How the Russian Establishment Really Sees the War Ending - Anatol Lieven (Foreign Policy)

Mini-introdução PRA: 

Conversações de Anatol Lieven com interlocutores russos na Rússia, resumidas por ele neste artigo para a Foreign Policy. Vale ler por inteiro, mas destaco desde já um trecho que nos concerne, ainda que o Brasil ou a sua política externa não tenham sido citados.

"On one important point, opinion was unanimous: that there is no chance whatsoever of any international formal and legal recognition of the Russian annexations of Ukrainian territory, and that Russia would not press for this. It was recognized that this would be rejected not just by Ukraine and the West, but by China, India, and South Africa, none of which recognized Russian annexation of Crimea in 2014."

O fato é que, em 2014, o Brasil NÃO se pronunciou sobre a invasão e a anexação ilegais da península da Crimeia pela Rússia. Naquele ano, Dilma Rousseff estava acolhendo uma reunião do BRICS em Fortaleza e preferiu deixar o assunto de lado. Mais tarde, numa reunião do G20 na Austrália, perguntada sobre a Crimeia disse que não iria se manifestar sobre o assunto, pois se tratava de "uma questão interna da Ucrânia" (sic três vezes). Como se a invasão de um país soberano por outro não estivesse prevista na Carta da ONU como uma violação do Direito Internacional.

Paulo Roberto de Almeida

Brasília, 29/08/2024

Analysis

How the Russian Establishment Really Sees the War Ending

An inside look at what Russia expects—and doesn’t—in a cease-fire with Ukraine.

By Anatol Lieven, the director of the Eurasia program at the Quincy Institute for Responsible Statecraft. 

Foreign Policy, August 27, 2024, 3:14 PM 

 

Discussions have been happening for some time among Western policymakers, experts, and the wider public about how the war in Ukraine ought to end. I can confirm that the same type of conversations are happening in Russia.

I recently had the opportunity to speak, on the basis of confidentiality, to a wide range of members of the Russian establishment, including former diplomats, members of think tanks, academics, and businesspeople, as well as a few members of the wider public. Their ideas about the war, and the shape of its eventual ending, deserve to be better understood in the West and in Ukraine itself.

Only a small minority believed that Russia should fight for complete victory in Ukraine, including the annexation of large new areas of Ukrainian territory or the creation of a client regime in Kyiv. A large majority wanted an early cease-fire roughly along the existing battle lines. There is high confidence that the Ukrainian military will never be able to break through and reconquer significant amounts of Ukraine’s lost territories.

Most of my conversations took place before the Ukrainian invasion of the Russian province of Kursk. As far as I can make out, however, this Ukrainian success has not changed basic Russian calculations and views—not least because, at the same time, the Russian army has continued to make significant progress farther east, in the Donbas, where the Russians are closing in on the key town of Pokrovsk. “The attack on Kursk may help Ukraine eventually to get rather better terms, but nothing like a real victory,” in the words of one Russian security expert. “They will sooner or later have to withdraw from Kursk, but we will never withdraw from Crimea and the Donbas.”

The Ukrainian incursion into Kursk has undoubtedly been a serious embarrassment to the Putin administration. It comes on top of a long row of other embarrassing failures, beginning with the appallingly bad planning of the initial invasion. And among the informed Russian elites, I get very little sense of genuine respect for Russian President Vladimir Putin as a military leader—though by contrast, there is much more widespread approval of the government’s economic record in resisting Western sanctions and rebuilding Russian industry for war.

Yet a key reason for my contacts’ desires for compromise was that they believed that Russia should not, and probably could not, attempt to capture major Ukrainian cities like Kharkiv by force of arms. They pointed to the length of time, the high casualties, and the huge destruction that have been involved in taking even small cities like Bakhmut in the face of strong Ukrainian resistance. Any areas of the countryside in Kharkiv province that can be taken should therefore be regarded not as prizes but as bargaining counters in future negotiations.

Underlying this attitude is the belief that to create a Russian army large enough to attempt such a complete victory would require a massive new round of conscription and mobilization—perhaps leading to the kind of popular resistance now seen in Ukraine. The government has been careful to avoid conscripting people from Moscow and St. Petersburg, and to pay large salaries to soldiers conscripted from poorer areas. Neither of these limits could be maintained in the context of full mobilization.

