Is Russia Fascist?: Unraveling Propaganda East and West 9781501754159

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IS RUS­S IA FASCIST?

IS RUS­S IA FASCIST? Unraveling Propaganda East and West Marlene Laruelle

CORNELL UNIVERSITY PRESS  ITHACA AND LONDON

 Copyright © 2021 by Cornell University All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in a review, this book, or parts thereof, must not be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher. For information, address Cornell University Press, Sage House, 512 East State Street, Ithaca, New York 14850. Visit our website at cornellpress​ .­cornell​.­edu. First published 2021 by Cornell University Press Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data Names: Laruelle, Marlène, author. Title: Is Rus­sia fascist? : unraveling propaganda east and west / Marlene Laruelle. Description: Ithaca [New York] : Cornell University Press, 2021. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2020022432 (print) | LCCN 2020022433 (ebook) | ISBN 9781501754135 (hardback) | ISBN 9781501754142 (epub) | ISBN 9781501754159 (pdf) Subjects: LCSH: Fascism—­Russia (Federation) | Po­liti­cal culture—­Russia (Federation) | Ideology—­Russia (Federation) | Rus­sia (Federation)—­Foreign public opinion. | Rus­sia (Federation)—­Politics and government—1991–­| Rus­sia (Federation)—­Foreign relations—­Europe. | Europe—­Foreign relations—­Russia (Federation) Classification: LCC DK510.763 .L374 2021 (print) | LCC DK510.763 (ebook) | DDC 320.53/30947—­dc23 LC rec­ord available at https://­lccn​.­loc​.­gov​/­2020022432 LC ebook rec­ord available at https://­lccn​.­loc​.­gov​/­2020022433

Contents

Acknowl­edgments Introduction: Rus­sia and the Symbolic Landscape of Fascism

vii 1

1. ​Rus­sia’s “Fascism” or “Illiberalism”?

10

2. ​The Soviet Legacy in Thinking about Fascism

28

3. ​Antifascism as the Renewed Social Consensus ­under Putin

43

4. ​International Memory Wars: Equating the

Soviet Union with Nazism 5. ​The Putin Regime’s Ideological Plurality

62 84

6. ​Rus­sia’s Fascist Thinkers and Doers

100

7. ​Rus­sia’s Honeymoon with the Eu­ro­pean Far Right

121

8. ​Why the Rus­sian Regime Is Not Fascist

138

Conclusion: Rus­sia’s Memory and the F ­ uture of Eu­rope

157

Notes Bibliography Index

167 211 251

Acknowl­e dgments

I owe a special debt of gratitude to the former director of George Washington University’s Institute for Eu­ro­pean, Rus­sian, and Eurasian Studies (IERES), Peter Rollberg, who was the first to push me to look at “fascism” as a semantic space, and to the w ­ hole institute for being such a collegial place in supporting its scholars’ research interests. I could not have completed this book without the incredible intellectual input I received on a first draft of the manuscript during an IERES/PONARS “book incubator” workshop and from presenting a summarizing chapter at the DC Area Postcommunist Politics Social Science Workshop. Paul Goode, Henry Hale, Stephen Hanson, Charles King, Maria Mälksoo, Robert Otto, Peter Rollberg, Anton Shekhovtsov, Kathleen Smith, Gerard Toal, Nina Tumarkin, Andreas Umland, Aleksandr Verkhovsky, and Sufian Zhemukhov all helped me to reconsider and reshape the entire manuscript, including the main argument. I also extend my gratitude to Roger M. Haydon at Cornell University Press and the two reviewers who provided substantive guidance on the manuscript. Dylan Royce and John Chrobak assisted me in finalizing this research and polished the bibliography, and Ellen Powell, Emily Herring, Ann Robertson, and Caleb Crawford provided much-­needed editing assistance. Last but not least, my sincerest gratitude and tribute go to my husband, who offered me emotional and intellectual sustenance during the writing pro­cess, showing unwavering faith in the proj­ect and guiding me through many of the book’s conclusions.

