One of the purported objectives of sanc- tions and other external pressures is believed to be the incitement of protest within Russian society. This is achieved both through causing its economic state to deteriorate, which is perceived not only as a means to weaken the Kremlin’s military capabilities but also its domestic political strengths, and indirectly supporting the Russian opposition by publicly delegitimizing the current presidential and parliamentary authorities. In simple terms, the message is, “if you oppose the war and Putin, take to the streets.”
To assess the sensibility of such an approach and its potential outcome, it seems pertinent in this context to recall the evolution of the relationship between the Russian opposition and the so-called Western world. Understanding the role and fate of various strata in these relations, especially activists and the business community, is key. It’s also vital to gauge the possibility of protest movements in Russia at the current juncture.
The unwavering verbal support for Russian civil society in its confrontation with Vladimir Putin’s authoritarian regime by democratic nations is evident. This long-standing support has remained a consistent factor in the triangular relationship involving the Russian opposition, Putin’s regime, and democratic governments. It’s this history of support that may have fueled disappointment following Russia’s invasion of Ukraine: having provided support for so many years, Putin initiated a full-scale war, but where was the mass protest that could have led to a regime change, cessation of the war, or at least clearly demonstrated that a significant number of Russian citizens did not support it?
At the heart of this disappointment is the accurate premise that the only way to stop the war against Ukraine and end the Russian dictatorship is in partnership with Russian civil society. However, the shock of current events, radical ideas from extreme political forces, which resonate especially during times of war due to their perceived clarity and simplicity, sometimes lead to misguided or dubious conclusions drawn from this accurate premise – that “to stop the war and change the Russian regime, Russians themselves are needed”.
Some arguments, previously unheard during prior wars and not considered relevant for citizens of other aggressive dictatorships, have emerged: that there’s no difference between opponents and supporters of the war, that opponents of the dictatorship are as culpable as its supporters since they “failed to stop it”, that there should be a halt in allowing Russians, including opponents of the dictatorship, to leave the country, and that those who have left should, through various restrictions, be compelled to return and engage in political combat, and that the presence of Russians poses threats to European security or “upsets Ukrainians”.
However, these arguments not only contradict the lessons Europe learned from World War II – since “never again” should clearly pertain not only to combat actions or attempts to appease an aggressor but also to the idea that potential victims should not be trapped within an aggressive dictatorship – but also conflict with the core values of democratic nations. Beyond their ideological mismatch, these positions lack practical sense, hindering the establishment of a proper interaction between Russian elites and democratic societies towards achieving a shared goal – to halt the war and transform Russia’s regime.
The gradual transformation of Putin’s regime into an aggressive dictatorship disoriented Western politicians when seeking the right balance between the government and the opposition. This is hardly surprising, as this gradual shift perplexed the Russian society itself. In the relationship between the Russian civil society on one hand, and the Western public opinion and political class on the other, three phases can be distinguished, each characterized by its own successes and challenges. The first phase can be termed as ‘inertial’. During this phase, there was a prevailing belief that Russia, despite certain deviations, was on the path of democratic transition. Since Russia wasn’t offered membership in unions, like the EU, which require high unified standards of civil liberties and political institutions, Russia’s deviations from these standards were not deemed significant.
Western politicians believed that for Russia, the sought-after societal structure was a market democracy. However, in relationships with countries beyond the tentative borders of the Western community, the market seemed more critical than democratic institutions. These institutions were, presumably, expected to catch up as the country’s market economy, integrated into the world, strengthened. Putin, being popular and advocating for a market-driven economy, increasingly led Western politicians to expect the opposition to change the behavior of the Russian regime and ‘make his life difficult’ where he went astray, rather than lead the country themselves.
The liberal party representatives, who lost seats in the Duma, joined the leadership of opposition movements (e.g., “Solidarity”), and former democratic parties in the Duma (Yabloko, SPS) transitioned to the opposition, retaining representation in local government bodies. Simultaneously, a new non-parliamentary opposition began to emerge, which, in addition to traditional democratic and liberal slogans, utilized nationalistic, populist, and anti-elitist messages broadly (after 2010, this movement was led by Navalny). Here, Western politicians faced a challenging choice between values close to them and familiar interlocutors on one side, and the second stream, which could provide a broader base for protest. These two protest movements diverged in foreign policies. The former could generally be termed representatives of the pro-Western party, while the latter argued that Russia had its national interests that might conflict with the West.
During this phase, the West’s support for the opposition was relatively significant. However, the primary mistake lay in forgoing the task of standardizing institutions in exchange for integration perspectives or other appealing opportunities. Essentially, the requirement for a change of power, crucial for recognition and interaction with the Russian regime, was lifted.
In the fall of 2011, a new phase in relations between the West and Russian civil society began, predominantly lasting until Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. The unfair campaign of Duma elections and blatant falsification of their results against the backdrop of Medvedev’s liberal rhetoric, and more importantly, Putin’s decision to return to the Kremlin and the cynical manner in which it was presented, spawned the mass Moscow protest of winter-spring 2011-2012. Scenes of protest, reminiscent of anti-dictatorial revolutions from South Korea, Indonesia, and the Philippines to Eastern Europe of the late 80s, and even more recent events in Belgrade, Tbilisi, Kyiv, and the then-recent Arab Spring, added to the protest’s immense popularity among Western public opinion. The prospect of dealing again with Vladimir Putin, with whom they had accumulated a heavy burden of toxic grievances, wasn’t welcomed by the leaders of democratic countries. Meanwhile, the protest’s weaknesses became apparent: its metropolitan nature, the absence of empowered leaders to converse with the outside world, and the fact that the protesters failed to incite a split within the ranks of the Russian regime.
