Data reviewed by The Insider show that Filchenkov, 49, likely flew from Tokyo to Shanghai and then from there to Moscow. The editorial team found registrations for both him and his wife, Olga Filchenkova, on a morning flight from Shanghai to Moscow on July 21. It is unclear exactly when Filchenkov left Japan.

The Japanese newspaper Yomiuri Shimbun also reported that Filchenkov had left the country, while a Ukrainian intelligence official confirmed his departure to The New York Times.

Filchenkov was identified as an officer of the GRU’s secretive 20th Directorate, whose officers operate under diplomatic cover or as employees of Russian companies. The Insider was able to verify the finding, confirming that Filchenkov had been registered at a dormitory for students of the GRU’s Military-Diplomatic Academy at 4 Marshala Biryuzova Street in Moscow.

Filchenkov arrived in Tokyo in February 2024, posing as an employee of Aeroflot, Russia’s state-owned flag carrier airline. Due to Western sanctions imposed after the start of Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, Russia was in acute need of high-tech components for its weapons.

While living in Japan, he established contacts with logistics companies that ship cargo from Japan to Russia. Through those connections, he was able to purchase and export high-tech equipment that Russia needs in order to produce many of the weapons it uses to  wage its ongoing war in Ukraine.

Kyiv has repeatedly told Tokyo that Japanese-made electronics have been found in Russian weapons. The list of manufacturers of components discovered in those weapons have included Nippon Electric Corporation, Panasonic, and Toshiba, among others. There is no evidence that those companies knowingly sold their products to Russia.

UNESCO said new “unauthorized excavations, large-scale construction projects, and removal of artefacts” undertaken by the “occupying de facto authorities” have caused “irreversible damage to the archaeological site’s integrity and authenticity.”

The work was carried out without authorization from the relevant Ukrainian authorities, and UNESCO said the threat to the site had been established. The organization called on all parties involved in preserving the site to refrain from actions that could cause further irreversible damage.

Ukrainian Foreign Minister Andrii Sybiha welcomed UNESCO’s decision, writing on X that Chersonese is being destroyed by the Russian occupation authorities. He said the decision should help promote international cooperation to protect the monument.

Chersonese, founded by Dorian Greeks in the fifth century BCE, is considered to be one of the most important ancient sites in the northern Black Sea region. UNESCO added the city and its adjacent agricultural lands — the “chora” — to the World Heritage List in 2013. After Russia occupied and illegally annexed Crimea in 2014, the organization lost access to the site and assessed changes there largely through satellite images. Monitoring showed that large new structures had appeared on the site and in its buffer zones, while archaeological work had continued since 2014.

In 2024, the Russian occupation authorities opened a museum and church complex called “New Chersonese” (“Novy Khersones”) near the ruins. The project, which covers more than 23 hectares and includes an amphitheater and youth centers, was built by the Russian Ministry of Defense. The Ukrainian service of the BBC reported that the complex was built on the site of ancient Greek temples and the city necropolis, which contained unique burial and memorial structures. Archaeologists said bulldozers worked on an area with a cultural layer up to 10 meters deep, where tens of thousands of artifacts may have been located.

A second boy accused of setting fire to the helicopter was sent to a closed educational institution, as he had not reached the age of criminal responsibility at the time of the alleged crime.

According to investigators, two teenagers, who were 14 and 13 in September 2024 when they entered the airport grounds, poured gasoline on a civilian Mi-8 helicopter, and set it on fire. The damage was estimated at 59 million rubles ($753,500). Earlier reports said the burned helicopter belonged to the Tyumen-based airline company UTair.

The teenagers suffered burns and tried to hide, but were caught in the Tyumen Region. Investigators said they acted on instructions from Ukrainian intelligence services, which allegedly promised them payment of 4 million rubles for the arson ($51,000). The teenagers were also accused of setting fire to a cell tower in an industrial zone in Noyabrsk.

Three other people had previously been convicted in connection with the incident: Noyabrsk airport director Alexei Korzhevoy and a security guard were both found guilty of failing to comply with airport transport security requirements, while an unnamed city resident was convicted of failing to report knowledge that a terrorist attack was being planned. Korzhevoy was sentenced to two years of restricted freedom, while the other two were fined (1, 2).

The Suwałki Gap is a narrow stretch of territory located between Belarus and Kaliningrad linking Poland with Lithuania and the other Baltic states. It is often described as one of NATO’s most vulnerable geographic points, as a Russian troop movement into the area would effectively cut the Baltic countries off from the rest of the alliance.

The German contingent, which includes specialized army engineering units as well as military medics and support personnel, is working in Poland at Warsaw’s invitation as part of Poland’s Eastern Shield program. Together with Polish forces, German sappers will dig anti-tank ditches, install wire obstacles, and build field fortifications and firing positions in northern Poland.

The contingent’s commander said Eastern Shield would strengthen Poland’s borders with Russia and Belarus through the construction of a physical barrier, adding that German troops, with their expertise in making terrain impassable to enemy forces, would help their Polish counterparts enhance the security of Poland and its NATO allies alike.

The German command arrived in Poland on June 22. Starting from June 29, about 15 service members were on site conducting reconnaissance, while the main forces of a reinforced engineering and machinery platoon arrived in early July. The mission is planned to develop in several stages through October 2026, but it can be extended if necessary.

Earlier reports confirmed that Poland is creating a new military formation — the Border Protection Component within the Territorial Defense Forces — to defend its borders with Russia and Belarus. It will include four brigades responsible for key sections of the eastern border, serving as one of the pillars of the Eastern Shield program.

As The Insider previously reported, the changes came in response to a political crisis triggered by the dismissal of Defense Minister Mykhailo Fedorov. Fedorov publicly said he had proposed that Zelensky dismiss Syrskyi and Hnatov, and that afterward his reforms faced resistance from the General Staff.

Fedorov said his proposal was driven by systemic problems in the management of the army: bureaucracy, resistance to reform, manual distribution of weapons, frequent changes of commanders, and decisions made “based on loyalty, not data analysis.” Drapatyi supported Fedorov, confirming that many Defense Ministry decisions had to be pushed through “in spite of the system,” not because it was working.

Viktor Trehubov, spokesman for the AFU’s Joint Forces and someone who knows Drapatyi personally, told The Insider that Drapatyi’s career has been marked by an almost complete absence of conflicts, something rare in the Ukrainian army.

“He is a very competent person, and he has always surprised me with how well he can monitor all the processes taking place in command and management at the same time. In that sense, he is simply a human computer,” Trehubov said. “At the same time, he is not a micromanager, as some officers are. He delegates, but constantly keeps track of things. He has a good reputation among fellow service members. I know almost no one who has any serious complaints about him. That is actually surprising, because in Ukraine there are generals who are highly respected by subordinates and colleagues, but usually even they are criticized by someone. Drapatyi has no serious personal conflicts with anyone.

I am sure he will be a good commander in chief. One of his strengths is that you can always have a normal conversation with him, regardless of rank or position. He is focused on helping. He often said he wanted to remind many officers that command is not only about assigning tasks to soldiers, but also about helping them do their work.”

Ukrainian military expert and retired colonel Oleh Zhdanov told The Insider that Drapatyi’s appointment gives Ukraine’s armed forces a “second chance.”

“This is a second chance for the Armed Forces of Ukraine to truly carry out reforms and bring themselves into the condition we dreamed of — one that meets NATO standards and the standards of developed countries,” Zhdanov said. “Drapatyi’s biography shows that he has the talent of a commander, starting with the operation in Mariupol in 2014 and the Izvaryne pocket, when he was able to lead his battalion out of encirclement at a time when the political authorities were still negotiating humanitarian corridors.

But his appointment is unlikely to immediately bring huge changes or landmark events. From President Zelensky’s address, in which he announced Drapatyi’s appointment as commander in chief and laid out his immediate tasks, it is clear that he will effectively have to start from the beginning: with the mobilization mechanism, the troop command system, and the organizational structure of the armed forces. Even simply replacing the apparatus is already a major undertaking.”

According to Polish investigators, Blinov found people to carry out a range of attacks, provided them with information about the victims, and paid them, acting on instructions from an “identified person.” That person’s name was not read aloud when the charges were presented, but the independent Russian outlet Mediazona reported that investigators believe the figureperson who ordered the attacks was businessman Leonid Nevzlin, who has denied his involvement.

In September 2024, the ACF accused Nevzlin of organizing the attack on Volkov. The Insider examined published correspondence between Blinov and Nevzlin and concluded that it was likely to be authentic.

During the reading of the charges against Blinov on July 22, it emerged that a would-be assailant who was meant to carry out a separate planned attack on Volkov in New York in late 2023 had been offered 50,000 euros. However, the plan was aborted due to police surveillance, according to an exclusive report by Mediazona.