Partly for the same reason, the idea of going beyond Ukraine to launch a future attack on NATO was dismissed by everyone with derision. As I was told, “Look, the whole point of all these warnings to NATO has been to stop NATO from joining the fight against us in Ukraine, because of the horrible dangers involved. Why in the name of God would we ourselves attack NATO and bring these dangers on ourselves? What could we hope to gain? That’s absurd!”

On the other hand, every single person with whom I spoke stated that there could be no withdrawal from territory held by Russia in the four Ukrainian regions that Moscow claims to have annexed. A majority suggested that any territory in other provinces like Kharkiv could be returned to Ukraine in return for them being demilitarized. This would help guarantee a cease-fire and would also allow Putin to claim that he had ensured the safety of adjacent Russian provinces, which in recent months have been subject to Ukrainian bombardment. Some more optimistic Russians thought that it might be possible to exchange territory in Kharkiv for territory in the four provinces, none of which is currently fully occupied by Russia.

I found this balance of opinion among the people with whom I spoke to be fairly plausible as a wider picture, because on the whole it corresponds closely to the views of the wider Russian public, as expressed in opinion polls conducted by organizations that in the past have been found reliable. Thus in a poll last year by the Levada Center, sponsored by the Chicago Council on Global Affairs, respondents were exactly equal (62 percent) in their desire for immediate peace talks and in their refusal to return the annexed territories to Ukraine.

Among my contacts, there were no differences on the subject of Ukrainian neutrality, which everyone declared essential. However, it would seem that serious thought is being given by sections of the Russian establishment to the vexed question of how a peace settlement could be secured without formal Western military guarantees and supplies to Ukraine. Hence the widely discussed ideas of a peace treaty ratified by the U.N. Security Council and the BRICS, and of broad demilitarized zones secured by a U.N. force.

As a leading Russian foreign-policy analyst told me, “In the West, you seem to think that only military guarantees are any good. But political factors are also critical. We have invested enormous diplomatic effort in building up our relations with the global south, which certainly would not want a new war. Do you think that if we could get a peace deal that met our basic requirements, we would throw all that away by starting one?”

Most said that if in negotiations the West agreed with key Russian demands, Russia would scale down others. Thus on the Russian demand for the “denazification” of Ukraine, a few said that Russia should still aim for a “friendly” government in Kyiv. This seems to be code for regime change, since it is very hard to imagine any freely elected Ukrainian government being friendly to Russia for a very long time to come.

A large majority, however, said that if Russian conditions in other areas were met, Russia should content itself with the passage of a law banning neo-Nazi parties and symbols, modeled on a clause of the Austrian State Treaty of 1955. My Russian interlocutors referred here to the treaty’s provisions for restrictions on certain categories of Austrian arms and for minority rights—in the case of Ukraine, the linguistic and cultural rights of the Russian-speaking population.

On one important point, opinion was unanimous: that there is no chance whatsoever of any international formal and legal recognition of the Russian annexations of Ukrainian territory, and that Russia would not press for this. It was recognized that this would be rejected not just by Ukraine and the West, but by China, India, and South Africa, none of which recognized Russian annexation of Crimea in 2014.

The hope is therefore that as part of a peace settlement, the issue of these territories’ status will be deferred for endless future negotiation (as the Ukrainian government proposed with regard to Crimea in March 2022), until eventually everyone forgets about it. The example of the (unrecognized but practically uncontested) Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus was mentioned. This means that Ukraine would not be asked publicly to “give up” these territories; only to recognize the impossibility of reconquering them by force.

In the end, of course, Russia’s negotiating position will be decided by Putin—with whom I did not speak. His public position was set out in his “peace proposal” on the eve of the West’s “peace summit” in Switzerland in June. In this, he offered an immediate cease-fire if Ukraine withdrew its forces from the remainder of the Ukrainian provinces claimed by Russia and promised not to seek admission to NATO.

On the face of it, this is ridiculous. Ukraine is never going to voluntarily abandon the cities of Kherson and Zaporizhzhia. However, Putin did not say that Russia will then occupy these territories. This leaves open the possibility that Putin would accept a deal in which these areas would be demilitarized but under Ukrainian administration and that—like the Russian-occupied parts of Kherson and Zaporizhzhia provinces—their status would be subject to future negotiation.