The fading and eventual defeat of the protest pushed Western leaders to revert to their usual interactions with Russian authorities. Despite supporting the protest in official statements, Western leaders acknowledged Putin’s new presidency and the government he appointed. They sent congratulatory telegrams, resumed regular contact with him and other Russian officials, and even maintained relations with the Duma, whose elections they had repeatedly criticized as unfair and unfree. This had long-term demotivating consequences for Russian civil society, undermining its faith in its strength. It’s challenging to be more democratic than Western democratic leaders, who recognized the Russian government and Putin as Russia’s head.
Thus, Vladimir Putin and his regime achieved what dictators, experiencing a legitimacy deficit domestically, strive for: legitimacy through international relations. There were scandalous instances when Western embassies denied visas to activists persecuted for participating in protests, based on the fact that criminal and administrative cases were initiated against them in Russia. At this stage, the Russian regime was excluded by the Western political class from countries in a state of democratic transition. Market autocracy was accepted as a permissible form of Russian governance, contrary to the opinions of the democratic sector of Russian civil society.
Of course, the relationship of democratic countries to the Russian government after Putin’s return and the crushing of protests could not remain unchanged. Within Russian civil society, democratic countries began to seek potential allies for a regime transformation (the symbolic 2012 meeting of the new US ambassador, McFaul, with the opposition that took place before his credentials presentation). Meanwhile, Russian officials faced their first personal sanctions — the Magnitsky list.
Predictably, Putin and the security wing of the Russian government saw the Moscow protest as a Western conspiracy, an attempt at a color revolution, which they had anticipated and feared for the previous decade. Protest participants and civil society as a whole were excluded by the authorities from potential interlocutors. They were branded as conduits of foreign influence and simply as traitors. Thus, the regime attributed to the protesters a closeness to Western politicians, which they genuinely did not possess.
Throughout these years leading up to the invasion of Ukraine, street protests largely remained legal and feasible. However, the cost of protesting grew: permit procedures became more complex, attempts to obtain permits were increasingly denied, detentions during protests became harsher, and penalties more severe. Criminal liability was introduced for “repeated violations of street action rules” with corresponding penalties.
Following the Moscow protests of 2011-2012 were the anti-war protests of 2014 and 2015. Their climax can be considered March 15, 2014, when tens of thousands protested in Moscow against the violation of Ukraine’s territorial integrity and a potential war with it. Over this and the next year, several street actions of varying scales took place against the war and interference in Ukraine’s affairs.
In 2019, Alexei Navalny’s FBK (Anti-Corruption Foundation) unexpectedly managed to turn the elections to the regional parliaments of Moscow and St. Petersburg into significant civil disobedience events, major electoral and protest activities. Judging by the severity with which this typically-sized protest was pre-emptively suppressed, and Moscow essentially being handed over to security forces for a time, it’s likely that by this point Vladimir Putin had already determined plans to remain in power after 2024 and the idea of a military operation against Ukraine.
In these local elections, Navalny first tested the controversial “smart voting” technology, advocating to vote for any candidate except the ruling party’s one. As a result, many United Russia candidates indeed lost, but they were often replaced by communist or nationalist candidates with even more anti-Western, aggressive, and revanchist programs. Not all Western allies of Russian civil society supported this protest voting method.
The smart voting technology became a vivid illustration of Western politicians’ fears regarding Russian democracy, fears long shared with liberal representatives of Russian civil society: if Russian citizens were given full freedom, they might choose someone “worse than Putin”. Therefore, the idea of full democratization of Russia was and still is approached with apprehensions by many. Clearly, for many, a non-aggressive, market-based “autocracy with institutions” remained a more secure and practically preferable version of the Russian regime for a long time.
The cost of protesting rose so much that participation became incompatible with regular life. Almost without exception, the price of protest meant an end to ordinary life; protesting became a life choice, a profession incompatible with any other.
Precisely because civil society had maintained the very possibility of protesting despite intensified pressure over many years, Russia’s invasion of Ukraine was immediately followed by protests similar to those Russia had seen in previous years. However, within just a few days, it became evident that Russia itself was no longer the state civil society had known in recent years. A classic aggressive war, waged against a neighboring country, swept away all previous rules and assumptions in a matter of days, transforming the Russian regime from a hybrid, difficult-to-remove autocracy into a classic 20th-century dictatorship. The cost of protesting rose so much that participation became incompatible with regular life. Almost without exception, the price of protest meant an end to ordinary life; protesting became a life choice, a profession incompatible with any other.
Thus, hopes for a protest or even a forcible confrontation of anti-Putin forces with the regime are not only futile today but also somewhat harmful in a way, as they divert the conversation towards empty expectations and false assessments. The absence of street actions is taken as an increase in regime support, and the lack of anti-war forces in Russia implies a totality of blame on Russian citizens for supporting aggression. The pragmatism of long-term support for Putin by Western democracies and a policy of demonstrative non-interference has swung in another radical direction: non-recognition of all political forces of Russian origin, especially opposition ones, as suitable for dialogue, and accusing of marginality and weakness those who were previously overlooked and oppressed for years.
The international community’s stance towards the Russian class of major entrepreneurs, as generally expressed through sanctions lists, can be viewed as unequivocal. Yet, the preference for sanctions over criminal charges suggests a purported intent to pressure this elite group. Such actions can only be assessed in the context of the evolving relationship between Russian society and Western entities with significant Russian capital – a relationship that is far from simple and laden with grievances and murky episodes.
The cohort of Russia’s major proprietors, encompassing both industrialists and financiers, is indeed subject to considerable scrutiny. Such scrutiny would hold particularly significant weight if presented by a state or another society stratum capable of cultivating, within a span of 30 years from an absolute beginning, an enlightened and strategically thinking class of major entrepreneurs. This class would ideally counterbalance the security bureaucracy’s centralizing ambitions and refrain from leveraging state mechanisms for non-competitive growth and enrichment. Regrettably, no such state has manifested itself in global history. The Russian entrepreneurial class emerged from the impoverishment of the Soviet system, as there was no other matrix from which it could have evolved. Political literacy, experience, professional, and civic expertise were accumulated by Russian proprietors and managers at an unprecedented pace. However, their actions are now subject to evaluation by global public opinion and bureaucracy, which typically operate within the constraints of short electoral cycles.