From February to March 2024, according to the indictment, Blinov paid another 15,000 euros for surveillance of Volkov, Maria Pevchikh, and Ivan Zhdanov in Vilnius. The original plan was for the assailant to abduct Volkov and hand him over to Russian law enforcement, but the person abandoned the plan because he feared criminal liability. Blinov then instructed two other defendants to attack the politician, giving them Volkov’s photographs, addresses, and phone numbers.

The attack took place March 12, 2024, when Volkov was in his car near his home in Vilnius. The assailants sprayed pepper spray in his face, struck his left leg 10 to 15 times with a hammer, and hit him once or twice more on the shoulder. Volkov suffered a fracture, an eye burn, wounds and swelling in his arm.

Another count concerns the arson of a replica SHIZO cell installed in Vilnius, modeled on the punishment cell where Navalny had been held while in prison in Russia. Three assailants set fire to the installation on July 7, 2023. Investigators believe Blinov offered 15,000 euros for the attack.

Blinov is also accused of organizing an attack on Alexandra Petrachkova, the wife of economist Maxim Mironov. Blinov allegedly offered the assailants 15,000 zlotys, or about 3,500 euros, and gave them the couple’s address in Argentina, along with their photographs. On Sept. 1, 2023, the attacker struck Petrachkova in the face in an apparent attempt to force her and Mironov to cease their political activity in support of the Russian opposition.

The fifth count involves a fake Polish driver’s license that investigators say Blinov used until September 2024.

A Telegram post by Volkov about the July 22 hearing read:

“The lunch break is ending. Before lunch, this is what happened: The prosecutor read the charges, and Blinov’s questioning began, which is being held behind closed doors.

So I can’t really tell you what happened there — in any case, nothing about the substance of the case. So far Blinov is telling his biography literally from time immemorial. All of this is taking quite a long time because he speaks Russian, the interpreter translates into Polish, then the judge repeats it aloud in Polish so that the clerk can enter not the interpreter’s conversational speech into the record but clearer wording — and the interpreter translates that back to Blinov so he can agree to it.

So Blinov’s questioning will probably continue after lunch and all day tomorrow. After that, things will get more interesting.

Still, the main words have been said: The state prosecutor charged Anatoly Blinov with committing five crimes — organizing the attack on Alexandra Petrachkova in Buenos Aires, organizing the failed attack on me in New York, organizing the attack on me in Vilnius, organizing the arson of the SHIZO installation in Vilnius, and buying a fake driver’s license — all motivated by political hatred and ordered by an identified person.

That identified person is named many times in the indictment — if I didn’t lose count, 56 times — but the name can be made public only once that part of the indictment is read in the open part of the trial.

For now, of course, you can make your own guesses.”

Blinov faces up to five years in prison. He was detained in Poland in mid-September 2024 and has been in custody since. The indictment was submitted to court in March 2026.

Local Telegram channel Zvenigorod published a series of photographs from the scene. Taken from different angles, the images show fire and a tall column of thick black smoke in the Lutsino area. The channel also cited eyewitnesses who said that the pilot had ejected before the aircraft exploded.

State-owned outlet Izvestia confirms the crash of a fighter jet near Lutsino but does not identify the aircraft model. According to the outlet, emergency services have been dispatched to the scene.

The Telegram channel 112 reports that the aircraft went down in the Odintsovo urban district, near the Moskva River. The pilot managed to eject, and no casualties were reported. Mash claims that before ejecting, the pilot tried to steer the aircraft away from residential buildings.

The Investigative Committee has opened a criminal case connected with the violation of flight rules under Article 351 of the Russian Criminal Code, Kommersant reports. The cause of the crash will be investigated by military experts and a commission from the Ministry of Defense.

The Su-57 is Russia’s newest multirole fighter jet. The manufacturer and Russian authorities classify it as fifth-generation. The aircraft made its first flight in 2010 and is considered to be the most advanced fighter in service with Russia’s Aerospace Forces. As of publication, Russia’s Ministry of Defense had not issued any official statement on the crash.

The document does not define the boundaries of the area surveyed by archaeologists

The assessment covers excavation, construction, land reclamation, utility, and other works on land “adjacent to the parcel with cadastral number 91:01:001005:151, where construction of the Yacht Village Apart Hotel tourist complex is being prepared.” The parcel itself covers 157,789 square meters.

According to the report, archaeological research was conducted on an area of approximately 18 hectares. However, the document itself does not specify exactly what area the archaeologists surveyed. Instead, it uses the phrase “area adjacent to the land parcel,” with no indication of precise boundaries. The area is delineated only graphically.

According to urban planning documentation, part of the area is permitted a maximum building height of up to 26 meters, with the “possibility of creating isolated high-rise accents of up to 35 meters.” This is comparable to a 10- to 12-story residential building. The published historical and cultural assessment, however, contains no information about the actual height of future buildings and only evaluates the project’s impact on the archaeological site.

87% of the heritage site will be affected by construction

Over the course of their research, archaeologists identified the Tavros Settlement archaeological heritage site, preliminarily dated to the Bronze Age. It covers an area of 1,619.19 square meters. According to the report, 1,410.5 square meters — or about 87% of the heritage site — will be affected by excavation and construction works. The assessor concluded that it is physically impossible to preserve this portion of the site.

“Physical preservation is impossible. Rescue archaeological fieldwork (excavations) is required, with full or partial removal of archaeological artifacts from the excavation sites,” the conclusion states.

During the survey, archaeologists found fragments of hand-molded pottery, flint artifacts, and seashells. The resulting document makes clear that the proposed construction project — which will involve leveling, grading, and terracing the land — presents a threat to the heritage site. It calls for rescue excavations to be carried out before construction begins.

The Rotenberg project

The construction of a yacht marina in Balaklava is one of the largest projects in the works by Arkady and Boris Rotenberg in occupied Crimea. The project was launched in 2018 on the orders of Vladimir Putin as part of the federal development program for Crimea and the city of Sevastopol. The plan is to create a resort cluster with 600 berths for yachts, along with hotels, restaurants, and promenade areas.

The state is funding construction of the marina itself — the berths, hydraulic structures, roads, and engineering infrastructure. The general contractor is Mostotrest, which is owned by the Rotenbergs. Around the marina, the company Port Lamos, another entity in their project structure, is building hotels, apart-hotels, and other tourist real estate.

In June, the value of the state contract rose from 11.3 billion [$144 million] to 18 billion rubles [$229.6 million], and the completion date was pushed back from late 2027 to December 2029. The project was originally valued at 9.3 billion rubles [$118.6 million]  and was due to be completed by the end of 2025. In total, the project’s cost has nearly doubled since construction began, and the timeline has slipped by four years.

In order to move the project forward, Russian authorities have been seizing land and property from residents for several years. Ukrainian owners are stripped of their property through Russia-controlled courts, after which the buildings are demolished. Local residents have also recounted that representatives of Port Lamos offered to buy their homes, explaining that the old buildings would “spoil the view” of the future luxury complex.

Not the first heritage site

This is not the first time the status of archaeological heritage sites has been altered to make way for the Rotenbergs’ tourist complex in Balaklava.

In the spring of 2026, a state historical and cultural assessment recommended that the boundaries of the identified cultural heritage site “Northern Outskirts of Chembalo Fortress” be reduced. Beforehand, archaeologists had surveyed a 245-square-meter plot and found more than 2,000 ceramic fragments from the 14th–18th centuries, then concluded that the area had been fully studied and could be released for construction. As a result, 211 square meters were removed from the heritage site to clear the plot for a Port Lamos hotel.

In the meantime, Port Lamos is buying up historic properties around the bay. The company already owns Prince Yusupov’s Hunting Lodge, Shcherbin’s Dacha, and Dr. Pedkov’s Dachas, all of which are planned to be converted into hotels and restaurants.

A sea war

At its narrowest point, the strait is only 21 nautical miles across, with navigable shipping lanes running largely through Omani territorial waters. The close proximity of these lanes to the Iranian coastline means that Iran does not need a traditional blue-water navy to threaten them – indeed, most of Iran’s warships were destroyed very quickly by U.S. airstrikes at the start of this conflict. All Iran needs to do is to render the risk of transiting through the Strait high enough to make passage too dangerous for ships and their insurers. Achieving that requires capabilities that Iran has in spades — small fast attack boats, mobile missile and drone launchers, and naval mines. This is what we call sea denial: making waters prohibitively risky for the other side to operate in, even if one doesn’t outright control them.

All Iran needs to do is to render the risk of transiting through the Strait high enough to make passage too dangerous

The war has allowed us to see the four interweaving layers of the Iranian strategy for sea denial. The first layer is the swarm, carried out by a large fleet of attack craft. These boats are small, fast, and armed, designed to overwhelm a target through their weight of numbers and maneuverability rather than by individual lethality. The craft are hidden along a large stretch of the Iranian coastline, making them easy to deploy and hard to hit with airstrikes while berthed. 

The second layer is land-based and mobile: truck-mounted launchers for anti-ship missiles and drones dispersed throughout the mountainous coastline. These launchers use “shoot and scoot” tactics, exploiting the natural cover offered by the terrain while severely complicating U.S. targeting in response.