Nobody I spoke to in Moscow claimed to know for sure what Putin is thinking. However, the consensus was that while he made terrible mistakes at the start of the war, he is a pragmatist capable of taking military advice and recognizing military reality. Thus when in November 2022 Russian generals advised him that to attempt to hold Kherson city risked military disaster, he ordered withdrawal —even though Kherson was in territory that Russia claimed to have annexed and was also Russia’s only bridgehead west of the Dnipro River. Its loss has vastly reduced Russian hopes of being able to capture Odessa and the rest of Ukraine’s coast.

But while Putin might accept what he would regard as a compromise now, everyone with whom I spoke in Moscow said that Russian demands will be determined by what happens on the battlefield. If the Ukrainians can hold roughly their existing line, then it will be along this line that an eventual cease-fire will run. But if the Ukrainians collapse, then in the words of one Russian ex-soldier, “Peter and Catherine are still waiting”; and Peter the Great and Catherine the Great between them conquered the whole of what is now eastern and southern Ukraine for Russia.

 

Anatol Lieven is the director of the Eurasia program at the Quincy Institute for Responsible Statecraft. The views expressed in this article are his own and do not necessarily reflect those of the Quincy Institute.

 

What the Fall of Empires Tells Us About the Ukraine War - Anatol Lieven (Foreign Policy)

A lição é: todos os impérios são brutais, na conquista, na manutenção e no desaparecimento ou partição. O único jeito é tentar uma solução de compromisso, sempre insatisfatória e parcial, para evitar maiores sofrimentos da população.

Nenhum império decai voluntariamente. Todos tentam se manter pela força.

Paulo Roberto de Almeida 

What the Fall of Empires Tells Us About the Ukraine War

Russia’s war can only be understood as a bloody post-imperial conflict.

By Anatol Lieven, a senior fellow at the Quincy Institute for Responsible Statecraft. 

Foreign Policy, June 20, 2022, 6:16 AM 

The Soviet Union is commonly described in the West as the “Soviet empire”—or even “Russian empire”—and in key respects this was indeed the case. During the Cold War, Moscow occupied and controlled a collection of states along its periphery, and the historical record of Russia’s expansion through conquest and colonization is abundantly clear. But in neither journalism nor academia has this led to what should have been a logical conclusion when it comes to understanding conflicts in the former Soviet space: Namely, to place these conflicts into the wider context of what happens when empires fall.

This lack of interest seems odd, given the Western liberal intelligentsia’s deep concern with imperialism and its critiques. When I covered the collapse of the Soviet Union and its aftermath as a journalist for the Times of London, my prism was shaped by years spent working in South Asia—first as a student of imperial history and then as a journalist. It was therefore natural for me to see the disintegration of the Soviet space as a post-imperial process. This was perhaps the greatest difference between my perspective and that of most of my Western colleagues.

The Soviet Union was, of course, a very special case among empires. But that, to a greater or lesser extent, might be said about all of them. Huge differences existed between the British, French, and Spanish empires, let alone the Ottomans or the Chinese. A fundamental dividing line, however, cuts across them all: that between land and seaborne empires. Russia was a land empire—and in some respects remains one, in both its composition and its politics. This has had critical consequences during and after the Soviet collapse, continuing until today.

Notwithstanding the brutal ongoing war in Ukraine and the similarly brutal suppression of the Chechen rebellion, the conflicts and disputes that followed the Soviet collapse have been far from the worst in the history of empires, including relatively recent ones. In every case without exception, the end of empire has led to massive violence. In some cases, this occurred during and immediately after the imperial collapse. In others, the violence occurred after several decades had passed. In Ireland, the Middle East, South Asia, Eastern Europe, and the Balkans, the consequences of the Habsburg, Ottoman, and British empires—and of the nature of their dissolution—are still working themselves out today, generations later.

The relationship between empire and local conflicts has been a thoroughly ambiguous one, summed up most famously in Tacitus’s epithet about imperial Rome, which the Roman historian placed in the mouth of a British chieftain: Ubi solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant—“they make a desert and call it peace.” The creation of empires involves massive violence, sometimes on a genocidal scale. Thereafter, however, the imperial power’s economic and political interests require the maintenance of peace across its territories. The claim to have ended conflict and brought peace—whether under a Pax Romana, Pax Britannica, or Pax Americana—is also fundamental to its legitimacy and sense of imperial mission.