vii

Introduction

RUS­S IA AND THE SYMBOLIC LANDSCAPE OF FASCISM

In January 2020, the commemoration of the seventy-­fifth anniversary of the liberation of the Auschwitz camp was unexpectedly overshadowed by memory wars between Rus­sia, Poland, and Ukraine over the interpretation of the Second World War. President Zelensky sided with the Polish interpretation of the war’s origins and supported the parallel between Nazism and communism, stating, “Poland and the Polish ­people w ­ ere the first to feel the collusion of totalitarian regimes. This resulted in the outbreak of the Second World War and allowed the Nazis to launch the deadly Holocaust.”1 This declaration deeply shocked the Rus­sian public; Putin and the w ­ hole po­liti­cal establishment virulently denounced not only the idea of paralleling communism with Nazism ­under the “totalitarianism” label but also the attempt to make Rus­sia and its pre­de­ces­sor, the Soviet Union, responsible—­even indirectly—­for the Holocaust. A few weeks before t­ hese clashes, in an hour-­long history lecture, the Rus­sian president, blaming the Polish minister of foreign affairs in 1939, Józef Lipski (describing him as “a scumbag and an anti-­Semitic pig”), accused Poland of having colluded with Hitler, supported the deportation of Jews, and therefore contributed to the outbreak of the Second World War.2 At the Victory Parade of May 9, 2019, Putin has already warned: “­Today, we see how a number of countries are deliberately distorting war events, and how t­ hose who, forgetting honor and h ­ uman dignity, served the Nazis, are now being glorified, and how shamelessly they lie to their ­children and betray their ancestors. Our sacred duty is to protect the real heroes.”3 In June 2020, a lengthy article was published in National Interest whereby

1

2 Introduction

Putin formalized his own vision of the reasons behind the beginning of the Second World War, denouncing Western policy of appeasement toward Nazi Germany, and reiterating Russia’s position on the M ­ olotov-Ribbentrop Pact and the supposed consented annexation of the three Baltic states.4 ­These memory ­battles, which began fifteen years ago in the mid-2000s, have not only affected the relations of Central and Eastern Eu­ro­pean countries with Rus­sia but have also penetrated international institutions—­especially Eu­ro­pean ones. In fall 2019, at the initiative of the Central Eu­ro­pean countries, the Eu­ro­ pean Parliament voted on a new resolution, “On the Importance of Eu­ro­pean Remembrance for the ­Future of Eu­rope,” condemning “all totalitarianisms” and associating Nazism with communism.5 Putin felt obliged to denounce this “unpardonable lie” about the parallel between the Soviet Union and Nazi Germany and expressed his disapproval: “Attempts to distort history do not stop. Not only by the heirs of Nazi accomplices, but now even by some totally respectable international institutions and Eu­ro­pean structures.”6 What is at stake ­here is the role of the Soviet Union in the Second World War: Did Moscow win the war in 1945, and thus should be celebrated for the huge ­human cost of this victory? Or did it contribute to the start of the war by signing the Ribbentrop–­Molotov pact of 1939 that allowed it to occupy parts of Poland and Finland and annex the Baltic states? Could the Soviet Union be responsible for both taking advantage of an agreement with Hitler in 1939 and being victorious against Nazi Germany in 1945? T ­ hese memory wars all have at their core the notion of “fascism” and a desire, first, to identify who the fascists ­were during the war—­the Soviet Union, which cooperated with Berlin in 1939–1941, or the collaborationists on all occupied territories? Second, who are the new fascists advancing a revisionist interpretation of the Second World War ­today: Putin’s Rus­ sia or the Central and Eastern Eu­ro­pean countries? For the majority of the Rus­sian population, “fascism” represents the ultimate evil. The fight against Nazi Germany was a strug­gle for Rus­sia’s own survival: official statistics rec­ord some twenty-­seven million dead, most of them civilians, and over twenty million combatants wounded. Even ­today, seventy years ­after the end of the war, the consensus around the Soviet Union’s victory over fascism in Eu­rope remains a pivotal component of Rus­sia’s social and cultural cohesion. The mere suggestion that some Soviet or Rus­sian citizens might take a positive view of fascism is offensive to the majority of the public. Fascism is considered a uniquely Western-­produced phenomenon, totally foreign to any Rus­sian traditions, and one that can only appear on Rus­sian soil as an import from the West. In 2010, Dmitry Medvedev, then the president of Rus­sia, gave a long interview on the meaning of the war and the current ideological fights around its memory, explaining:

Rus­s ia and the Symbolic Landscape of Fascism

3

For the p ­ eople of my generation, for mature p ­ eople and for t­ hose slightly younger, the terms “fascist” and “Nazi” have an unambiguously negative character. But, unfortunately, this is not so obvious to every­one. In Eu­rope, in many countries, ­there is a rehabilitation of fascists. Even in our country, some misfits try to use Nazi symbols and bring all sorts of ­people together ­under ­those types of slogans. . . . ​They question who started the war and who is guilty for it. This, too, is obvious. [The truth] is substantiated not only in the Nuremberg t­rials documents, but also in the memory of a large number of ­people.7 Although both Putin and Medvedev have defended the memory of Rus­sia’s critical role in the 1945 victory and see their country as leading the fight against the revival of fascism in Eu­rope, another narrative has developed: one that accuses the Rus­sian state, the Rus­sian p ­ eople, and/or the Rus­sian leadership of fascism. In 2004, the former U.S. national security adviser Zbigniew Brzezinski was the first to compare Putin to Benito Mussolini: “The fascist regime evoked national greatness, discipline, and exalted myths of an allegedly glorious past. Similarly, Putin is trying to blend the traditions of the Cheka (Lenin’s Gestapo, where his own grand­father started his c­ areer), with Stalin’s war­time leadership, with Rus­ sian Orthodoxy’s claims to the status of the Third Rome, with Slavophile dreams of a single large Slavic state ruled from the Kremlin.”8 Brzezinski’s argument was soon taken up by the former CIA director James Woolsey, who remarked that “the Rus­sian administration ­under Putin” was “generally behaving more and more like a fascist government.”9 With the annexation of Crimea, the analogy between Putin and Hitler began to overshadow the comparison with Mussolini. In March 2014, at the peak of the crisis, the former U.S. secretary of state Hillary Clinton compared Putin’s actions in Ukraine with t­ hose of Hitler in Eu­rope just before the Second World War, declaring, “Now if this sounds familiar, it’s what Hitler did back in the ’30s.”10 Several scholars, such as Timothy Snyder, Alexander Motyl, and Vladislav Inozemtsev, have followed that trend and likewise accused Rus­sia of being a fascist country. The label has also permeated the Ukraine-­Russia relationship. Entangled in a complex mirror game since the beginning of the 2014 war, both Moscow and Kyiv have been accusing each other of fascism. Aleksei Pushkov, then chair of the Rus­sian State Duma Committee on International Affairs, declared bluntly that “Ukraine has formed a nationalist dictatorship with an obvious Nazi coloring.”11 On the other side, the Ukrainian press coined the nickname Putler (Putin plus Hitler) and the term Rashizm, which blends Rus­sia and fascism. Anatoliy Hrytsenko, Ukraine’s former minister of defense, called Putin “a fascist of the third millennium.”12 In 2017, the pro-­Ukrainian media proj­ect UaPosition released a