The third layer is under the water: midget submarines that can both ambush ships and lay mines in the shallow waters of the Strait. Iran’s stockpile of naval mines likely runs into the thousands, and the mere fact of the capability works as a deterrent — given how hard it is to spot them, merely the plausible threat of mines has been enough to significantly increase the risk of passage.

The fourth layer is legal and bureaucratic. Under the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS), ships retain the right to transit through straits that are used for international navigation, with or without the consent of any adjoining coastal state. Iran has never ratified UNCLOS, but Tehran has attempted to provide a fig leaf of legal legitimacy for its actions by passing domestic law that gives it the right to suspend passage for any ship it deems hostile. Iran has built on this with the establishment of the Persian Gulf Strait Authority, a military-linked civilian body responsible for granting permits and collecting tolls for transit through the Strait. The Authority was sanctioned by the United States almost immediately, with U.S. warnings to Oman not to facilitate any toll arrangement. Still, its true function is to give Iran a mechanism through which it can claim administrative control over the Strait even without physical control over every transit. 

The American response has largely followed classic doctrine for countering area denial: first degrading sensors and command-and-control nodes, then mobile launch capability, then the smaller naval assets, all while imposing a naval blockade on Iranian ports to raise the cost of continued non-compliance. Given that sustained minesweeping can only really be done after hostilities have ended, these operations are the best the Americans can realistically do at the moment. Looking at U.S. Central Command’s hitlist shows us an attempt at a systematic attritional campaign waged against Iran’s capabilities to threaten the Strait, though the dispersed nature of these capabilities has meant that success is still rather far off. The U.S. has also struck Iran in retaliation for its attacks on American and partner assets around the Gulf, including in Jordan, Bahrain, Kuwait, Qatar, and the United Arab Emirates (although this does not seem to be doing much to dissuade Iran).

A bottleneck

Prior to the war, an average of around 180 vessels transited through the Strait of Hormuz every day. That number collapsed during the worst points of the conflict, and periodic ceasefires never saw it fully recover. Many of the transits made have been carried out by ships linked to Iran, China, and Russia — all under tight Iranian supervision, running dark with their trackers switched off to avoid sanctions enforcement.

Many other commercial ships are still priced out of attempting passage. War-risk insurance now costs orders of magnitude more than before the conflict, as insurers price in the threat of Iranian missiles, drones and mines. Often this steep cost is more than the value of the cargo — and that’s before adding in potential transit charges (likely paid in yuan to avoid sanctioned financial channels) and operational hurdles put in place by Iran. Even though many American officials insist that transit through the Strait of Hormuz is physically possible, as things stand it is only a brave (and possibly foolhardy) ship captain who attempts it. 

As things stand, only a brave (and possibly foolhardy) ship captain attempts transit through the Strait of Hormuz

We should also remember that Iran and the United States are not the only countries with a stake in the outcome of this war. The Strait of Hormuz normally handles the flow of around a fifth of global crude oil supplies and a fifth of liquified natural gas. Much of this is bound east rather than west, as we have seen from the huge impact of the Strait’s closure on countries like Vietnam, Thailand, and the Philippines. China typically accounts for around a third of the oil moving through the Strait, but its ships are the least troubled by either Western sanctions enforcement or the reputational cost of dealing with Iran, so there has been less impact on the Chinese economy.

Meanwhile, the states bordering the Gulf have had to hedge their positions carefully: Bahrain, Kuwait, Qatar, Saudi Arabia, and the United Arab Emirates, all close partners of the United States, have jointly protested to the International Maritime Organization regarding Iran’s transit restrictions, but the Gulf monarchies do not have the military capability to enforce that protest, and they are all absorbing repeated Iranian strikes as retaliation for hosting American forces on their soil. Oman is in a particularly delicate position as the other coastal state on the Strait of Hormuz: the southern shipping lanes pass through its waters and it is a traditional intermediary between Tehran and Washington, but it is under significant pressure from the United States not to give any legitimacy to Iranian toll and permit measures. 

Everything hinges on negotiations

Despite having tracked this war closely since the beginning, I have no simple answer to the question of who controls the Strait of Hormuz. As things currently stand, Iran sets the terms of risk while the United States retains the capacity to set the terms of consequence. Importantly, these are not the same thing. Iran cannot forever close the Strait in the face of a determined American campaign of attrition, as every American airstrike degrades Iranian capabilities a little further. The combination of economic sanctions and a naval blockade is costing the Iranian regime dearly; however Iran can still succeed on its own terms by keeping the risk to transit high enough and the administrative burden off-putting enough to ensure that commercial ships avoid the Strait despite American insistence that it is open.  This is a form of maritime control that does not require winning a single naval battle — and it is therefore one that the United States struggles to counter efficiently.

Ultimately, the future of the Strait of Hormuz rests not in the hands of U.S. Central Command, but on the negotiating table. Until there is a durable cessation of hostilities and an agreement over the administration of transit, the practical reality in the Gulf will remain the same: a Strait that is neither open nor closed, moving a small fraction of its normal traffic at a wildly inflated cost, with continued impact on the global economy. Given how the negotiations have gone so far, a timely end is looking like an increasingly remote outcome, but we must hope for reason to prevail. 

Duma Speaker Vyacheslav Volodin said the measure targets “extremists, traitors to our Motherland, those who for years have tried to do everything to destroy our state, justify Nazism, and insult our soldiers and officers while hiding from punishment in other countries.”

Russia uses the “foreign agent” label for people and organizations it claims are under foreign influence. The designation carries strict reporting requirements and has been widely used against independent journalists, activists, and critics of the Kremlin. The offense of “discrediting” the army was introduced after the start of the full-scale invasion of Ukraine and is used to punish those who engage in criticism of Russia’s military or the war.

The “restrictive measures” listed in the bill include:

• suspending registration of property rights in Russia;
• freezing and blocking bank accounts and property;
• restricting the right to drive vehicles;
• cancelling access to online state and municipal services;
• barring state registration as an individual entrepreneur.

In May, the State Duma passed a separate bill allowing Russian authorities to seize the property of citizens who have left the country. The measure will apply to people who commit offenses “against Russia’s interests” under several articles of the Code of Administrative Offenses, including violations of rules governing “foreign agents” and the dissemination of “extremist materials.”

That law is set to take effect on Sept. 1, 2026.

ANF is expected to work with TVEL to produce hexagonal fuel assemblies for Soviet-designed VVER pressurized water reactors, which are common in Eastern Europe. Fuel assemblies, known by the Russian abbreviation TVS, are bundles of fuel rods used in nuclear reactors.

Lower Saxony Environment Minister Christian Meyer said that because the European Union has not imposed sanctions on Rosatom, German authorities had no legal grounds to reject ANF’s application.

“I have always said that I consider business and close cooperation with Putin’s nuclear company fundamentally wrong,” Meyer said. “The aim must be to reduce and not increase dependencies on Russia, especially in the sensitive nuclear sector. Ukraine has also warned against cooperation with Rosatom, especially since this nuclear company, which is directly subordinate to Putin, is involved in acts of war and is accused of serious human rights crimes. Unfortunately, there is also no clear signal from Framatome or the ANF to end cooperation in the nuclear field with Russia. And in the EU, there is still no majority for sanctions on Russian uranium and fuel assemblies, although Ukraine and other Eastern European countries, for example, have shown that hexagonal fuel assemblies for VVER reactors can also be produced without Russian participation.”

The Russian environmental group Ecodefense! condemned the German authorities’ decision, saying cooperation with Russia in the nuclear sector threatens the security of Germany and other EU countries, as it allows the Kremlin to expand control over critical energy infrastructure in Europe.

Vladimir Slivyak, co-chair of Ecodefense, told The Insider that Hungary, Slovakia, Bulgaria, the Czech Republic, and Finland remain heavily dependent on Russian technology. France is also involved, he said.

“France never stopped cooperating with Rosatom,” Slivyak explained. “Its company Framatome, for example, imports uranium from Russia, and now it will also produce nuclear fuel jointly with Rosatom for nuclear power plants in other countries.

As for the Lower Saxony Environment Ministry, what is interesting is that the minister himself, Christian Meyer, is from the Greens and had opposed this decision the whole time. Now he says he is forced to approve it because the government in Berlin is demanding it.”

According to TVEL’s website, the Rosatom subsidiary is the sole supplier of nuclear fuel for all Russian nuclear power plants, as well as Russia’s naval and research reactors. TVEL includes enterprises specializing in gas centrifuge production, uranium enrichment, and nuclear fuel fabrication, as well as research and design organizations.

In February, the UK imposed sanctions on several other Rosatom subsidiaries.

UNESCO decided to consider adding the lake to the list due to a law on clear-cutting around Baikal that was passed by Russia’s parliament and signed by Vladimir Putin in December 2025. The law allows clear sanitary logging at the lake — previously fully banned under a 1999 law — when selective logging does not help forests recover. It also permits the construction of various infrastructure objects, including cemeteries, roads, bridges and mudflow protection structures.