In every case without exception, the end of empire has led to massive violence.

Yet empires notoriously also freeze, generate, and incubate conflicts. Sometimes this is because imperial rule suspends previous conflicts, as between Hindus and Muslims in British India or Armenians and Azeris under the tsars and Soviets. Sometimes the source of conflict is the empire’s creation of completely new states or states with new borders—such as Iraq in the Middle East—that lump together different ethnicities that had never previously lived in the same polity, divide a people among neighboring states, or force ancient enemies under one roof, as in the former Yugoslavia and many African nations. This leads not only to civil conflicts but sometimes to wars between successor states—as in Kashmir, the former Yugoslavia, and Ukraine—as successor states fight to redraw borders in accordance with their version of ethnic or ethno-religious legitimacy.

Sometimes bitter resentment is the result of mass migration set off by imperial economic development or targeted colonization: English and Scots to Ireland, Chinese to the East Indies, Indians to Fiji and the West Indies, Tamils to what is now Sri Lanka, Georgians to Abkhazia, Russians to the Baltic republics and parts of Ukraine. Nowhere have the results been free of serious tension.

Perhaps the best that can be hoped for is formal or informal arrangements such as those in Malaysia and the Baltic states, whereby the indigenous populations monopolize control over government and the security forces, while the descendants of Chinese and Russian immigrants, respectively, dominate much or part of the economy. The worst outcomes are dreadful massacres such as the killings of Chinese that accompanied the Indonesian coup of 1965 or violent spasms such as the Georgian-Abkhaz War of 1992-93 that began with Georgian armed pogroms against Abkhaz and ended with the ethnic cleansing of most of the Georgian population by the Abkhaz victors.

Neither international law nor democracy provides clear-cut answers to any of these disputes. It was the theory of ethnic self-determination in the name of democracy, as adopted by U.S. President Woodrow Wilson at the conclusion of World War I, that provided an ostensibly liberal rationale for violent separation and cleansing across the vast ethnic tapestry of Central, Eastern, and Southeastern Europe. As in Kosovo, Nagorno-Karabakh, and Crimea, the principles of international law and democracy often work against each other, with the result that states pick and choose between them depending on their own advantage. Majoritarian democracy is a notoriously dangerous principle in ethnically divided societies with different national allegiances, as the history of Northern Ireland from the 1920s to the 1990s so vividly demonstrates.

Finally, it is hardly reasonable to expect local people and their leaders to be automatically obedient to international laws they never made or agreed to. When the British, Ottoman, Habsburg, and Soviet empires collapsed and Yugoslavia disintegrated, it was very natural for Northern Irish Catholics, Kurds, Sudeten Germans, Kosovar Albanians, Kashmiri Muslims, Bangladeshis, Biafrans, Serbs, Croats, Pashtuns, Chechens, South Ossetians, Karabakh Armenians, and Crimean Russians to seek or support independence and/or union with co-ethnics in a neighboring state. Sometimes, as in Ireland, South Asia, and Sudan, the result (after much violence) has been internationally accepted partition. In a majority of cases, things have been decided by some combination of pragmatism and superior force.

There is, however, one great difference in this regard between the aftermath of sea and land empires: Sea powers can go home across hundreds or thousands of miles of water and separate themselves (albeit often only after dreadful independence wars, as in Indochina, Algeria, and Kenya) from the conflicts they leave behind. In former land empires, the old core imperial nation remains on the borders of its former imperial possessions, and its own majority and minority populations often extend across those borders.

This has been true of Turkey, which includes a huge Kurdish population that overlaps with the Kurdish minorities of Syria, Iraq, and Iran and naturally has aspirations to join with them in one Kurdish state. Turkey would have faced similar problems with its large Armenian and Greek minorities had it not murdered or expelled virtually all of them. Germany in the 1920s and ’30s, as the successor state to the German empire and bordering many of the lands of the former Austrian one, faced this issue in the opposite direction: large ethnically German minorities in neighboring states that desired reunification with Germany. The countries of the former Soviet Union contain both of these features.