In essence, over the past 30 years, two conflicting expectations have been projected onto major Russian business entities (though the boundaries of this group remain nebulous): involvement in the country’s political life and abstention from it. Even the term “oligarch” revived from ancient Greek vernacular, implies influence and manipulation of political entities in the interests of major proprietors.
Interestingly, this rhetoric is shared by Russia’s classical liberal opposition, a segment of the new “de-ideologized” opposition primarily championing an “anti-corruption” agenda, and Western political and media elites who have consistently critiqued the practices of Russian capitalism. Given that the instruments of sanctions and other pressures are wielded predominantly by Western institutions, their interactions with both the Russian government and Russian capital warrant analytical approach.
This array of criticisms tends to paint the discourse in black-and-white terms, whereas the reality of the past 30 years indicates that the behavior of Russian business has evolved and was never monolithic. In its nascent stages, Russian capital couldn’t be accused of lacking a political stance or demonstrating inert manifestations of such. The emerging Russian capital was the primary force resisting a Communist resurgence in 1996. Subsequent events may have tinted recollections of this resistance with ambivalence, but the fact of not just financial, but also intellectual and organizational efforts from large (though considerably smaller than today) Russian businesses in this regard remains uncontested.
Often overlooked is the fact that this mobilization was aimed at advocacy, not election rigging; it was conducted openly and even transparently and required significant courage. This is because it didn’t stem from a position equal or superior to the existing authority. Instead, it originated from a profound crisis of the Yeltsin administration, immense unpopularity of the economic reforms of the Gaidar government, and the consequent administrations, coupled with the high risks of defeat. Such a loss would have led all entrepreneurs opposing the leader of the Communist Party Gennady Zyuganov to bankruptcy and, likely, to arrest.
It’s pertinent to note that despite Gennady Zyuganov’s high electoral rating and broad-based support across various societal strata and regions, the contention was not merely an ideological clash within a mature democracy where power transition might take precedence over the specific platforms of candidates. The core issue was the potential resurgence of anti-liberal forces, bolstered by lower-tier criminal clans, a reversal of all economic reforms, and a shift in foreign policy direction. Essentially, the Russian business sector ensured not only the continuation of Yeltsin’s rule (which in hindsight may not be viewed entirely favorably) but primarily the preservation of the private property principle and the country’s openness to Western technologies and capital. This openness had the potential to lead to systemic and enduring positive transformations in Russia if the West had been receptive and capitalized on them.
George Soros in 96 at the Davos forum (six months before the presidential election in Moscow) advised Russian business to “leave Russia because now they are finished … the communists will win”, and two years later wrote that Yeltsin won thanks to “political machinations” and “dictatorship in Russia is unrealistic“.
However, over the subsequent few years, Western capital, media, and public institutions were primarily content with the mere elimination of risks associated with Soviet revival and did not endeavor to invest in the Russian economy or in developing a civilized market across the CIS. A similar scenario also manifested itself in Ukraine: cautiousness of Western partners compelled the nascent Ukrainian business sector to pivot more towards their familiar northeastern vicinity, reinforcing post-Soviet industrial-economic ties.
The severing of such ties subsequently exacerbated tensions in Russia-Ukraine bilateral relations in the early 21st century.
Reflecting upon the low valuations of collateral auctions and the “dirt-cheap” sale of state property, it’s essential to recognize that there were no substantial restrictions on foreign companies participating in this process at that time. Stakeholders from both the business sector and the state have often recollected that globally there were few entities willing to participate in these auctions directly, be part of consortiums, or even finance Russian privatization. Political and economic conditions in Europe and the commodity market, on the whole, did not appear conducive for American and European corporations to engage with Russian assets. Yet, it didn’t deter widespread criticism of those who undertook these high risks. Fast-forwarding, it’s worth noting that neither administrative barriers nor ethical considerations hindered Western businesses from investing heavily in Putin’s Russia from five years post-auction until 2014 and occasionally up until 2022, turning a blind eye to the arrests and assassinations of political opposition, aggression in Georgia, election rigging, and more.
Of course, the widespread and timely entry of Western corporations into the market wouldn’t have been a panacea against Putin’s regression. However, it would have integrated the Russian market into the broader European production system earlier and more robustly, sending the right signal to Russian entrepreneurs during their pivotal formative period. Evidence can be observed in the markets of such countries like the Czech Republic, Poland, Hungary, and other former socialist block nations, which were subjected to an influx of Western capital and standards much earlier despite the high crime rates and various challenges of that period, including the dissolution of Czechoslovakia into two separate nations.
During that period, the attitude of European capital, in particular, contributed to the emergence in Russia of a somewhat detached or sovereign layer of major Russian capital. This layer owed its position neither to Putin nor to Western partners but solely to its own entrepreneurial spirit and the weakness of Russian institutions amid a rapidly changing economic landscape. This generation of businessmen could be faulted for either their inability or perhaps their unwillingness to expedite the establishment of such institutions. However, today’s sanctions are not based on these accusations.
Here’s how the report “Putinism after Putin: “The Deep Structures of Russian Authoritarianism“,” prepared by the Centre for Eastern Studies, defines the position of major Russian business:“…big business, consisting of around one hundred U.S. dollar billionaires. … Their overriding goal is to maximise their assets (through financial operations and influencing the country’s laws). The authoritarian regime provides them with the opportunity to accumulate wealth on an unprecedented scale, which would be impossible in a democratic system. The main sources of their enrichment include: Russia’s opaque system of tax breaks; foreign trade preferences; and public procurement contracts awarded without competitive tendering procedures…”
Such an approach is symptomatic of the practice of generalizations and lack of attention to detail with which the Western expert community describes the situation in economic Russia. It remains utterly unclear how, under this definition, Oleg Tinkov, the creator from scratch of one of the most technologically advanced banks in Europe, or Sergey Galitsky, the creator of the most potent discount retail, or Anatoly Karachinsky, the developer of software for Boeing, or Tamara Bakalchuk, the owner of a clothing marketplace, fit. It’s also unclear how, in such a regime of favoritism, foreign companies operated in almost every sector of the Russian economy, showing profits many times higher than domestic markets. Did they benefit from the opaque system of tax incentives and influence legislation? Of course not. Even in the 2016-2017 Global Competitiveness Report by the World Economic Forum, it is stated that the “Favoritism in decisions of government officials index for Russia is nearly identical to that of Cyprus, which is an EU member, and was considerably better than the index for some other EU countries, such as Slovenia or the Czech Republic.