Environmentalists told the independent Russian media outlet Kedr that the law’s wording effectively allows healthy forest to be cut down under the guise of removing diseased trees, clearing space for construction. This could destroy local flora and fauna and cause irreversible damage to the world’s deepest lake. In June 2026, reports confirmed that 400 hectares of forest had already begun to be cleared in the central ecological zone of the Baikal natural territory, making way for a five-star tourist complex.

UNESCO believes the new legislation weakens protections for the lake. The organization is asking Russian authorities to provide detailed information by February 2027 about planned construction projects and their potential harm.

UNESCO is also considering adding the “Western Caucasus” and “Volcanoes of Kamchatka” sites to the list of World Heritage sites in danger.

Most of the 53 sites currently on the list are in Africa and the Middle East. The list also includes sites in Austria, Romania, Ukraine and the United States. Three Ukrainian sites were added in 2023 amid Russia’s full-scale invasion.

Russia has never had a site placed on the List of World Heritage in Danger. If Baikal or the two other Russian sites named in UNESCO’s draft receive that status, Moscow would be compelled to cooperate with the organization to develop conservation measures for the areas. If Russia refuses to follow the recommendations, the sites could be removed from the World Heritage List entirely — similar to the Dresden Elbe Valley in Germany, which was struck off the list after a road bridge was built across the river.

Russia holds an “honorable ninth place” on the overall World Heritage List, according to the website of Russia’s permanent mission to UNESCO. The country has 11 natural and 23 cultural World Heritage sites.

The measures will apply within the Moscow terminal control area, the air traffic control zone covering the Russian capital’s aviation hub. Civilian aircraft in the area will be limited to an altitude of 4,900 meters, down from the previous ceiling of 8,550 meters.

Flights by both Russian and foreign airlines transiting over the Moscow region will also be banned. A corresponding NOTAM, or notice to airspace users, says the measures will remain in effect until at least Aug. 26. Rosaviatsiya, however, gave Kommersant a different date: Aug. 12.

The restrictions are being implemented with appeals to the need to ensure flight safety. Kommersant’s sources said the Defense Ministry initiated the measures amid a rise in Ukrainian drone attacks that began this spring. The transit ban will reduce flight traffic in the area, while the lower maximum altitude will allow aircraft to begin landing approaches more quickly.

However, airlines say the restrictions could extend flight times and increase fuel consumption. The transit ban through the Moscow aviation hub will have the most noticeable impact, potentially adding 20 to 30 minutes to routes that previously made their way through the Moscow region’s airspace.

The lower altitude limit, in turn, will force flights to reduce speed and increase fuel use. Crews will be able to climb to an efficient cruising altitude only after leaving the region, adding an average of 10 to 15 minutes to flights departing from Moscow. Kommersant’s sources said the lower permitted altitude also increases the risk of bird strikes.

According to the project’s calculations, over the past month 75% of sanctioned vessels chose a longer route running north around  Scotland between the Faroe and Shetland islands.

The Insider had also previously recorded route changes after the detention of the Smyrtos. According to an analysis of Starboard Maritime Intelligence data published June 26, at least 29 Russian “shadow fleet” tankers chose to bypass the UK and Ireland through the Atlantic in the two weeks following the British military operation.

The route through the English Channel, however, has not been abandoned entirely. During the period in question, 14 tankers  facing UK, EU, or U.S. sanctions passed through the Channel. 

Attempts to disarm Hezbollah

Even before March 2026, the Lebanese government had been demanding that Hezbollah disband its military wing and ensure the state's monopoly over military force and foreign policy. President Joseph Aoun stated as much in his inaugural address to parliament after being elected in January 2025.

However, Hezbollah refused to give up its weapons, and it remains intransigent. In August 2025, when the government instructed the military to draw up a plan for the group's disarmament, its Secretary-General Naim Qassem threatened civil war. His remarks were condemned by Prime Minister Nawaf Salam and many prominent politicians, but most citizens understand the reality that Hezbollah would sooner sacrifice the peace of the country than surrender its arms.

Most Lebanese citizens understand that Hezbollah would choose civil war over disarmament

Those weapons have been used against more enemies than just Israeli soldiers. In Lebanon, the Shiite group is suspected of assassinating political figures, security officials, and journalists who stood in its way; among its suspected victims are former Prime Minister Rafik Hariri (2005), Internal Security Forces intelligence chief Wissam al-Hassan (2012), former Finance Minister Mohammad Chatah (2013), and Shiite writer and public intellectual Lokman Slim (2021).

Moreover, in May 2008 Hezbollah fighters seized control over western Beirut. Earlier that spring, the Lebanese cabinet had sought to dismantle the group's independent telecommunications network, which operated beyond the control of the security services and the government. In response, Hezbollah attacked sites in Beirut linked to the party of the then-prime minister. In the Lebanese mountains, Shiite militants also attacked Druze supporters of another party that was part of the governing coalition. The clashes left dozens of people dead.

Hezbollah also fought on the side of Bashar al-Assad's regime during the Syrian civil war, a fact that did little to enhance the group's popularity at home. As far back as 1976, during the rule of Hafez al-Assad, the Syrian army entered Lebanon and remained there until 2005. Damascus withdrew its forces only amid mass protests in Lebanon that were accompanied with pressure from the United States and France. During the years of Syria's occupation of Lebanon, Syrian forces were implicated in the killings and abductions of Lebanese and Palestinians. Some Lebanese who survived Assad's prisons were not released until the regime in Damascus fell in December 2024.

Throughout 2025, Lebanon's new leadership sought to persuade Hezbollah to dissolve its military wing. Both the president and the prime minister repeatedly stressed that this could only be achieved through dialogue. Until last year, however, it was difficult to imagine the government even raising the issue of Hezbollah's disarmament. The group had enough allies and political influence to prevent such a discussion.

However, the situation changed as a result of Hezbollah's defeat in the 2023–2024 war with Israel. In the fall of 2024, Israel sharply escalated its campaign against Hezbollah, eliminating much of the group's military and political leadership (including charismatic Secretary-General Hassan Nasrallah), and destroying much of its missile arsenal. It became clear that, despite Nasrallah's claims of a "balance of deterrence" between Hezbollah and Israel, the group's capabilities had been severely diminished.

Nevertheless, Hezbollah retained thousands of fighters, was able to keep part of its arsenal, and made advances in the use of fiber-optic FPV drones (which became evident on the battlefield in the spring of 2026). The elimination of the organization's leadership in the fall of 2024 did not, contrary to outside hopes and expectations, lead to its collapse. Unlike other Lebanese political parties, Hezbollah is built around institutions rather than personalities. It also possesses a coherent ideology, its own schools, propaganda media outlets — and an external sponsor.

The aftermath of the 2024 war: the collapse of alliances

By opening a "support front" in solidarity with Hamas the day after the massacre of October 7, 2023, Hezbollah dragged Lebanon into an unpopular and devastating war that cost the group many of its allies.

In the past, Hezbollah's influence was built largely on alliances with a wide range of political parties and figures, not just Shiites. It had numerous partners among Christians, Sunnis, and Druze — an especially important asset in Lebanon's political system, which is based on sectarian quotas for representatives of different religions and denominations.

The war proved to be the final blow to Hezbollah's alliance with the Christian Free Patriotic Movement (FPM). Between 2005 and 2022, the FPM was the largest Christian party in parliament, and from 2006 onward it maintained an alliance with Hezbollah. It was largely thanks to the group's backing that the FPM's founder, Michel Aoun, became president in 2016.

The FPM provided Hezbollah with "Christian cover," defending the Shiite group against its critics, opposing calls for its disarmament, and promoting its narrative of "resistance" against Israel in the interest of all Lebanese faith groups. This allowed Hezbollah to counter accusations that it acted solely in the interests of Lebanon's Shiites and Iran.

The alliance had already begun to fray before October 2023. The FPM's new leader, Gebran Bassil — Michel Aoun's son-in-law — wanted to succeed his father-in-law as president. Hezbollah, however, backed Suleiman Frangieh, with whom Bassil had a strained relationship. As a result, the group's allies were unable to unite behind a single candidate. On top of that, the outbreak of war with Israel proved deeply unpopular: although most Lebanese sympathized with the people of Gaza, media coverage and social media activity suggested they had little desire to go to war with Israel.

Following its defeat in the 2023–2024 war, Hezbollah also lost some of its Sunni allies. One of them was Faisal Karami, a member of parliament from the city of Tripoli and the heir to one of Lebanon's most influential political dynasties of the 20th century — Karami had long been an ally of both the Assad family and Hezbollah.