In one case, a sea empire (Britain) also controlled a colony on its immediate border (Ireland), with the result that those belonging to the imperial settler minority (whose descendants are the Irish Protestants) remain citizens of the former imperial state. A consequence has been that to this day Britain rules part of Ireland and, until the 1990s, was involved in what amounted to a postcolonial war. Saying this is not to blame the British politicians of recent generations. They were not around in the time of Queen Elizabeth I’s and Oliver Cromwell’s bloody conquests, nor were they responsible for confiscating Irish land and settling English and Scots on it. In any case, try, if you can, to navigate the modern issues of Irish independence and partition according to any clear-cut versions of either democracy or international law.

None of this is to excuse the Russian invasion of Ukraine, any more than it excuses the frequently horrendous behavior of other imperial and post-imperial states. What it does suggest is two things: First, that Russian wars in Ukraine and the Caucasus are not part of some wider plan for aggression against the West. The Russian war in Ukraine is about Ukraine. We can therefore seek a pragmatic solution to the war without fearing that this will embolden Russia to threaten NATO and the European Union, with the possible exception of the Baltic states—and then only if the Balts were to take some recklessly aggressive action against Russia (for example, by cutting communications to the Russian exclave of Kaliningrad).

Contrary to much Western reporting, there has been little evidence of any concrete Russian intentions to invade the Baltic states, let alone Finland or Poland. As a Russian official once told me, “We ruled Poland for almost 200 years, and all it brought us was endless trouble. Why on earth would we want to swallow that hedgehog again?” From the point of view of vital Western interests, it is therefore unnecessary to seek permanently to disable Russia.

Secondly, we should approach the search for a settlement in Ukraine in a spirit of ethical realism, aimed at a lasting peace that will secure Ukraine’s independence and potential path toward joining the EU, rather than in a mood of hyper-legalism and hyper-moralism that is all too likely to make peace impossible and which our own history does not justify. In the other post-imperial cases I have mentioned, only very rarely has absolute victory for one side or the other been possible—and then only at the cost of prolonged war and huge suffering. In the majority of cases where some sort of peace, however flawed, has been achieved, it has been through some form of pragmatic compromise. That is the best we can and should work for in the case of Russia and Ukraine.

One funny aspect of contemporary Western liberals is that even as they have publicly beaten their own breasts with contrition and shame for the past sins of Western colonialism, they go on to claim moral superiority over other countries that have inherited some of the same problems and committed some of the same sins. This sort of behavior has a prominent place in the history of religion but is neither moral nor practically helpful.

Anatol Lieven is a senior fellow at the Quincy Institute for Responsible Statecraft and the author of Ukraine and Russia: A Fraternal Rivalry and Ethical Realism: A Vision for America’s Role in the World, with John Hulsman.

 

Russia Inside Putin’s circle — the real Russian elite - Anatol Lieven (FT)

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The Weekend Essay 

Russia Inside Putin’s circle — the real Russian elite 

As the west focuses on oligarchs, a far smaller group has its grip on true power in Moscow. Who are the siloviki — and what motivates them? 

Anatol Lieven 

Financial, Times, March 11, 2022

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In describing Vladimir Putin and his inner circle, I have often thought of a remark by John Maynard Keynes about Georges Clemenceau, French prime minister during the first world war: that he was an utterly disillusioned individual who “had one illusion — France”. 

Something similar could be said of Russia’s governing elite, and helps to explain the appallingly risky collective gamble they have taken by invading Ukraine. Ruthless, greedy and cynical they may be — but they are not cynical about the idea of Russian greatness. 

The western media employ the term “oligarch” to describe super-wealthy Russians in general, including those now wholly or largely resident in the west. The term gained traction in the 1990s, and has long been seriously misused. In the time of President Boris Yeltsin, a small group of wealthy businessmen did indeed dominate the state, which they plundered in collaboration with senior officials. This group was, however, broken by Putin during his first years in power. 

Three of the top seven “oligarchs” tried to defy Putin politically. Boris Berezovsky and Vladimir Gusinsky were driven abroad, and Mikhail Khodorkovsky was jailed and then exiled. The others, and their numerous lesser equivalents, were allowed to keep their businesses within Russia in return for unconditional public subservience to Putin. When Putin met (by video link) leading Russian businessmen after launching the invasion of Ukraine, there was no question of who was giving the orders. 

