, the practical implementation of these principles ensured the stability of democratic mechanisms and created incentives for economic development through the protection of property rights. By the early 1990s, when the Soviet model collapsed under the weight of its own inefficiency, this Western system had gone global. Even China began to integrate. Despite the importance of the American role as an informal “global policeman,” the system depended for decades on the consent and support of the majority of other states.

That support was ensured by the benefits enjoyed by most countries: the system guaranteed stable rules of the game and provided opportunities for cooperation and economic development. The most striking example is China, which became the primary beneficiary of globalization. Overall, the 1990s and 2000s were — despite all their problems — a period of unprecedented growth in global prosperity.  

… And how it was lost

Despite the apparent success, a crisis was brewing that politicians preferred not to notice. Globalization benefited everyone — but in developed countries, especially the United States, those gains were distributed very unevenly. Business elites grew wealthy. The middle class — particularly skilled workers — did not grow poorer in absolute terms, but they lost status, stability, and their former sense of promise. People went from being workers with permanent contracts and union membership to sorting goods in Amazon warehouses, liable to be fired at any moment.

In the 2010s, American researchers documented a phenomenon unprecedented in the history of developed nations: starting in the late 1990s, life expectancy among white men over 45 began to decline — not because of illness, but because of despair and the drug addiction and alcoholism that came with it.

This was happening primarily in the so-called “Rust Belt,” home to the factories that had once formed the backbone of America’s manufacturing industry. However, in the 1980s and 1990s, their owners moved production en masse to Mexico or China. The media barely noticed, and the political class was even slower to respond.

In Europe, the problem was less severe thanks largely to the social-democratic system that kept inequality in check and provided higher levels of social guarantees. There, at least, production capacity could be relocated to Eastern European countries — meaning it stayed within the single market. The United States had no such buffers.

And then came Trump

Donald Trump himself belongs to the elite class that benefited the most from the current wave of globalization. But what he understood earlier than most was that the people who lost out in the process could win him an election.

Trump and his fellow tycoons had their own motives. By the 2010s, in an effort to preserve the global order by addressing a range of challenges — from terrorism to climate change to pandemics — the governments of several leading Western countries had begun making claims on the assets of the global business elite. The tightening of financial sector regulation after the 2008 crisis, pressure on offshore accounts, and stimulus for the energy transition meant that those with the biggest profits would have to pay. Unsurprisingly, most of those players had absolutely no desire to pay up.

Wanting to destroy the order that constrains you is entirely rational. Trump has no strategy, but he has a very clear instinctive sense of what stands in his way.

The economics of war

The most dangerous misconception is thinking that geopolitics exists separately from economics. Essentially, Trump is making a deliberate return to the “golden age” of the late 19th century, openly admitting he views that era as his ideal. But the problem is that for the United States it was a time when business elites directly dictated the country’s political agenda.

In late 19th-century America, the fusion of business and politics — i.e. corruption —  reached new levels. It was the age of the “robber barons,” comparable to what Russia experienced in the 1990s. Government policies serving the interests of big business were among the causes of the First World War, even if the businesses that were pushing their politicians toward redividing the world did not foresee the meat grinder they were engineering. Instead of profit, they reaped an economic collapse.

Instead of profit, the business elite reaped economic collapse

Today we are witnessing striking parallels with that era. When modern politicians (and their corporate backers) begin to see international relations purely as a “zero-sum game,” they forget that the modern economy rests on cooperation and the division of labor.

In the Middle Ages, peasants and craftsmen did not invest in technology — not because they were foolish, but because there were no guarantees that assets created through investment would be protected: armed men could seize any surplus at any moment. When we destroy international rules, we create the same type of no-holds-barred playing field on a global scale. Why invest in innovation and long-term projects when you don’t know what policies the state will pursue tomorrow, or what conflicts your country might be drawn into as a result of those policies?

Putin pressed the button first

Trump, however, was not the first to begin stress-testing the system. Russia was — in 2014, with Crimea.

Putin’s logic was different, but it was equally self-interested. In the 2000s, the Russian elite badly wanted to join the “global club” — albeit on its own terms, without implementing any real reforms at home. However, they soon realized that was not going to happen. The initial response was a rhetoric of sovereignty and a flexing of “energy superpower” muscles (in the form of gas wars with Ukraine and Putin’s Munich speech in 2007). Yet even then, amid rising tensions with the West, their bet on integration into global markets remained on the table. The turning point came in 2011. Watching the fates of Mubarak and Gaddafi as a result of the Arab Spring, top members of Russia’s elite began to experience a deeply personal fear — a realization that moving toward integration could lead to the same outcome for them personally. 