In 2025 Karami began distancing himself from the group — praising the "wise policies" of Saudi Arabia, which has renewed its interest in Lebanon over the past couple of years. In this respect, Karami has come to resemble many other Sunni politicians in Lebanon, who tend to look to Riyadh rather than Tehran. More significant, however, are Faisal Karami's remarks that he supports the goal — expressed by the president and the prime minister — of establishing the state's monopoly on arms by disarming Hezbollah.

In addition, according to Lebanese media reports, representatives of the Sunni movement Al-Ahbash did not attend the funeral of Hezbollah Secretary-General Hassan Nasrallah, who was killed in an Israeli strike in September 2024. The Islamist Ahbash movement has historically been linked to the Assad regime and has maintained close ties with Hezbollah. In the 2022 parliamentary elections, the movement won two seats in Lebanon's 128-member parliament, gaining political representation for the first time.

Ideologically, Al-Ahbash is hostile to Salafis and Sunni Islamists, who are themselves generally hostile toward Shiites and Alawites. This made the Ahbash a useful counterweight to Islamist movements. In addition, the Alawite Assad dynasty supported the Sunni Al-Ahbash as a way of weakening its domestic Sunni political opponents.

The movement grew out of the followers of an Ethiopian sheikh, Abdullah al-Harari al-Habashi, who arrived in Lebanon in the 1960s. In his writings, al-Harari devoted considerable attention to criticizing Islamists (including the Muslim Brotherhood), as well as Salafis, who advocate a strict, literal interpretation of the Quran.

Activist Marc Daou's victory over Druze politician Emir Arslan in their 2022 election race for parliament reflects one of the most important political trends in Lebanon over the past decade: growing public disillusionment with the country's political elite. That frustration first erupted in the mass protests of the fall of 2019. The immediate trigger was a proposed tax on WhatsApp calls in a country with expensive mobile services, but the deeper causes were rampant corruption, cronyism, and repeated attempts to balance the budget at the public's expense. In the 2022 elections, many candidates presented themselves as representatives of the protest movement that had begun spreading across Lebanon's regions and religious communities in 2019.

The immediate trigger for the protests was a proposed tax on WhatsApp calls, but the underlying causes were rampant corruption, cronyism, and repeated attempts to balance the budget at the public's expense

As a result, civil society candidates like Daou achieved unprecedented success, as 12 of the country’s 128 parliamentary seats went to opposition candidates unconnected to Lebanon's traditional political parties or dynasties. (The first such breakthrough had come in 2018, when Armenian-Lebanese journalist Paula Yacoubian won a seat and was re-elected in 2022.)

During the protests in the fall of 2019, Hezbollah supporters repeatedly attacked demonstrators with clubs. As a result, Hezbollah and its allies lost their parliamentary majority in 2022. Then, in early 2025, lawmakers elected in the wake of the 2019 protest movement helped elect Joseph Aoun as president and form the government of Nawaf Salam.

The Assad regime appears to have supported the Ahbash from the 1980s onward. Adnan Trabulsi was first elected to parliament in 1992 but lost his seat in 1996, returning only in 2018. In addition to its two current lawmakers — Adnan Trabulsi, who represents Beirut, and Taha Naji, who represents Tripoli — the movement also operates several schools in Lebanon.

It is also worth noting that in the 2022 parliamentary elections, it was Hezbollah's principal ally within the Druze community, Emir Talal Arslan, who lost his parliamentary seat to Daou. Unlike Arslan, Daou is not affiliated with either the Jumblatt or Arslan dynasties, which have dominated Lebanon's Druze community for centuries.

2026: war returns

On the eve of March 2, Prime Minister Nawaf Salam and Foreign Minister Youssef Rajji publicly opposed dragging Lebanon into another war. They were joined by a number of politicians, including Beirut Sunni MP and billionaire Fouad Makhzoumi, who also spoke out against making such a move.

Predictably, outside the Shiite community, Hezbollah's March 2 rocket attack on northern Israel was widely condemned. The group was criticized for once again dragging the country into war without regard for the views of its fellow citizens. Many Lebanese were particularly outraged that the attack on Israel had been carried out in retaliation for the killing of Iran's Supreme Leader, Ali Khamenei. Hezbollah has consistently claimed that it acts in Lebanon's interests and defends all Lebanese against Israel. However, many Lebanese saw the group as having dragged the country into a suicidal war that only served an outside power’s interests — for the second time in less than three years, no less.

Israel responded to Hezbollah's six-rocket barrage on March 2 with massive airstrikes on Shiite areas in southern and eastern Lebanon, as well as on the southern suburbs of Beirut, which are home to more than just Shiites. Within a matter of weeks, more than one million Lebanese had fled their homes to escape the fighting.

A recent public opinion survey, conducted by Information International, shows that a majority of Christians and Druze believe the spring escalation was caused by Hezbollah's actions. Lebanon's Sunnis are divided: 39% blame Hezbollah, while 33% hold Israel responsible. Most Shiites, meanwhile, place the blame on Israel.

Throughout the spring, Lebanese President Joseph Aoun repeatedly stated that Hezbollah had dragged the country into "someone else's war." In early March, the cabinet banned the group's military and other security-related activities. In practice, however, the Lebanese army has been reluctant to fully enforce these restrictions. As a result, although a number of Hezbollah fighters were briefly detained, they were soon released on bail.

In the early weeks of the second Iran war, Joseph Aoun took an unprecedented step by declaring that he was open to direct negotiations with Israel. This was remarkable given that the two countries have no diplomatic relations and had gone without any official contacts for decades. According to Aoun, only negotiations could guarantee peace along the Lebanese-Israeli border.

The talks began in mid-April. Since then, diplomats from the two countries have met several times, while contacts between the Israel Defense Forces and the Lebanese army have been taking place under Pentagon auspices since late May. Although Beirut has failed to secure a complete ceasefire, Israel has refrained from bombing the Lebanese capital.

The Shiite trap

In Lebanon's political system, the presidency is traditionally reserved for a Maronite Christian, while the prime minister is a Sunni Muslim and a Shiite Muslim serves as the speaker of parliament. Nabih Berri, who became the leader of the Shiite Amal Movement in 1980, has served as speaker since 1992.

With Syrian backing, Amal became the largest Shiite militia in Lebanon. However, after the country’s fifteen-year-long civil war ended in 1990, Amal’s fighters were demobilized and the movement evolved into a political party. Although many of its supporters still possess weapons — as is common in Lebanon's political culture — Amal does not have the heavy weaponry, tunnel network, or missile arsenal that Hezbollah possesses. Nabih Berri's strength lies not in military might but in his ability to channel state funds to political allies and constituents.

In the late 1980s, Hezbollah and Amal fought one another for control of Lebanon's Shiite areas. After the civil war, however, they became allies. The two movements run joint electoral lists, and after the withdrawal of Syrian troops in 2005, this "Shiite duo" became a major source of political leverage for both Berri and Hezbollah. Together, they control all 27 parliamentary seats reserved for Shiites.

Without Nabih Berri's backing, the Lebanese authorities are unlikely to be able to conclude an agreement with Israel. Any such deal would lack sufficient legitimacy without the support of Shiite political leaders, since Lebanese politics depends on consensus among the country's religious communities for such decisions. Moreover, Hezbollah can create "facts on the ground" by attacking Israel, while Speaker Berri would be in a position to block any agreement in parliament.

Without the support of Shiite politicians, any agreement with Israel would lack sufficient legitimacy

A recent survey by Information International found that an overwhelming majority of Shiites oppose both negotiations with Israel (92.9%) and Hezbollah's disarmament (87.5%). Among Sunnis, by contrast, 54.4% support negotiations, while 38% oppose diplomacy with Israel.

These attitudes among Shiites are partly the result of Hezbollah's propaganda apparatus, which includes its media outlets and school system, as well as intimidation of opponents within the Shiite community. But another major factor is that many Shiites see themselves as victims of the current situation. Hundreds of thousands have fled their homes, and many have lost relatives — both Hezbollah fighters and civilians, including women, children, the elderly, and medical workers.

Moreover, many Hezbollah supporters believe that it was the group, rather than the central government, that for decades provided them with access to healthcare and education while Beirut neglected the country's peripheral regions. Now, in their view, that same government is trying to disarm their protectors while negotiating with Israel.

Not all Shiites, of course, support Amal and Hezbollah. According to the same survey, 7.9% favor Hezbollah's disarmament. The problem is that critics of the "Shiite duo" have virtually no political representation. Although the government includes one Shiite minister who is not affiliated with either movement —  Fadi Makki, who holds the Administrative Reform portfolio — he is more of a technocrat than a politician and enjoys little mass electoral support.

Is there a chance for negotiations?

So far, nothing suggests that Israel will withdraw its troops from southern Lebanon this year. What may well be the most challenging parliamentary elections of Benjamin Netanyahu's political career are set to be held this fall, and now more than ever, the Israeli prime minister cannot afford to appear weak in the eyes of his voters.