The bespectacled Mikhail Khodorkovsky stands behind bars, guarded by men in military attire, in a Russian courtroom Putin critic Mikhail Khodorkovsky, former head of oil company Yukos, on trial in May 2005 for supposed fraud and tax evasion, 

The force that broke the oligarchs was the former KGB, reorganised in its various successor services. Putin himself, of course, came from the KGB, and a large majority of the top elite under Putin are from the KGB or associated state backgrounds (though not the armed forces). This group have remained remarkably stable and homogenous under Putin, and are (or used to be) close to him personally. Under his leadership, they have plundered their country (though unlike the previous oligarchs, they have kept most of their wealth within Russia) and have participated or acquiesced in his crimes, including the greatest of them all, the invasion of Ukraine. They have echoed both Putin’s vicious propaganda against Ukraine and his denunciations of western decadence. As Russia plunges deeper into a military quagmire and economic crisis, a central question is whether — if the war is not ended quickly by a peace settlement — Putin can be removed (or persuaded to step down) by the Russian elites themselves, in order to try to extricate Russia and themselves from the pit he has dug for them. To assess the chances of this requires an understanding of the nature of the contemporary Russian elites, and above all of Putin’s inner core. By way of illustrating the depth of the Russian catastrophe of the 1990s and identifying with all those who suffered from it, Putin has said that at one stage he was reduced — while still a serving lieutenant colonel of the KGB — to moonlighting as a freelance taxi driver in order to supplement his income. This is plausible enough. In 1994, while I was working as a journalist for The Times in Russia and the former USSR, my driver in the North Caucasus was an ex-major in the KGB. “We thought we were the backbone of the Soviet Union,” he said to me bitterly. “Now look at us. Real Chekists!” Despite amassing immense wealth and power, Putin and his inner circle remain intensely resentful of the way the USSR collapsed “Real Chekist” (nastoyashchy chekist) was a Soviet propaganda phrase referring to the qualities of ruthless discipline, courage, ideological commitment and honesty supposedly characteristic of the Cheka, the first Soviet secret police formed by Lenin and his associates. It became the subject of many Soviet jokes, but there is little doubt that Putin and his top elite continue to see themselves in this light, as the backbone of Russia — though Putin, who is anything but a revolutionary, appears to identify much more strongly with the security elites of imperial Russia. An interesting illustration of this comes from Union of Salvation (Soyuz Spaseniya, 2019), a film about the radical Decembrist revolt of 1825, made with the support of the Russian state. To the considerable shock of older Russian friends of mine who were brought up to revere the Decembrists, the heroes of this film are Tsar Nicholas I and the loyal imperial generals and bureaucrats who fought to preserve government and order against the rebels. Although they have amassed immense power and wealth, Putin and his immediate circle remain intensely resentful of the way in which the Soviet Union, Russia and their own service collapsed in the 1990s — and great power mixed with great resentment is one of the most dangerous mixtures in both domestic and international politics. 

Sergei Naryshkin, director of the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, speaking at a lectern during a meeting of the Russian Security Council at Moscow’s Kremlin in February . . . and at a televised meeting of the National Security Council on the eve of the Ukraine invasion, where he was humiliated by Putin. 

As Putin’s autocratic tendencies have grown, real power (as opposed to wealth) within the system has come to depend more and more on continual personal access to the president; and the number of those with such access has narrowed — especially since the Covid pandemic led to Putin’s drastic physical isolation — to a handful of close associates. Five of Putin’s inner circle Sergei Lavrov, 71, foreign minister Sergei Naryshkin, 67, foreign intelligence chief Nikolai Patrushev, 70, secretary of Russia’s security council Igor Sechin, 61, chief executive of Rosneft Sergei Shoigu, 66, defence minister In his first years in power, Putin (who was a relatively junior KGB officer) could be regarded as “first among equals” in a top elite of friends and colleagues. No longer. Increasingly, even the siloviki have been publicly reduced to servants of the autocrat — as was graphically illustrated by Putin’s humiliation of his foreign intelligence chief, Sergei Naryshkin, at the televised meeting of the National Security Council on the eve of war. Such contemptuous behaviour towards his immediate followers could come back to bite Putin, as it has so many past autocrats. The inner core includes defence minister Sergei Shoigu (former emergencies minister and not a professional soldier); Nikolai Patrushev, former head of domestic intelligence and now secretary of Russia’s National Security Council; Naryshkin; and Igor Sechin, the former deputy prime minister appointed by Putin to run the Rosneft oil company. Insofar as top economic officials with “patriotic liberal” leanings were ever part of this inner core, they have long since been excluded. 