Upon Vladimir Putin’s rise to power, the pragmatic duplicity of European capital became evident. This was not just reflected in their entry into the Russian market despite the almost immediate dismantling of democratic institutions in Russia but also in their willingness to cooperate with the immature Russian business abroad while disregarding its non-compliance with global anti-corruption standards. Business magnates, legislators, and regional leaders from Russia poured investments into Western businesses, utilizing funds that are now considered questionable in terms of their origins. They effortlessly acquired football clubs and mansions, breezing through necessary banking and regulatory checks. World leaders and celebrities welcomed Russian businessmen and officials, while global industry pioneers flocked to Moscow to meet with Vladimir Putin.
Strangely, during this era, if there was any entity attempting to resist the monopolization of power and the intensification of special services, it was the Russian business community itself. While the global community silently looked on, these business entities inevitably lost the battle. In the initial years of Putin’s reign, all privately-owned national television channels were either eliminated or nationalized, and their proprietors were either incarcerated or forced to flee the country. Despite the contentious nature surrounding individuals like Vladimir Gusinsky, Boris Berezovsky, and Mikhail Khodorkovsky, the political motives behind their persecution are undeniable. Yet, their repeated warnings about the dangers of Putin’s decisions and tactics — not just to Russia’s democratic institutions and business but also to its neighboring countries — fell on deaf ears internationally. Some faced persecution at Russia’s request, were under extradition threats, many were discredited, and a few were even assassinated. Yet, it took years before the officials of democratic nations began publicly linking these incidents to Russian authorities.
The aforementioned names are just the tip of the iceberg. Dozens of individuals from Russia’s Forbes list over the years have been forced to relocate abroad. The Putin-era state control of the Russian economy primarily targeted free Russian businesses as potential partners and participants in an emerging opposition. Yet, the world, following President Bush’s example of looking into Putin’s eyes and seeing the man’s soul, turned a blind eye.
BP became a partner of Rosneft corporation which was created following the criminal nationalization of the private oil giant YUKOS. Shell, in partnership with Vladimir Putin’s business allies, commenced the development of fields in Sakhalin. After Moscow’s military aggression in Georgia, LVMH set up a giant showroom in Red Square. Global capital was ready to collaborate not only with the nouveau riche of the Yeltsin era but even more so with Putin’s pseudo-proprietors.
Today, sanctions have enveloped both generations of Russian capitalists without distinguishing between those who succeeded thanks to Putin and those who emerged before or even despite him. Yet these sanctions spared Western corporations and politicians who for decades failed to recognize Russia’s militaristic tendencies or even encouraged them. Neither Gerhard Schröder, who sat on the board of directors of Rosneft for many years, nor Silvio Berlusconi’s advisors who assisted in building the Russian National Media Group propaganda giant, nor other Western companies that have been running profitable ventures in Russia and paying huge taxes to the federal budget, which now funds Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, have been affected by these sanctions.
Informed by the bitter experiences of Putin’s first decade, a significant portion of Russian business chose gradual emigration as its response. Recognizing the impossibility of operating under the oppressive hand of special services, without independent courts and media, major entrepreneurs began redirecting their efforts and capital from Russia to places where principles of individual, not collective national or class responsibility, seemed unshakeable.
Russian businesses have always had a penchant for spending warmer months on the French Riviera and in Italy, a favored destination of Russian capital even before the 1917 revolution. Mansions and apartments were bought in London, Paris, and Baden-Baden. However, the first half of the 2010s marked a fundamental shift. The shocking power shift in 2012, closely followed by the annexation of Crimea, prompted Russian business to venture abroad not for leisure or entertainment, but for work and a genuine break from Putin’s policies.
Billions of Russian investment dollars flowed into the West over the last decade.
Open sources suggest that these weren’t merely investments in real estate or deposits but “smart” investments into technology, industrial production, and petrochemical industry, where Russian businessmen had amassed significant expertise. Relocating investment hubs didn’t necessarily mean the immediate sale of Russian assets, just as acquiring European citizenship didn’t result in instant renunciation of Russian nationality. The situation in Russia is further complicated by the reality that under a totalitarian regime, it’s much easier to lose assets than to move them. And although the devaluation of Russian companies since the onset of the war essentially represents a monumental loss for both the country and its current owners, one can’t fault anyone for not selling Russian assets and not departing faster than Western companies.
It might be easier to criticize Russian business for collective cowardice, an unwillingness to politically unite or pool financial resources to counter the regime. But apart from jailed Russian opposition figures, who has the right to level such criticism? Even so, these rebukes would be moot. Businesses, as a class, always behave pragmatically in every country and situation. Moreover, even departing from pragmatic behaviors, an unbiased analysis indicates that by this point, little could be done from within the country. Practical resistance to the regime became unfeasible by the mid-2000s.
The Russian business sector ceased to be a political player with the endorsement of the majority of the Russian populace. Since the sentencing of Mikhail Khodorkovsky, none of the major Russian businessmen could exert even indirect influence on Vladimir Putin’s most important domestic policy or any foreign economic decisions (with the exception of some of his old colleagues who became businessmen “on the side” during his years in power). In essence, this came with the tacit agreement and encouragement of Western nations, more interested in appeasing Putin and witnessing growing profits than in confronting authoritarianism. By 2014, Putin’s enforcement machine was tuned to the point where even fleeing from it was akin to a non-public, internal protest. By 2022, this strategy became the chosen path for millions of small entrepreneurs and employees.