Even if the opposition wins the Knesset elections, forming a governing coalition would take several weeks at the very least. There is also little reason to believe that withdrawing Israeli troops from Lebanon would become a priority for any new government. Nor is it certain that the incoming lawmakers would be able to reach an agreement among themselves. As a result, Israel could well find itself heading to another early election as soon as the spring of 2027.

Jerusalem's main condition for withdrawing its troops is the disarmament of Hezbollah, a step it sees as essential to guaranteeing the security of residents in northern Israel. Both Jews and Arabs live in the region, and their communities remain under threat from the Iranian-backed group’s drones. Before 2023, Hezbollah had also been developing plans to infiltrate the Galilee through tunnels in order to seize hostages.

Many in Lebanon, however, ask how their own army is supposed to achieve what the Israeli military could not. Moreover, since 2019 Lebanon has been suffering the worst economic and financial crisis in the country's history, brought about by systemic corruption and chronic mismanagement. The banking system collapsed, depositors lost access to their savings, and the Lebanese pound depreciated from 1,500 to roughly 90,000 to the U.S. dollar. Military salaries, like other wages, lost most of their value. Under such conditions, would Lebanese soldiers be willing to risk their lives by opening fire on their fellow citizens?

The greatest concern, however, is the prospect of another civil war. Few people understand better than the Lebanese how easily such a conflict can begin — and how difficult it is to end. The last civil war lasted 15 years, from 1975 to 1990. Hezbollah has openly declared that it has no intention of surrendering its weapons. Instead, over the past year the group has threatened "civil strife," accused the government of serving U.S. and Israeli interests, and hinted that the current cabinet should be replaced once the war is over. Prime Minister Nawaf Salam has responded that his government will continue pursuing the state's monopoly on arms and will not yield to threats of civil war.

What is Hezbollah counting on?

From Hezbollah's perspective, another war with Israel was inevitable. The ceasefire that lasted from late November 2024 until March 2, 2026, was used by the group to rearm and adapt its command structure. At the same time, Iran's role in directing Hezbollah appears to have grown even stronger, with members of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps having been periodically killed alongside Hezbollah commanders in Israeli strikes. Tehran, for its part, appears willing to sacrifice the peace in Lebanon in order to preserve its most effective proxy force. It is no coincidence that Iran insisted the situation in Lebanon be included in its negotiations with the United States. As a result, the U.S.-Iran memorandum contains a provision calling for an end to the war "on all fronts, including Lebanon."

Significantly, Walid Jumblatt, Lebanon's most influential Druze politician, recently told the newspaper Libération that it had once been possible to engage Hezbollah in dialogue and reach compromises. After the killing of Secretary-General Hassan Nasrallah in 2024, however, those opportunities disappeared — now all important decisions are made in Tehran.

The current situation appears to be acceptable to Hezbollah. Yes, thousands of its fighters and hundreds of civilians have been killed, and hundreds of thousands of Hezbollah supporters have fled their villages and towns. Around half a million of them have yet to return, as many have nowhere to go back to — some villages near the border have literally been blown up and razed by the Israeli military.

Politically, however, Israel's occupation of southern Lebanon may ultimately work to Hezbollah's advantage. The group's narrative is reinforced by the seizure of villages, the demolition of homes, the deaths of civilians and medical workers, and calls by Israel's far-right ministers to annex southern Lebanon. Hezbollah uses all of this material to strengthen its propaganda about "Islamic resistance," arguing that without the group’s efforts Lebanon would be defenseless against what it portrays as "Zionist expansion."

The seizure of villages, the demolition of homes, the deaths of civilians and medical workers, and calls to annex southern Lebanon all reinforce Hezbollah's narrative

At the same time, Israeli society is highly sensitive to casualties — at least 32 soldiers and four civilians, while Hezbollah's drones continue to threaten communities near the border. Israel's current occupation of southern Lebanon could therefore turn into the same kind of strategic dead end as its previous occupation, which lasted from 1982 to 2000. It is impossible to completely disarm Hezbollah by operating only in the south, as the group also has supporters and infrastructure in Beirut's southern suburbs and in northwestern Lebanon. The idea of occupying the whole of Lebanon is too extreme even for Netanyahu's current government.

At the same time, an agreement with Israel risks weakening Lebanon's official leadership. The president and government had already sought to disarm the Shiite group, while Hezbollah had long accused them of serving Israeli interests. On June 26, Beirut signed a framework agreement under which Lebanon committed itself to disarming Hezbollah. To many Lebanese, this looks like a concession made under pressure. Yet the concession does not even represent a change in government policy — it merely risks eroding public support for it.

During the negotiations, the two sides agreed on a mechanism for Israel's troop withdrawal. Under the plan, the Israel Defense Forces would gradually pull out of areas that had been cleared of Hezbollah fighters, with the Lebanese Armed Forces taking their place. It remains entirely unclear, however, how long this process will take.

Ahead of another round of Lebanese-Israeli negotiations, held in Rome in mid-July, Beirut emphasized that it expected concrete steps — namely, the beginning of an IDF withdrawal from the occupied areas. Israeli Foreign Minister Gideon Sa'ar said that Israel was prepared to withdraw from two "pilot zones," which would be transferred to the control of the Lebanese Armed Forces. According to Sa'ar, the Rome talks were intended to facilitate that process. On July 20, Lebanese troops entered the first "pilot zone" in the area of the villages of Frun, Srifa, and Zawtar al-Gharbiyeh.

Before resuming financial assistance to Beirut, Lebanon's international partners in the West and the Persian Gulf are demanding reforms, anti-corruption measures, and Hezbollah's disarmament. Playing the long game, the terrorist group may be hoping that Israelis will grow tired of burying their soldiers, while Iran will eventually reach an agreement with the United States, regain access to its frozen assets, and channel part of those funds to Hezbollah — for rearmament, buying loyalty, and possibly rebuilding homes and infrastructure.

At the same time, it is difficult to imagine Israel halting its strikes against Hezbollah in southern Lebanon or withdrawing its troops altogether. There is therefore little reason to believe that the fighting in Lebanon will end in 2027.

Speaking at a press conference with German Chancellor Friedrich Merz in Berlin on July 21, Aliyev said: “Our territory was used for such a meeting without our knowledge. I cannot comment on the details, as we were not present at the meeting. However, flight data allows me to confirm that a secret meeting in Baku did indeed take place. If this meeting was aimed at facilitating an end to the war between Russia and Ukraine, we can only welcome it.”

Aliyev declined to name the participants in the Baku talks. Merz, for his part, stated that he had no knowledge of such contacts.

The Azerbaijani president spoke of only one meeting. However, as the Die Zeit investigation shows, the matter concerns a series of contacts between Zubkov, Pofalla, and Platzeck going back at least to 2024. The newspaper noted that Pofalla and Zubkov share close ties. They served as co-chairs of the Petersburg Dialog forum, which was established in 2001 under the patronage of Vladimir Putin and former German Chancellor Gerhard Schröder (though Germany withdrew from the forum following Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine).

At the most recent alleged meeting in Baku, held on July 13, Zubkov was accompanied by two other Russian representatives: Alexei Gromyko, director of the Institute of Europe at the Russian Academy of Sciences, and Valery Fadeyev, chair of the Presidential Council for Human Rights. Fadeyev is subject to EU sanctions.

According to Die Zeit, Moscow plans to use Pofalla (a member of the ruling CDU) and Platzeck (an SPD member) to influence Germany’s ruling coalition by convincing their German counterparts that ending the war in Ukraine is only possible on the Kremlin’s terms. According to the newspaper, German security services regard these contacts as a Kremlin operation aimed at influencing Berlin’s policy.

Notably, similar contacts between Zubkov and Pofalla in Baku were in both 2024 and 2025. In May of last year, it was alleged that former OSCE Secretary General, Swiss diplomat Thomas Greminger, participated in the talks, and that Zubkov was accompanied by Fadeyev at that time as well. Aside from Baku, the negotiators met once in Abu Dhabi. At least five such in-person contacts are said to have taken place in total.

The decision comes a week after Zelensky dismissed popular Defense Minister Mykhailo Fedorov, leading to the most serious public conflict between the country’s military command and its Ministry of Defense since the start of Russia’s full-scale war.

Background

In a July 17 press briefing held immediately after his departure, Fedorov publicly stated that in early 2026 he had recommended to the president that Syrskyi and Chief of the General Staff Andrii Hnatov be dismissed. Fedorov cited systemic problems in army management: bureaucracy, resistance to reform, manual distribution of weapons, frequent rotation of commanders, and decision-making “based on loyalty rather than data analysis.”

Fedorov claimed that after Zelensky refused to change the military leadership. The now-former Defense Minister agreed to work with Syrskyi at the time but now says almost all of his proposed reforms were blocked by the General Staff.