The consequence of that fear was a pivot toward a “besieged fortress” model — beginning with Crimea and Donbas in 2014 and culminating with the full-scale invasion of Ukraine in 2022. But for all the rhetoric, this was done for domestic political purposes. The same logic — in a different guise — drives Trump. One is dismantling the order to protect his business assets. The other is starting a war to hold on to power. Different methods, both stemming from the same opportunism.

If one were to draw historical analogies, however, the current situation differs from the era of the world wars in two important ways. First, for all the rapid growth of world trade at the start of the 20th century, major nation-states were largely self-sufficient. After the Second World War, the same could be said of the opposing political blocs built around the USSR and the United States. In today’s far more complex and interdependent world, however, the destruction of established ties and the intricate mechanisms that underpin global markets could have far more severe consequences.

Second, there is the matter of nuclear arsenals — along with an evident decline in the psychological and political barriers to their use. Should nuclear weapons be deployed in a conflict between major powers, humanity risks not merely a recession and political chaos, but a literal return to the Middle Ages.

History has seen such a reversal before. The Roman Empire was a highly advanced state — but it collapsed nonetheless, and for nearly a thousand years after its fall, Europeans could not build bridges across great rivers like the one the Romans had constructed. Ultimately, civilization was saved by the existence of other centers of civilization — China, India, the Arab world, the states of Central America. But if today’s global world begins to collapse, we all risk finding ourselves in the ruins.

China: Not a savior, but a symptom

Against this backdrop, the China model seems almost appealing. At least it is stable and predictable — unlike Trump’s America, which is increasingly seen by many as a “monkey with a grenade.”

But there should be no illusions here either. At a conference attended by Chinese and European experts in Shanghai last year, a conversation arose about the concept of “mutual benefit” in the context of cultural differences. For Europeans, mutual benefit means “50-50” or “60-40.” In the Chinese context, any deal in which each side gets something is “mutually beneficial” — even if the ratio is closer to 90-10 (in favor of Beijing, of course). Without a trace of irony, the Chinese genuinely consider this normal: “It benefits you too, and you agreed to it yourself.” Like any ancient civilization, China is inclined to view all other peoples as barbarians — and taking a little more from the barbarians than they are willing to offer presents no moral dilemma. 

This case serves to explain China’s behavior within the same zero-sum logic: it does not take sides, playing for itself alone. This is clearly visible in Chinese infrastructure development projects in developing countries, which are normally financed by Chinese loans and carried out by PRC-based companies with the hands of Chinese workers.

Beijing’s growing military capability — and its willingness to use it — raises the stakes enormously. A U.S.-China confrontation would not create a new stable order, as it would lack the ideological dimension that during the Cold War compelled Western elites to adhere to certain ethical standards. Instead, in terms of genuine values, there is no fundamental difference between Trump and Xi Jinping.

Alliance of good-faith actors as a way out

Against the backdrop of this grim context, some models do inspire cautious optimism. In the late 1980s, future Nobel laureate Eric Maskin proposed a solution to the classic “prisoner’s dilemma.” The standard version is static: two players whose mutual distrust leads to a stable bad equilibrium guaranteeing the worst outcomes for both. Maskin and his co-author Drew Fudenberg examined the dynamics: what happens if the number of such players and their interactions is infinite, and players learn from their own experience?

As the researchers concluded, in a dynamic setting, selection occurs. Good-faith players — those willing to take a risk and trust an unfamiliar counterpart at first contact — may initially suffer losses due to the opportunism of counterparties, but they then exclude those who have failed to earn their trust from further interactions. Over time, the good faith actors form a mutually beneficial cluster characterized by lower interaction costs.

In the long run, this coalition of players outperforms those betting on a zero-sum game. The question is whether anyone in today’s world can, as an alternative to the “war of all against all,” offer a new model of cooperation that creates conditions for the resolution of global issues on a similar basis.

Interestingly, in conversations with people living in Russia, I hear the same idea again and again: for all the attempts to reorient the nation toward China, for all the rhetoric about a “pivot to the East,” the majority still find Europe more appealing. The Western way of life, the values, the sense that people there don’t want to go to war. This is not nostalgia, but a signal that the European model carries something that neither China nor today’s United States can offer.

In my view, it is precisely the European Union — originally born from cooperation between France and Germany, countries that had fought each other for centuries — that could in theory offer a new model of engagement. The enormous losses suffered by these countries in the 20th century’s two world wars led their leaders and national elites to the realization that negotiating is cheaper than fighting.

The enormous losses suffered by France and Germany in the two world wars of the 20th century led to the realization that negotiating is cheaper than fighting

The problem is that for all the European Union’s obvious successes over the past 80 years, the bloc is now experiencing a crisis of its own: it expanded faster than it could integrate politically, and it has lived under an American security umbrella that has suddenly proved unreliable. The speech by U.S. Vice President J.D. Vance in Munich in early 2025 came as a genuine shock to European elites.