The second reason is less obvious but even more significant. In reality, the Russian civil resistance, in one form or another persisting throughout Putin’s tenure, couldn’t have existed without the major business established in the country pre-Putin, or at the very least, not thanls to of him. Enlightening the population, civic and political initiatives by activists, from the Anti-Corruption Foundation to “The Last Address” NGO and others, was both difficult and important.
Today, names like Sergey Petrov, Dmitry Zimin, Mikhail Khodorkovsky and Yevgeny Chichvarkin, who made their antiwar positions public, are well-known. However, this hasn’t exempted them from regulatory and sanction-related issues, as with almost any Russian citizen or ex-citizen. Still, dozens of top-tier businessmen consistently support independent Russian media abroad, refugee centers, families of political prisoners, all without publicizing their names. And it’s not just out of fear, although spotlighting such assistance would certainly create problems for these men and women. It would draw the attention of both the regime, with its vast informant network, and international financial regulators most probably unwilling to delve into the intricacies of cross-border charitable activities in a totalitarian state.
The report’s authors are aware of dozens of Russian capitalists who, on the eve of the war or during its first month, aided the Ukrainian government.
Lately this assistance was eventually declined, which, in our view, was due to Ukrainian political shortsightedness. Still, a detailed analysis and criticism of its decisions aren’t our primary focus. The crux of the matter is that a significant portion of the Russian entrepreneurial class is ready to oppose Putin within existing external frameworks, which the fleeing entrepreneurs themselves aren’t yet able or willing to create. Such institutions might be, if not the Ukrainian state, definitely European or American organizations and intergovernmental initiatives. By not distinguishing the sheep from the goats, they deprive the anti-Putin coalition of potentially the most competent and experienced participants – the defectors. Because, in truth, there are no angels in the private Russian entrepreneurial class. But opposing Putin does not require angels. What’s needed are conditions where significant capital and collective intellect can more productively work toward liberating both Russia and Ukraine, which is unquestionably in their best interest.
Historically, anti-war protests have always been most effective in democratic states. Protests against wars in Indochina, Afghanistan, Iraq, and against the deployment of American missiles in Europe had, at times, influenced the policies of Western governments. However, once military operations commence in democratic countries, it’s challenging to wind them down swiftly, even if they are deemed unjustified. In autocracies, the chances of ending a war due to protests are even slimmer, at least until the war leads to significant economic difficulties.
During the Cold War era, Western governments demonstrated a greater realism and understanding of the nature of dictatorships. During events like the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia or the Afghan war, no one expected Soviet citizens to protest; it was an individual decision for the brave few. While Europe witnessed massive protests against the deployment of American intermediate-range missiles, no one expected or demanded similar protests from Soviet citizens against the deployment of Soviet missiles. Instead, Western governments advocated for freedom of movement out of the USSR and welcomed dissidents. A significant difference between the Iron Curtain era and now is that Russia doesn’t seal its borders from the inside. However, the purpose of the Western countries’ policies was not merely to welcome emigrants and utilize their labor and intellectual capacities but to demonstrate that people wanted to leave the militant Soviet dictatorship. Similarly, today, people are eager to leave, and the exodus of human capital undermines its capabilities, delegitimizing it in the eyes of the external world and its own population.
Because modern authoritarian Russia is often seen as a reincarnation of the USSR, the absence of an iron curtain can be misleading. Modern Russia indeed isn’t the USSR; it’s a right-wing dictatorship with a market economy. However, there’s vast experience in interacting with opposition from right-wing dictatorships and dictatorships that don’t seal their borders from the inside, and there’s no reason not to use this experience when dealing with Russians. In democratic countries, powerful, intellectually and financially significant diasporas have formed from non-democratic market countries. The argument that citizens of these dictatorships should return home and overthrow their regimes was not commonly held. Events like Ninoy Aquino’s return to Manila and his assassination at the airport was a voluntary decision; it led to a wave of outraged protest in the Philippines. However, even this exceptionally massive protest did not lead to regime change; the “People Power Revolution” occurred later and was related to various other factors.
Following World War II, the number of market dictatorships that waged aggressive wars was limited. Nevertheless, there’s a considerable and unequivocal experience regarding their civil societies. While Portugal in the 1960s and early 1970s was engaged in colonial wars and under international sanctions, there were no restrictions on labor and political emigration from Portugal to democratic countries. On the contrary, anti-war and anti-dictatorship forces in exile, including defectors from the ruling elite (like General Delgado and his followers), were even forgiven for the dramatic hijacking of the major Portuguese liner Santa Maria, which had American citizens aboard. The attempt by Greek colonels to annex Cyprus did not change the attitude towards Greek intellectuals, public figures, and entrepreneurs who were living in democratic countries. The Iran-Iraq war had no effect on the political and cultural emigrants of the two countries living in the West. Argentina’s junta’s attempt to annex the Falklands posed problems for Argentina’s political emigration because a kind of “Falkland consensus” had formed in Argentina. Yet in democratic countries, it never occurred to worsen their position in exile.
In their relations with dictatorships, democratic countries believed that the effective participation of unarmed civilians in regime change is possible only under specific conditions. These conditions arise when an objective situation for such a regime change develops – a split of the elites, hesitation or departure of some security forces, the collapse of the consensus on which the regime relied, economic difficulties, a deep crisis of legitimacy. Effective influence on the regime using civil protest is possible during the consolidation of the dictatorship or its decomposition. During these periods, the protest potential accumulated by civil society effectively works to dismantle the regime and build new institutions. In contrast, mass protests when the regime is solid are either impossible or represent a heroic but irrational expenditure of human potential necessary for a real regime change.
Mass protests when the regime is solid are either impossible or represent a heroic but irrational expenditure of human potential necessary for a real regime change.