One notable episode in the dispute involved the scandal surrounding the Skelia 425th Separate Assault Regiment. Following publication of an investigation into alleged torture of recruits, mistreatment of soldiers, and dozens of non-combat deaths in the unit, the State Bureau of Investigations opened a criminal case, and the regiment’s commander was suspended. According to Fedorov, however, instead of investigating possible crimes within the military leadership, Syrskyi’s efforts focused on identifying who was responsible for the publications — and Fedorov himself was accused of orchestrating an information campaign against the regiment.

Incoming commander-in-chief Drapatyi publicly backed Fedorov’s statements, confirming that many decisions by the Ministry of Defense faced resistance from the army. He stated that the “system” of management in the military itself needed to change.

Syrskyi himself barely responded to the accusations, while Zelensky acknowledged a systemic conflict between the Ministry of Defense and the General Staff. Fedorov’s dismissal triggered protests in Kyiv and other cities and was criticized by many military personnel, public figures, and journalists.

As Krasnodar Krai governor Veniamin Kondratyev reported on Telegram, “Ten people were injured in the attack on the warehouse complex in Krasnodar. Three are in serious condition, one is in moderate condition… The warehouse continues to deal with the aftermath of the night attack and fight the fire.” UAV debris also struck two apartment buildings in Krasnodar and two private homes in the stanitsa (village) of Dinskaya, the governor wrote.

Vladimir Vladimirov, the governor of the neighboring Stavropol Krai, also reported a drone attack on a warehouse complex located “on the outskirts of Nevinnomyssk.” Five people are reported injured.

Wildberries founder Tatyana Kim confirmed on her Telegram channel that the company’s logistics centers in Krasnodar and Nevinnomyssk (Stavropol Krai) had been struck. 

In addition, Ukrainian monitoring channel Exilenova+ reports that an oil depot in the southern Russian town of Armavir was also struck.

Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky confirmed the strikes on logistics hubs in Russia’s Krasnodar and Stavropol regions, saying the warehouses had been “used to supply the Russian military with drone components, navigation equipment, and gear.”

Overnight into July 18, Ukrainian drones struck Wildberries warehouses in Kotovsk, Tambov Region, and Elektrostal, Moscow Region. Seven workers were killed in Kotovsk and one in Elektrostal. Dozens more were injured. In those instances, Zelensky stated that the marketplace’s logistics centers had been used by Russia “to supply sanctioned components for the production of drones and navigation equipment.”

The Judicial Department at Russia’s Supreme Court has not published official statistics for 2025; however, the researchers were able to gather the data independently from open sources.

Nearly half of those convicted — 889 people — were charged under Article 205.2, which criminalizes public calls for terrorism, justification of terrorism, or the spreading of terrorist propaganda. In 588 cases, Article 205.2 was the only charge, meaning defendants were being prosecuted solely over posts, comments, or other statements.

Rights researchers found signs of political persecution in the cases of at least 929 people, or 45% of the total. The report’s authors said that figure should be interpreted as the minimum number of politically motivated prosecutions, as hearings are often held behind closed doors and information about defendants is hidden. The names of 1,383 of the 2,078 people convicted do not appear in official databases.

At least 630 of those sentenced were Ukrainian citizens, about 30% of the total. They included Ukrainian prisoners of war, residents of occupied territories, and civilians. The 2nd Western District Military Court alone sentenced at least 357 Ukrainian service members who had taken part in fighting in Russia’s Kursk region.

Most of the cases were concentrated in a few specific military courts. The 2nd Western District Military Court and the Southern District Military Court accounted for 1,079 verdicts, more than 60% of the total. Adding in cases from the Central District Military Court accounts for nearly three-quarters of all rulings on terrorism-related charges.

Specific sentences were established for 809 people. Fifteen defendants received life sentences, including eight people charged in the case over the October 2022 explosion on the Kerch Bridge. The median prison sentence was 15 years. Of the 794 people whose prison terms are known, 467 received sentences ranging from 15 years in a penal colony to life imprisonment.

Pervy Otdel head Dmitry Zair-Bek linked the rise in cases to the state’s use of software to search for comments on social media and track financial donations, as well as to the creation of fake websites and the use of bots and chats for the purpose of entrapment. He said terrorism cases are launched both over actual violent crimes and over anti-war statements or minor acts of sabotage.

Zair-Bek said he expects the repressive practices to keep expanding. Because district military courts are overloaded, he said, authorities may transfer some cases to regional courts, which would allow the number of trials to increase significantly.

Local media were the first to report the summons, with an official statement appearing on the ministry’s official website later.

“Today, the Russian Chargé d’Affaires, Mr. Vladimir Ladanov, was summoned to the Ministry of External Affairs. The Ministry conveyed India's grave concerns and unequivocal condemnation of the attack on the commercial vessel MV Golden Leo on 19 July 2026, which resulted in the tragic loss of four Indian lives,” the statement read.

The ministry said such attacks “undermine the safety, security, and stability of international maritime commerce.” Russia’s chargé d’affaires was asked to convey to Moscow that strikes on civilian vessels are “unacceptable and must be avoided.”

A day earlier, India’s Foreign Ministry issued a separate statement, which condemned strikes on civilian vessels without mentioning Moscow specifically. Russian authorities did not respond to that statement.

The Hindustan Times noted that this was the first known case of Indian sailors being killed during Russia’s war against Ukraine. India’s Foreign Ministry has previously summoned the ambassadors of the United States and Iran over attacks on civilian vessels and the deaths of sailors.

According to Bloomberg, more than 310,000 Indian sailors work on commercial ships worldwide. India is the world’s second-largest supplier of personnel for the global merchant fleet.

India officially maintains neutrality in Russia’s war against Ukraine. However, after the West imposed sanctions on Moscow, India, along with China, became one of the largest buyers of Russian oil. About 40% of India’s oil imports come from Russia.

The war in Ukraine has nevertheless created tensions between Moscow and New Delhi. Since 2022, several hundred Indian citizens have been deceptively recruited into the Russian armed forces, and dozens were killed. During negotiations, Indian authorities secured the discharge of most of their citizens from the Russian army.

The BBC reported that the Russian warship informed the Royal Navy patrol vessel HMS Tyne that it intended to conduct artillery drills. The Russian crew asked HMS Tyne to move to a safe distance, which it did.

A French military aircraft also monitored the Neustrashimy, contacting the ship by radio and asking it to state its intentions. The frigate’s live-fire drills took place in international waters and lasted 30 minutes.

Last week, The Insider reported that the Neustrashimy, which had recently been detected off Britain’s coast, had likely replaced the Admiral Grigorovich, which spent several months escorting “shadow fleet” tankers through the English Channel.

In late March, then-UK Prime Minister Keir Starmer said he had authorized British forces to detain vessels that fall under British sanctions. Since then, one such detention has been reported: on June 14, the tanker Smyrtos (IMO: 9389100) was boarded by Royal Marines and officers from the National Crime Agency.

Phase one (2021–2022): Belarus as a launchpad

By the time Russia launched its full-scale invasion of Ukraine in February 2022, Alyaksandr Lukashenka had little room for manoeuvre. The turning point had come not with the war itself but two years earlier. After the fraudulent 2020 presidential election — which sparked the largest protests in Belarus’s modern history — Lukashenka’s political survival depended on the Kremlin. Russian political, financial, and security support enabled him to withstand unprecedented domestic pressure and Western sanctions, fundamentally altering the balance of power between Minsk and Moscow.

This dependence had immediate military consequences. Throughout 2021, Russia steadily expanded its military presence in Belarus under the cover of joint exercises. Following the joint Zapad exercise in autumn 2021, Russian troops and equipment remained in Belarus instead of returning home. At the same time, Lukashenka signed a series of long-delayed Union State agreements, including a new military doctrine that significantly deepened defense cooperation — measures that he had resisted for years became politically impossible to reject.

When the Russian invasion began on February 24, 2022, Belarus served as an indispensable staging ground. Russian forces crossed into northern Ukraine from Belarusian territory in their attempt to seize Kyiv. Belarusian airfields hosted Russian aircraft, missiles were launched from Belarusian soil, and the country provided logistics, supply routes, and medical facilities for Russian troops. Throughout the first weeks of the war, Belarus functioned as the northern bridgehead for Russia’s offensive against the Ukrainian capital.

Yet one notable line was never crossed. Despite intense speculation that he would do so, Lukashenka did not send the Belarusian army into Ukraine. There is little evidence that he ever wanted to. Aware of the overwhelming public opposition to the war, concerned about the reliability of his own armed forces, and wary of the domestic consequences, he sought to provide Moscow with everything except Belarusian soldiers. That pattern has largely defined Belarus’s role in the conflict ever since.

Lukashenka sought to provide Moscow with everything except Belarusian soldiers

After Russia’s failed assault on Kyiv and its withdrawal from northern Ukraine in the spring of 2022, Belarus’s role began to evolve. It no longer served primarily as a launchpad for offensive operations but gradually became Russia’s strategic rear.