But perhaps that shock was exactly what was needed. Over the past year, movement toward real consolidation — both military and political — has finally begun. I will not venture to predict the probabilities, but the logic of both Maskin’s theory and the experience of postwar Europe points to one conclusion: a cooperating cluster is, in the long run, more effective than a war of all against all. The only question is whether we will have enough time for that cluster to form before the debris of the old order buries everyone.

Reports earlier this week confirmed that Guzenko had been charged under Article 282 of Russia’s Criminal Code, the country’s extremism statute. The editors of his Telegram channel also reported the charge.

The details of the case, along with the specific accusations against the self-styled “war correspondent,” are unknown.

In June, Guzenko was detained by Russian military police. The authors of his channel said at the time they feared that after his detention he could be “zeroed out,” a term used in Russian pro-war circles to mean extrajudicial execution via methods such as being sent on an assignment known to be almost certainly fatal.

Before his detention, Guzenko had expressed sharp criticism of Vladimir Putin, writing in April that the Russian leader ought to explain how shutdowns of mobile phone service and internet access were justified based on security reasons.

“Forgive me, of course, but you know, Comrade Supreme Commander-in-Chief, what you are saying now is an outright lie. Your shutdowns of mobile phone service and the internet do not protect anyone. This is all a lie,” he wrote.

After that, according to the Trinadtsaty channel, Guzenko had his phone taken away and was sent on an assault mission.

This was not the blogger’s first arrest. In 2024, he had a conflict with the Chechen Akhmat unit and its commander, Apti Alaudinov. Guzenko was then detained in Russia’s Stavropol Region on accusations of assault. He was released from pretrial detention after signing a contract with the Ministry of Defense. He later said he had been beaten and tortured after his arrest.

According to former prisoners, Cherdantsev regularly abused them, forced them to undress and imitate sexual acts, and made degrading comments about their genitals.

“We thought he was a pervert,” one former prisoner said.

Cherdantsev also denied prisoners medical care, which, among other things, led to an outbreak of scabies at the colony.

“We couldn’t sleep at night because of the scabies. You would ask him for ointment, and he would say he wanted us to suffer,” a former prisoner said.

Schemes found that Cherdantsev, 48, was born in Kyrgyzstan, where he formerly worked as a paramedic at a juvenile correctional colony. According to a report reviewed by Schemes, the medical office at that facility was often closed, basic medicines were unavailable, and teenagers suffered from advanced infectious and dermatological diseases.

Cherdantsev likely moved to Russia in 2013. He settled in the village of Pervomayskoye near Pakino, first working at an orphanage. In 2015, he began working at IK-7.

According to Finnish outlet Yle, a Russian military base is being built near Kandalaksha to house and station new artillery and engineering brigades totaling approximately 2,000 personnel. After Ukraine’s successful “Spiderweb” operation of June 2025, in which drones transported by unsuspecting truckers flew out from their cargo to attack strategic airbases across Russia — including Olenya air base near Murmansk — the region began transitioning to heightened security measures. 7×7 links the comprehensive vehicle inspections and restrictions on the Kola highway specifically to efforts to protect military infrastructure.

Although the regional operational headquarters called the vehicle inspections routine, they coincided with the large-scale buildup of Russian military presence in the area.

Russia has been consistently strengthening its military infrastructure in the northwestern direction since Finland and Sweden joined NATO. In 2024, a base for the 44th Army Corps of the reconstituted Leningrad Military District was established near the Karelian village of Novaya Vilga, and efforts began to convert a former warehouse in Kandalaksha into a new military garrison. More than 42 billion rubles ($548 million) were allocated for the development of these facilities in 2024-2026.

In June, Yle reported on the construction of a new base near Petrozavodsk in Karelia. According to satellite imagery and construction paperwork, a military town of more than 50 buildings is being built a few dozen kilometers from the Finnish border. Finnish experts estimate the future garrison will have a strength of 4,000 to 6,000 military personnel. They call the development the first entirely new Russian military base on the Finnish border since Finland joined NATO.

A senior NATO official told The Insider’s correspondent at the alliance’s summit in Ankara that Russia continues to build up its forces on the Finnish border, in the High North, and in Kaliningrad Region. According to the official, Russia has reconstituted the Leningrad and Moscow military districts and formed at least one new army corps and three new divisions, with the overall aim of increasing the size of the army to 1.8 million personnel.

Nevertheless, NATO believes that the majority of Russian recruits continue to be sent to the war in Ukraine to replenish losses, and they note that the pace of advance of Russian forces at the front has slowed significantly compared to last year. Despite the strengthening of Russian military infrastructure, the alliance does not believe that Moscow is preparing for an imminent attack on NATO countries.

“There are no signs of Russia’s intention to carry out an imminent attack on the alliance in the near term. That would be a poor decision,” the senior NATO official assessed.