These men are known in Russia as the “siloviki” — “men of force”, or perhaps even, in the Irish phrase, “hard men”. A clear line should be drawn between the siloviki and the wider Russian elites — large and very disparate and disunited congeries of top businessmen, senior officials outside the inner circle, leading media figures, top generals, patriotic intellectuals and the motley crew of local notables, placemen and fixers who make up the leadership of Putin’s United Russia party. 

Among some of the wider Russian elites, unease at the invasion of Ukraine and its consequences is already apparent. Naturally enough, this has begun with the economic elites, given their deep stakes in business with the west and their understanding of the catastrophic impact of western sanctions on the Russian economy. Roman Abramovich, his discomfort clear enough as he sought buyers for Chelsea Football Club, found the sale halted this week when his UK assets were frozen. Mikhail Fridman, chairman of Alfa Group (already severely hit by western sanctions) and one of the surviving former “oligarchs” from the 1990s, has called for an early end to the war, as has aluminium magnate Oleg Deripaska. If there is no peace agreement and the war drags on into a bloody stalemate, the economy declines precipitously and the Russian people see a steep fall in their living standards, then public unrest, state repression and state attempts to dragoon and exploit business will all inevitably increase radically, and so will the unhappiness of the wider elites. These, however, lack the collective institutions and, perhaps more importantly, the collective identities that would allow them to combine easily to unseat Putin. The Duma, or lower house of Russia’s parliament, was succinctly described to me by a Russian friend as “a compost heap full of assorted rotten vegetables”. 

This is a bit too unkind — the Duma does contain some decent people — but it would be futile to look to it for any kind of political leadership. The army, which elsewhere in the world would be the usual institution behind a coup, has been determinedly depoliticised, first by the Soviet state and now by Putin’s, in return for huge state funding. It is also now committed to military victory in Ukraine, or at least something that can be presented as victory. On the other hand, Putin’s ruthless purging of the upper ranks of the military, along with the apparent incompetence with which the high command has steered the invasion of Ukraine, could lead to considerable future discontent in the army, including lower-rank generals. 

This means that while the military will not itself move against Putin, it is also very unlikely to move to save him. Some of the most effective pressure on Putin’s elite may come from their own children. The parents almost all grew up and began their careers in the final years of the Soviet Union. Their children, however, have in many cases been educated and lived largely in the west. Many agree, at least in private, with Elizaveta Peskova, daughter of Putin’s press spokesman Dmitry Peskov, who protested against the war on Instagram (the post was quickly removed). Dinner conversations in the Peskov family must be interesting affairs these days. The siloviki, however, are so closely identified with Putin and the war that a change in the Russian regime would have to involve the departure of most from power, possibly in return for a promise that they would not be arrested and would retain their family’s wealth (this was the guarantee that Putin made with his predecessor Yeltsin). 

I think one reason [the siloviki] steal on such a scale is they see themselves as representatives of the state, and feel that to be poorer than a bunch of businessmen is a humiliation, even an insult to the state.

Yet this change may be a long time coming. The siloviki have been accurately portrayed as deeply corrupt — but their corruption has special features. Patriotism is their ideology and the self-justification for their immense wealth. I once chatted over a cup of tea with a senior former Soviet official who had kept in touch with his old friends in Putin’s elite. “You know,” he mused, “in Soviet days most of us were really quite happy with a dacha, a colour TV and access to special shops with some western goods, and holidays in Sochi. We were perfectly comfortable, and we only compared ourselves with the rest of the population, not with the western elites. “Now today, of course, the siloviki like their western luxuries, but I don’t know if all this colossal wealth is making them happier or if money itself is the most important thing for them. I think one reason they steal on such a scale is that they see themselves as representatives of the state and they feel that to be any poorer than a bunch of businessmen would be a humiliation, even a sort of insult to the state. It used to be that official rank gave you top status. Now you have to have huge amounts of money too. That is what the 1990s did to Russian society.” 