From March 2022, Russia has the strictest wartime laws regarding freedom of speech and protest activity, making protests acts of individual heroism. Even economic hardships do not necessarily provoke a change in power, or else under their weight, the Soviet Union, North Korea, Cuba, or Francoist Spain of the 1940s to early 1950s would have immediately collapsed. Conversely, people who have left a dictatorship and successfully settled in democratic countries create a negative comparison for the regime, as was the case with a million Spanish workers in Western Europe during Franco’s regime.
In this regard, the awarding of the Nobel Prizes to the chief editor of “Novaya Gazeta” Dmitry Muratov and representatives of the International Memorial (together with Ukrainian and Belarusian human rights defenders), the Cannes award to director Kirill Serebrennikov, the issuance of licenses to Russian media in EU countries, the issuance of humanitarian visas and talent visas, and the cooperation of Western think tanks with Russian intellectuals appear successful.
The delegitimization and stigmatization of the entire Russian population hinder opponents of war and dictatorship in Russia from becoming a successful counter-elite that could play a crucial role in regime change. For the same purpose — to cut off, to isolate those who left — Russian propaganda works. Meanwhile, if public figures who left Russia because of the war are cut off from society inside Russia, it might happen that changes will rely solely on those who stayed inside, who, with rare exceptions, lived under the inevitable burden of silence and compromises. Free interaction, mutual trust between parts of civil society inside and outside Russia is a vital factor in its genuine and irreversible transformation.
According to various estimates, between 500,000 and 1.3 million people left Russia in 2022. As the demographer Alexei Raksha notes, this exodus occurred in two waves: around 150,000 left after the start of the full-scale military invasion, and between 350,000 and 650,000 left following the mobilization announcement in September 2022. A third wave of departures was anticipated but never materialized, despite the media sounding alarms about electronic call-up notices; these rumors did not result in mass panic or departures.
This emigration, especially the first wave but also significantly the second one, is primarily composed of those who disagree with Russia’s current course of action. They are individuals who morally and politically cannot accept this aggression against Ukraine and, largely as a consequence, fear political persecution. Their active social and political stance is a defining characteristic of many, if not most, of those who left Russia post-war.
The new Russian diaspora will not perish in a foreign land. Unlike the diaspora of the 1920s, this opposition in exile is the real Russia, just as “Free France” was once the real France. Moreover, it is destined to influence the fate of the Federation and, no doubt, even to govern it.Bernard GuettaMEP
Political scientist Fyodor Krasheninnikov notes that many in political exile have significant experience in Russian public politics: successfully participating in elections, organizing mass protests, and engaging in human rights, educational, and environmental work. These emigrants aren’t just political activists but also their supporters; estimates put the num-ber of such voters between 7 million and 9 million people over the past nine years.
The majority of those who left post-outbreak are better off and more educated than the average Russian citizen. Surveys indicate they are predominantly male (86% are younger than 45), highly educated (80% compared to the Russian average of 27%), and have savings in Russian banks. Most speak English, and there’s a surge in demand for learning Armenian, Georgian, Kazakh, and Turkish, reflecting popular relocation destinations. These new emigres usually hail from large cities and can be classified as globalized upper-middle-class individuals with foreign travel experience and at ease with modern “digital culture.”
It’s crucial to note that this is not about labeling “good Russians“—a concept ethically vulnerable, even racist, and organizationally weak. Rather, we are talking about the pragmatic need to attract the economic and potentially physical soldiers, or rather officers, from the opposing side. Understanding the size and characteristics of this group is essential for this purpose.
According to varying estimates, the middle class in Russia constitutes between 18% and 38% of the total population. As of mid-2021 data, approximately 1.03 million families in Russia fall into the highest income bracket. This demographic represents about 3 million individuals, or roughly 1.9% of the Russian population.
Beginning in 2021, a new personal income tax rate of 15% is applied to Russian citizens with annual incomes exceeding 5 million rubles, or monthly earnings over 417,000 rubles. According to data from Rosstat as of April 2021, this high-income bracket constitutes approximately 0.4% of the working population in Russia, translating to around 300,000 individuals out of a total workforce of 75 million. The threshold for categorizing an individual as wealthy is a net worth exceeding one million US dollars, approximately 71 million rubles as of July 2020. Expert assessments from Skolkovo Business School indicate over 100,000 such individuals residing in Moscow and its adjacent regions.
Should these high-net-worth individuals choose to leave Russia and liquidate their assets, even at reduced values, they are unlikely to strain the social welfare systems of host nations. These individuals would possess adequate resources to adapt, identify alternative revenue streams, and establish new social networks. The migratory trend, beyond the loss of human capital, would signify a substantial depletion of managerial, specialist, and entrepreneurial talent for Russia. Concurrently, it would result in the transfer of several hundred billion dollars into Western economies.
Regarding professional demographics, it is pertinent to note that as of mid-2022, the number of scientists in Russia has decreased to 340,000, reflecting a 10.5% reduction, equivalent to a loss of 76,000 individuals, since 2014.
Roughly half of those who emigrated from Russia in the initial six months of the conflict were employed in the IT industry. A majority was open to remote work and was unafraid of a decline in living standards or career change. Maksut Shadaev, Russia’s Minister for Digital, estimates that about 100,000 IT professionals will have exited Russia in 2022, representing 10% of the total number of IT specialists in the country. Some argue that this figure is understated by 30-50%. Initially, 80% of those who left continued to work for Russian companies, not out of inertia but due to strict restrictions hampering access to the international labor market. Besides IT professionals, a significant portion of the emigrants include managers, journalists, and other creative professionals.
This group, often referred to as “European Russians,” share Western values and were once hopeful that such values would gain traction in Russia. After relocating, they have actively participated in mutual aid initiatives, anti-war campaigns, assisting refugees from Ukraine, and solidarity movements for activists and political prisoners still in Russia. They continue to organize a wide array of events, from online and offline conferences to charity auctions.