Phase two (2023–2024): Belarus as strategic depth

By 2023, Russia was fighting a very different war from the one it had planned a year earlier. The Kremlin no longer needed Belarus as a corridor for a rapid advance on the Ukrainian capital. Instead, it needed something increasingly important in a war of attrition: a place to train troops, repair and maintain equipment, move men and materiel, and relieve pressure on Russia’s own military infrastructure.

Belarus was well placed to provide all of these. Its training grounds were used to prepare Russian troops, including newly mobilised personnel, before their deployment to the front. Russian and Belarusian forces continued joint exercises, while Belarusian facilities provided maintenance and repair capabilities. The country’s railways and other infrastructure remained available to the Russian military. Belarus effectively offered Russia additional military capacity away from the immediate battlefield — and largely beyond the reach of Ukrainian strikes.

Belarus offered Russia additional military capacity away from the immediate battlefield — and largely beyond the reach of Ukrainian strikes

In addition, the option of renewed escalation from the north had its own military value. Even after Russian forces withdrew from northern Ukraine, Kyiv could not simply ignore the Belarusian border. The threat of another deployment of Russian forces — or renewed missile and air attacks from Belarusian territory — forced Ukraine to fortify the frontier and retain troops and resources in the north that could otherwise have been deployed elsewhere.

Lukashenka, meanwhile, continued to avoid the step he feared most: sending Belarusian troops to fight in Ukraine. This suited Moscow better than it might initially appear. Russia had little to gain from forcing a relatively small and untested Belarusian army into combat at enormous political cost to Lukashenka. Belarus was more useful as a secure rear area than as a source of additional infantry.

This was the paradox of the second stage of Belarus’s involvement in the war: its role became less visible, but not less important. Belarus was no longer central to Russia’s plans for a rapid victory. Instead, it was helping Russia adapt to the failure of those plans — and to prepare for a much longer war.

Phase three (2025 – present): Belarus as part of Russia’s capacity to wage a long war

By 2025, Belarus’s role was evolving again. Russia was now fighting not only a prolonged war of attrition in Ukraine, but a much broader confrontation with the West. In both cases, Belarus was becoming increasingly useful.

The longer the war lasts, the less Moscow needs Belarusian soldiers and the more it values Belarusian capabilities. Belarusian enterprises supply Russia’s defence industry with heavy vehicles along with optics, electronics, and other components, while repair plants and military facilities add capacity to an economy mobilised for war.

Belarus also forms part of the economic ecosystem through which Russia has adapted to Western sanctions, with the two countries deepening industrial cooperation and developing new supply chains as access to Western markets and technology has narrowed.

Furthermore, Belarus occupies a critical position on NATO’s eastern flank, bordering Poland, Lithuania, and Latvia and lying between mainland Russia and the heavily militarised Kaliningrad exclave. Together, Belarus and Kaliningrad flank the Suwałki Gap, the narrow stretch of territory connecting Poland with the Baltic states that has long been regarded as one of NATO’s most vulnerable strategic chokepoints.

Belarusian airfields, training grounds, storage facilities and transport infrastructure can support Russian military operations while remaining far from the front line. In June 2026, Volodymyr Zelensky warned that Belarus was building new infrastructure close to the Ukrainian border, including six road bridges, a road junction, and new ammunition and fuel-storage facilities. Kyiv says Russian military documents link the construction to the war in Ukraine. There is no evidence of an imminent new invasion from Belarus, but that may miss the point. Infrastructure built today can expand Russia’s options tomorrow, a reality that forces Ukraine to plan for such contingencies now.

Infrastructure built today can expand Russia’s options tomorrow

Belarus has also become a platform for Russian military signalling against Europe. Russia has deployed Iskander and Oreshnik missile systems in the country and says it has stationed tactical nuclear weapons there (although that has not been verified independently). Whether or not these weapons fundamentally change the military balance, their political purpose is clear: Belarus allows Moscow to move the physical geography of its confrontation with NATO further west and to use Belarusian territory for coercion and nuclear signalling.

Belarus’s value in the confrontation with the West also extends beyond conventional military power. Since 2021, the Lukashenka regime has used migrants as an instrument of pressure against Poland, Lithuania, and Latvia, creating a border crisis that has never fully disappeared. More recently, Lithuania has faced repeated incursions by balloons launched from Belarus carrying contraband cigarettes. What might once have been treated simply as smuggling has repeatedly disrupted civilian aviation and forced the closure of Vilnius International Airport. Lithuanian and EU authorities have increasingly described the incidents as a hybrid threat.

This illustrates another reason Belarus is useful to Moscow: deniability. Pressure can be applied below the threshold of open military confrontation while being presented as something else — a migration problem, organised criminal activity, cigarette smuggling, or the actions of unidentified individuals. Minsk can deny responsibility and Moscow can deny involvement altogether. Yet the cumulative effect is to consume the resources of NATO states, test their borders and airspace, create uncertainty, and demonstrate their vulnerability to hybrid threats.

Belarus is therefore less likely than in 2022 to become a direct participant in the war, yet it is arguably more important to Russia’s war effort than at any point since the full-scale invasion began. Its value no longer lies primarily in the possibility that Belarusian troops might cross the Ukrainian border. It lies in the infrastructure, industrial capacity, logistics, geography, and deniability that Belarus provides. In 2022, Belarus helped Russia launch the invasion. Today, it increasingly helps Moscow sustain a long war against Ukraine — and wage a wider confrontation with the West.

For now, Ukraine has exercised restraint towards Belarus. Despite Minsk’s extensive support for Russia’s invasion, Kyiv has avoided opening a second front. That restraint reflects political as much as military calculations: attacking Belarus risks giving Lukashenka a pretext to enter the war directly, strengthening the Kremlin’s narrative of Western aggression and alienating a Belarusian society that remains overwhelmingly opposed to participating in the conflict.

But the longer the war continues, the harder that distinction may be to sustain. If Belarusian factories continue supplying components for Russian weapons, if military infrastructure on Belarusian territory becomes increasingly important for Russian operations, or if Russia launches further attacks from Belarus, Kyiv may find it more difficult to justify treating Belarus differently from Russia. That does not mean Ukrainian strikes on Belarusian military or defence-industrial facilities are imminent. However, it does mean that, from a military perspective, they become progressively easier to justify.

Lukashenka appears to understand this dilemma. His recent public insistence that Belarus should not be dragged into the war, his attempts to demonstrate some diplomatic autonomy through engagement with China and other partners, and his efforts to reassure Kyiv that Belarusian troops will not cross the border all point to the same objective: to remain indispensable to Moscow without becoming a co-belligerent in the eyes of Ukraine and the West. Whether he can continue to maintain that distinction will depend less on his rhetoric than on the extent to which Belarus becomes embedded in Russia’s ability to wage war.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Targets with Zelensky’s face

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“People who handle the staffing list cheat a lot”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Security exists, but it’s a formality”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How they search for deserters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leave and business trips

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

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

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

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

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

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

The escape

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The situation is simply terrible”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Internet access remains restricted

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

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

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

“A very patriotic people”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Visible destruction

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

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

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

“The regime now has a free hand”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No deal on Greenland

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grasping for an Iran deal

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

The Trump administration overestimated its ability to crush the Iranian regime

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

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

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

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

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

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

The crooked road to a decent deal on Ukraine? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Landing a deal on NATO’s future

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A controversial replacement

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

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

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

Goodbye, America!

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

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

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

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

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

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

The resignation of the “minister of hope”

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

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

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

Parliament heads off on recess

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

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

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

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

Elections are approaching

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The price of control

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vouchers-for-Cash

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quotas for bribes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moscow's shadow over Saddam

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

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

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

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

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

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

Corrupt and weakened by sanctions

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How money from the oil industry reaches the budget

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oil refining under attack (in every sense)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Russia's oil and gas export ports

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pipelines are burning, too

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What has changed since 2022

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

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

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

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

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

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

New and old vulnerabilities

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three paths for Russia's budget

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Military finance officer Oleksandr Oleksiiovych Ivanov, 33

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marine musician Oleksandr Mykolaiovych Zui, 30

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Driver-rifleman Oleksandr Volodymyrovych Zadorozhnyi, 57

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Special circuit boards for military applications

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The government’s resignation and the Yermak case

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

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

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

Crisis around the Defense Ministry

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

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

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

Among them, he listed:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Support for Fedorov

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The new government

The Verkhovna Rada appointed a new Cabinet:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cuts by university

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quotas for “special military operation” veterans

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A sweeping overhaul

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mandatory work placements

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who's in demand — and who's not

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Universities where little learning takes place

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

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

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

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

Tuition keeps rising

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Insider sent Danieli a request for comment.

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

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

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

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

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

Strikes on Russian shipping

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How the immigrants are affecting host economies

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

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

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

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

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

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

Serbia: Russians are not willing to overpay

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Armenia: the rental split

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Georgia: money came, prices rose

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cultural life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tightening the rules for immigrants

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Mikhail Britnev was escorted by a large landing ship

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fighting around Africa Corps positions in Mali

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

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

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

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

The significance of Lomé

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