The siloviki are naturally attached to the idea of public order, an order that guarantees their own power and property, but which they also believe is essential to prevent Russia falling back into the chaos of the 1990s and the Russian revolution and civil war. The disaster of the 1990s, in their view, embraced not just a catastrophic decline of the state and economy but socially destructive moral anarchy — and their reaction has been not unlike that of conservative American society to the 1960s or conservative German society to the 1920s. 

In this, Putin and the siloviki have the sympathy of very large parts of the Russian population, who remain bitterly resentful — both at the way they were betrayed and plundered in the 1990s and what they perceive as the open contempt shown towards ordinary Russians by the liberal cultural elites of Moscow and St Petersburg. On one memorable occasion in the mid-1990s, I was asked to give an after-dinner talk at a conference held by a leading western bank for western investors and Russia’s financial elite. The dinner took place at a famous Moscow nightclub. When I ran out of time, there was no question of a polite note from the chairman; instead, a jazzed-up version of a Soviet patriotic song started blaring, and behind me on the stage appeared someone in a bear costume waving the Russian military ensign and leading a line of dancers clad in very abbreviated versions of Russian national dress. The siloviki and the Russian official elite in general are utterly, irrevocably committed to the idea of Russia as a great power Faced with this competition, I didn’t even try to carry on with my carefully considered summing-up, but retired bemused to my table. 

Then, however, I began to get a distinctly cold feeling. I remembered a scene from the 1972 film Cabaret, set in a nightclub in Weimar Berlin not long before the Nazis’ rise to power, in which dancers perform a parody of a parade before a giggling audience to the tune of a famous German military march. I wondered whether in Russia, too, there was going to be a terrible bill to pay for all this jollity — and I fear that Ukraine, and Russian soldiers, are now paying it. One of the worst effects of this war is going to be deep and long-lasting Russian isolation from the west. 

I believe, however, that Putin and the siloviki (though not many in the wider elites) welcome this isolation. They are becoming impressed with the Chinese model: a tremendously dynamic economy, a disciplined society and a growing military superpower ruled over with iron control by a hereditary elite that combines huge wealth with deep patriotism, promoting the idea of China as a separate and superior civilisation. 

 They may well want the west to push Russia into the arms of China, despite the risk that this will turn Russia into a dependency of Beijing. And of course they believe the war in Ukraine will consolidate patriotic feeling in Russia behind their rule, as well as permitting them to engage in intensified repression in the name of support for the war effort. This repression has already begun, with the closing of Russia’s last remaining independent media and laws punishing as treason any criticism of the war. Above all, for deep historical, cultural, professional and personal reasons, the siloviki and the Russian official elite in general are utterly, irrevocably committed to the idea of Russia as a great power and one pole of a multipolar world. If you do not believe in that, you are not part of the Russian establishment, just as if you do not believe in US global primacy you are not part of the US foreign and security establishment. 

Recommended Review; Political books:  ‘Putin’s People: How the KGB Took Back Russia and Then Turned on the West’ Ukraine’s place in this doctrine was accurately summed up by former US national security adviser Zbigniew Brzezinski: “Without Ukraine, Russia ceases to be a Eurasian empire.” The Russian establishment entirely agrees. They have also agreed, for the past 15 years at least, that America’s intention is to reduce Russia to a subservient third-rate power. 

More recently, they have concluded that France and Germany will never oppose the US. “To the west, we have only enemies,” as one establishment intellectual told me in 2019. The Russian establishment sees encouragement of Ukrainian nationalism as a key element in Washington’s anti-Russian strategy. Even otherwise calm and reasonable members of the Russian establishment have snarled with fury when I have dared to suggest in conversation that it might be better for Russia itself to let Ukraine go. They seem prepared, if necessary, to fight on ruthlessly for a long time, and at immense cost and risk to their regime, to prevent that happening. 

'Anatol Lieven is a senior fellow of the Quincy Institute for Responsible Statecraft and author of ‘Ukraine and Russia: A Fraternal Rivalry’ 

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