These Russian immigrants tend to be self-reliant and entrepreneurial, rarely relying on state support even before their move. In their new countries, they are generally more self-sufficient and economically active than the local population. Few require welfare benefits, regardless of the type of visa they hold. Their economic impact has been swiftly noticed in several countries. For example, the economies of Kazakhstan, Georgia, and Armenia recorded growth rates of 3.2%, 10.1%, and 12.6% in 2022, respectively — figures that far exceed initial projections.
The Russian government is cognizant of the risks associated with the loss of human capital and has enacted measures to mitigate it. On May 12, 2023, President Putin issued a decree aimed at stemming the migration of Russian citizens abroad, citing an increase in emigration in 2022 due to “altered socio-economic conditions.” The decree outlines the need for additional strategies to “preserve human capital,” including the development of financial, social, and other incentives to retain the population.
The outflow of personnel, especially in the IT sector, was so noticeable that the authorities made repeated attempts to curb migration. For example, Government Chairman Mikhail Mishustin promised programmers favorable mortgage deals and temporary draft exemption, while state-owned companies and banks almost doubled the number of vacancies. In December 2022 Sergei Tsekov, a senator from annexed Crimea, suggested seizing property from citizens who had left Russia, while Dmitry Medvedev, who was President at the time of the war with Georgia in 2008, suggested not letting emigres come back to Russia, treating them as “enemies of society” and cutting them off from sources of income in Russia; these initiatives, however, were not given traction. Later, Duma deputy Nikolai Brykin announced that he would start drafting a bill to classify as “foreign agents” those Russian citizens who left the country after the start of the war and to cease recognizing them as Russian citizens.
More recently, the Kremlin introduced another package of measures that could be very disturbing, at least for some emigres. A new law passed by the State Duma and Federation Council in mid-April states that once a Russian citizen eligible for military service receives a call-up notice (this covers all healthy males between the ages of 18 and 55) either in hard copy or electronically on his personal page on the Gosuslugi (Government Services) website, he is automatically immediately banned from foreign travel and is given notice that in 20 days he would also be banned from traveling within Russia.
At the same time it is important to note that most of these fugitives see emigration not as a search for a comfortable life but as a temporary phenomenon, and would like to return to Russia when and if the situation there changes, i.e. “after the war”. All the more so because these are people who, unlike emigres of previous decades, had not planned to leave Russia before the events of 2022. Characteristically, the popular self-designation among them is “relocants,” not “refugees” or “migrants”.
However, visa and financial sanctions restrictions imposed on Russians make the costs of relocation/emigration prohibitively high. These restrictions are well known to anyone trying to leave the Russian Federation but perhaps the full picture of these impediments is not apparent to Western audiences because some of the bans are imposed by national governments, some by international corporations and still others by industry sectoral regulators.
The initial tranche of restrictions primarily focuses on visa regulations. Within Russia, acquiring visas for the vast majority of European nations has become an almost insurmountable challenge. A few exceptions exist — namely, Italy, Greece, France, and Spain — where issuance of Schengen C visas, or provisional tourist visas, continues, albeit at a reduced scale and for truncated durations. Concurrently, all European Union members sharing a terrestrial boundary with the Russian Federation have ceased land entry for holders of such visas.
The avenues for procuring Category D work visas, particularly through consulates and visa centers of the European Union, the United States, and the United Kingdom within Russian territory, have likewise become arduous labyrinths of bureaucracy. In addition, the scope for Russians who have successfully entered Europe to obtain or extend residence permits has been dramatically curtailed, with some jurisdictions completely shutting down such possibilities.
The second set of problems pertains to the issuance of work permits. Nations like Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Poland, and the Czech Republic have all but ceased granting such permits to Russian citizens — even when local enterprises explicitly endorse their applications. While exceptions exist, they are numerically insignificant, hardly exceeding the low hundreds. Meanwhile, the procedural landscape in other countries has undergone a perceptible metamorphosis, becoming exponentially more intricate.
In the Western hemisphere, initiatives designed to attract Russian students, scholars, IT specialists, creatives, managerial talent, and entrepreneurs have virtually evaporated. In stark contrast, some nations have explicitly prohibited both labor and academic migrations originating from Russia. Curiously, such restrictions target individuals who, far from being burdensome, are both competent and highly sought-after — qualities that would ostensibly relieve, rather than exacerbate, the social strains experienced due to the influx of Ukrainian refugees, a demographic predominantly composed of women, the elderly, and children.
The third echelon of regulatory stringency pertains to banking protocols. European, American, and British financial institutions have essentially ceased opening accounts for bearers of Russian passports. Compounding this inconvenience, electronic payment titans such as Visa and Mastercard have terminated their operations within Russian territory. In our digitally-driven financial landscape, these developments pose substantial hurdles for those who have ventured beyond Russia’s borders, hindering their ability to access and repatriate their own monetary reserves.
The fourth category involves stringent currency controls. Even if a Russian passport holder secures, let’s say, a European or American visa for permanent or some other form of residency, the simple act of obtaining a local bank account becomes an exercise in futility. Depositing Russian-accumulated capital — be it the fruits of enterprise divestitures, real estate transactions, or land sales—becomes a Sisyphean endeavor. Financial institutions, particularly in nations that have levied restrictions against Russian nationals, eschew such transactions, irrespective of the comprehensive documentation substantiating the legality of the capital in question. Intriguingly, these proscriptions hold true even in jurisdictions like Israel, where freshly naturalized citizens find themselves compelled to exit, owing to the stifling limitations on capital transfer. Yet, as the most recent FBC (Alexey Navalny’s Foundation for Fighting Corruption) investigations divulge, those possessed of colossal, albeit dubious, wealth ingeniously navigate these constraints; a luxury not afforded to the highly skilled professionals and mid-tier entrepreneurs who find themselves unceremoniously sidelined.
- Germany facilitated the issuance of long-term visas for critics of the Kremlin, including those involved in the area of human rights; employees of organizations categorized as “foreign agents”; representatives of democratic opposition, NGOs or civil society; journalists; and scientists.
