Ben Judah - Fragile Empire - How Russia Fell in and Out of Love With Vladimir Putin

During the Medvedev years the pre-eminent face of the opposition was Boris Nemtsov. Once Yeltsin’s favourite, once keen to ‘kick the oligarchs out of the Kremlin’, he was broadly seen by normal Russians as only wanting to claw his way back into power. He is easy to caricature because he has the charms of a pro athlete. ‘I’m so famous in this country,’ he announced when we met after a small rally. ‘I can’t go anywhere. They all know who I am.’

The vocal opposition leader had picked a plush coffee shop to sound off, to the distinct displeasure of several paying customers. Suspiciously tanned and jarringly arrogant, this fanatical surfer and tennis player had slowly outplayed the moody chessmaster Garry Kasparov to seize the underwhelming title of pre-eminent leader of the Russian opposition. He ordered a few cognacs, then blasted out, ‘I am indeed Boris Nemtsov’ to a curious couple to our left. He then began showing off his latest acquisition: a delicate, finely crafted watch.

‘This is a present from Gorbachev. Look, it’s got “Gorbachev Forever” inscribed inside.’ He laughed a little. Nemtsov’s exorbitantly priced tuna sandwich then arrived. With the food on the table, he began to outline how the opposition had reformed itself since Medvedev’s arrival in power, whilst chomping on the oily dish. Nemtsov has been awarded a plaque by Novaya Gazeta . He had brought it with him to the cafe. He picked it up, grinned, then placed it delicately next to his sandwich. Though much disliked as a man, his commitment had helped found Solidarity. Unlike Other Russia, the new organization brought together most liberals opposed to Putin in a common front with a small but dedicated regional network. Without much attention being paid to it at first, Solidarity slowly created a situation where a small but persistently engaged ‘anti-systemic’ opposition infrastructure now existed. It was a sad little world of tiny, badly lit offices and old computers – but it was there.

Sitting next to Nemtsov was an early aficionado of the iPhone in Moscow, the smart, expensively dressed former deputy oil minister Vladimir Milov. With a sharp brain Milov was in some ways exactly what the opposition needed – and exactly what it could do without in the same person. Together with Nemtsov he brought the brainpower to bear so they could slowly begin to churn out a series of reports – Putin: The Results ; Luzhkov: The Results ; Putin: Corruption ; and Putin: Corruption II . The general public didn’t hear of them, but these documents were corrosive on the Putin consensus. They were universally read and quoted in the policy community and by journalists. Soon, Medvedev’s own think-tank INSOR would be using facts and arguments that had surfaced in Nemtsov and Milov’s pamphlets.

But at the same time Milov incarnated some of the worst characteristics of the opposition: his suave manner and urbane intellectualism made him seem out of touch and easy to caricature to factory workers in provincial cities such as Nizhny Tagil or Tolyatti – as someone only interested in recouping his former oil ministry. Between him and Nemtsov the relationship was also strained, one of the micro-rivalries that the opposition seemed to spend more time focusing on than fighting the authorities. Once, with Nemtsov not present, Milov told me he felt there was ‘political hazing’ in the opposition, with older politicians dominating and blocking younger leaders rising up. Though Navalny would soon harvest a lot of the work Nemtsov and Milov had put in over the years – intellectually and in terms of infrastructure – he caricatured this elitist world as the ineffective ‘court of Nemtsov and Milov’.

Impetuously I asked both ‘democratic aristocrats’ if they felt they were not quite proletarian enough to compete with Putin’s persona; one that smacks of a lower–middle-class fitness fanatic. ‘No. They have chosen us because we are articulating their demands,’ Milov retorted on behalf Russia’s masses. But for all their bravado in the plush cafe that afternoon in late 2009, the ‘court’ knew they were making little impact in the hinterland. After finishing his sandwich and downing his cognac Nemtsov lamented: ‘The reason the opposition has been so ineffective is that the vast majority of Russians live out in the regions. They only have state TV out there… and we are strictly banned from being featured on it.’ Milov nodded thoughtfully.

Navalny had realized that Nemtsov and Milov’s personas and 1990s party structures were never going to break through in the aftermath of the 2007 parliamentary elections. Frustrated and wound up with what he saw as a lack of power lust and creativity in the opposition, he provocatively presented a paper entitled ‘The death of the Russian opposition and how it can be renewed’. 27To the disgruntlement of many of those present he held up NAROD as a ‘network’ bringing together liberals and nationalists as an example for the future: ‘The victory of this opposition is only possible with a political consolidation and synthesis of the ideas of democracy, social justice and nationalism. That is – forming a large united front of leftists and national democratic forces.’ 28In what may have been a coded reference to Yavlinksy he lamented the continued hold of ‘the political culture of the Soviet era of stagnation’ over the opposition. 29Navalny then dared them to understand: ‘The model of the opposition parties has exhausted itself, as the officially registered parties are fully dependent on the Kremlin’s dishonest “rules of the game” set by President Putin’s administration. Success in the struggle against the regime can only be with a network structure, bringing together representatives of the overwhelming majority of parties and ideologies.’ 30

Not everyone in the opposition liked to be told they needed to become one and the same with the nationalists and stop fighting for a particular vision of Russia. Lev Ponomarev, a scruffy perestroika-era perpetual dissident, banned Navalny from attending one of his conferences. He shot back in a rather Putinist fashion, ‘What a cruel world and how cruel of Lev Ponomarev! Now we can’t take part in filming the next instalment in that soap opera “Opposition United”, which they make especially for CNN.’ 31

Whatever Navalny’s posturing, by 2009–10 the opposition was generally moving towards regular and sustained direct action. Their next instalment was more dramatic and had a catchy name, Strategy-31. The new regular protests were named after Article 31 in the Russian constitution that guarantees freedom of assembly. Every month ending on the 31st opposition activists, dissenters, students, 1980s die-hard dissidents and truckloads of crash-helmeted OMON, police and police dogs would gather at Triumphalnaya Square in central Moscow beneath the statue of Vladimir Mayakovsky. The Soviet poet had killed himself in 1930 after writing how ‘the love boat smashed up on the dreary routine’, before being immortalized in a bullying bronze statue he would have detested. Around his plinth monthly scuffles took place.

The routine went like this: the opposition were denied a permit, they came anyway for an ‘illegal demonstration’ and militarized goons were already in wait with truckloads of back-up down the side alleys. Around one hundred to two hundred people on average would glide towards Mayakovsky. As they approached many would start shouting ‘shame’, ‘Russia will be free’, and would wave A4 printouts emblazoned simply with the digits ‘31’. Then the OMON would smash up the gathering. Nemtsov and usually Limonov would be handcuffed (as if they had tried to rob a bank) and driven off to a police station for a cursory detention and fine.