- The Czech Republic began granting asylum to Russians and Belarusians on the basis of so-called humanitarian visas and expanded the humanitarian reasons for family reunification. These visas are primarily issued to human rights advocates, independent journalists and activists.
- Latvia has hosted Russian NGOs and at least several hundred Russian journalists who fled the country once Russia’s parliament passed a law making publication of “fake news” about the war in Ukraine punishable with up to 15 years in prison. Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty (RFE/RL), its 24/7 Russian-language network Current Time, the Moscow bureau of Deutsche Welle, and the independent Russian television station TV Rain were issued a permit allowing them to broadcast their content from Riga.
- In May the United States announced its plans to make it easier for Russians with a master’s degree or a PhD in science, technology, engineering or math to apply for a visa without first obtaining an American employer sponsor to move to the country.
While these moves no doubt bear profound implications for individual Russian émigrés, their families or communities, they hardly epitomize a systemic trend.
Approximately 16% to 20% of those who constituted the inaugural wave of emigration prior to September, 2022, have returned to Russia. As for the data corresponding to the “second wave” of emigrants, a verifiable census remains elusive. Nevertheless, it stands to reason that this cohort, in proportional terms, should harbor an even greater populace of returnees. This latter exodus chiefly comprised men eluding conscription — an endeavor less motivated by ideological convictions — and predominantly affected those of modest financial means. Furthermore, a contingent of Russian corporate operatives, banned from working from remote locations and unsuccessful in securing alternative employment abroad, have retraced their steps to Russia, primarily compelled by the insurmountable bureaucratic barriers abroad.
Kadri Liik, a senior policy fellow at the European Council on Foreign Relations, posits that the European Union and its constituent nations lack a cohesive policy framework addressing the exile community.
The vicissitudes governing the quotidian existence of Russian émigrés—ranging from visa issuance, border transgressions, residency legitimization, to asylum adjudications — remain predominantly under the jurisdiction of interior ministries, thereby evading the regulatory ambit of the European Union.Kadri LiikA senior policy fellow at the European Council on Foreign Relations
Liik elaborates that the Russian question percolates with varying degrees of sensitivity across disparate European landscapes, and as such, individual statecraft will inevitably reflect these nuances.
Acknowledging this heterogeneity will facilitate the collective European experience. Although the television network TV Rain may have initially migrated to Latvia, lured by its geographic position close to Russia and a dense Russian émigré populace, its ultimate domicile in the Netherlands — a society less innately skeptical of Russian entities — may prove more conducive.Kadri LiikA senior policy fellow at the European Council on Foreign Relations
Simultaneously, Kadri Liik elucidates that a segment within the European stratum perceives these émigrés as vital conduits to Russian civil society — a collective imbued with the potential to catalyze democratic transformations within their homeland. The prevailing sentiment among this faction advocates not merely a hospitable reception but an active collaboration and material support for these displaced individuals. Yet, lurking in the bureaucratic penumbra, a cadre of European functionaries —particularly those entrusted with matters of security — harbor reservations. Uttered in hushed corridors, their skepticism emerges: “The authentic identities of these individuals remain opaque. Their political stance might be antithetical to Putin, or they could well be clandestine operatives of the FSB. Furthermore, should their efforts to undermine Putin’s regime prove effective, they might draw the ire of Kremlin-sanctioned assassins, thereby imperiling our own security infrastructure.”
To me, the real fascism is to write off all Russians as fascists.Oleksiy ArestovychA politician, former advisor to the Ukrainian president
Yet, in the interlude that has unfurled since the commencement of hostilities, the intelligence apparatuses of the West have abstained from issuing public indictments, targeting neither luminary figures within the Russian expatriate populace nor the quotidian émigrés devoid of public stature. Regrettably, this restraint has not stymied the propagation of anti-Putin rhetoric that indiscriminately blankets the entire diaspora.
As domestic suppression of the anti-war faction within Russian borders escalates—manifesting itself in unlawful detentions and adjudications, even by Russian legal standards, alongside the tacit ostracizing of intellectual and cultural luminaries, athletes et al—corresponding pressure increases against the Russian émigré enclaves abroad. The abrupt refusals of entry into Transcaucasian and Central Asian states, targeted at Russian nationals, have proliferated. Increasingly frequent are European denials of asylum to those individuals who face overt persecution for their convictions, or are imperiled for various rationales, including conscientious objection to military conscription. Pronouncements by the Czech President and the Estonian Prime Minister advocating a “special” protocol for Russians legally residing in Europe have gained notoriety. This effectively amounts to a formalization of discrimination predicated not on citizenship per se, but rather on one’s national origin, affecting hundreds of thousands of European denizens.
Prospective allies against the Kremlin are paradoxically relegated to the status of “enemies of the free world,” constrained both organizationally and legislatively.
Simultaneously, it behooves us to recognize that even among the burgeoning cohort of newcomers, those who are most vociferously at odds with Putin’s regime grapple with complications arising purely from the conspicuousness of their dissent. The closure by the Latvian government of the opposition-affiliated TV Rain channel — a network proscribed within Russian confines — serves as an archetypal incident. The illicit electronic eavesdropping on the founders of the Russian digital media outlet Meduza, domiciled in Latvia, has become public and was exposed as a surveillance operation that ostensibly leverages technologies elusive to Russian intelligence agencies.
Presently, Europe finds itself ensnared in a novel predicament. Here, prospective allies against the Kremlin — possessing expansive social and professional networks, and poised to engage in efforts undermining Russian disinformation campaigns, technological advances, and digital infrastructure — are paradoxically relegated to the status of “enemies of the free world,” constrained both organizationally and legislatively. This untenable situation is perpetuated by the very governments that simultaneously maintain clandestine commercial and diplomatic interactions with Russia. Such a course of action is not merely iniquitous and counterproductive; it directly impairs collective endeavors to counter Russian bellicosity.