4 Introduction

twenty-­minute video, “Hitler’s Germany vs. Putin’s Rus­sia: The Comparison of Two Nazi Countries,” which, as the title suggests, “draws parallels between the social life in Germany of the 1930s and Rus­sia in [the] 2010s and shows the striking similarity between Hitler’s Nazi Germany right before the Second World War and present-­day Putin’s Rus­sia.”13 In Rus­sia, po­liti­cal opponents have also used the label “fascist” to denounce the current regime. In 2006, a few months before her assassination, the journalist Anna Politkovskaya warned, “Society is moving t­ oward fascism.”14 Lev Shlosberg, a representative of the liberal Yabloko Party, stated that “Rus­sia t­ oday is a country ideally ready for fascism” since the population was primed for war and hatred and the regime was pursuing its own Nuremberg pro­cess of infusing the w ­ hole society with this war-­minded ideology.15 The opposition journalist Aleksandr Sotnik even called for an “anti-­fascist co­ali­tion” of Western countries to overthrow the Putin regime.16 In 2014, the dissident ­human rights activist Yevgenii Ikhlov published several texts warning that the Rus­sian government closely resembled “pre-­Poland Germany,” that is, prewar Hitlerism, and that “fascism is for the most part already built” (s osnovnom fashizm postroen) in Rus­sia.17 Two years ­later, he declared that it was not only the regime but also Rus­sian society that was “thirsty for fascism” (fashizma zhazhdet obshchestvo).18 One of the leading opposition figures, the former chess champion Garry Kasparov, has also been very vocal in promoting the label of fascism. In 2013, he proclaimed, “The mask is off—­fascism has come to Rus­sia. . . . ​It came from the Kremlin.”19 Two years ­later, he wrote, “We’ve watched in horror in recent years as Vladimir Putin has turned Rus­sia in a genuinely fascist direction.”20 For him, the annexation of Crimea is no less than a repetition of the Anschluss of Austria in 1938. In his book Winter Is Coming, Kasparov, while recognizing the danger of trivialization that comes with overuse of the parallel with Nazism, deploys the comparison on multiple occasions, declaring that “some of t­hese [Kremlin] speeches, including a few of Putin’s own, so closely resemble t­ hose of Nazi leaders in the 1930s that they seem only to change the word ‘fatherland’ to ‘motherland,’ ” that the refusal of Western leaders to boycott the Sochi Olympics Games was like “the world’s embrace of the 1936 Berlin Games [that] gave Adolf Hitler a huge boost of confidence,” and that “Putin’s arrogance and language remind us more and more of Hitler, as do the rewards he’s reaped from them. For this he can thank the overabundance of Chamberlains in the halls of power ­today—­and t­ here is no Churchill in sight.”21 What all the examples cited ­here have in common is their use of the term fascism. But in ­these examples, two narratives collide directly: one asserts that Rus­sia is a fascist country—or that its leaders are fascist—­whereas the other defines Rus­sia as a country that defeated fascism. Could Rus­sia be si­mul­ta­neously a coun-

Rus­s ia and the Symbolic Landscape of Fascism

5

try that defeated historical fascism and one that allowed a new homegrown fascism to emerge? On what criteria are t­ hese two irreconcilable perceptions based? Do they use fascism as an inflammatory label to disqualify po­liti­cal enemies, or do they rely on some points of reference in sound scholarship? Not only is an academic debate at stake: labeling has direct policy implications. Accusing Rus­sia of being fascist implies that the country has exited the international community and cannot be considered a legitimate partner. If Putin is Hitler, as some profess, who would want to negotiate with him and try to rebuild a constructive dialogue with Rus­sia?

Fascism as a Strategic Narrative To disentangle that puzzle in which so many actors accuse each other of the same evil, and in which insulting labels and academic terminology interact with intentional semantic obfuscation, I take my cue from semiotics, that is, the understanding of words as communicative tools, or signs, that are both embedded in and shape our everyday meaning-­making. Having been trained in po­liti­cal philosophy and intellectual history, I also presume that ideas intersect intimately with politics and that the wording of our perceptions constitutes a critical part of the way we situate ourselves. As one can glean from the above quotations, fascism can be deployed for name-­ calling as part of a po­liti­cal strategy for delegitimizing the ­enemy; it can be used as an academic definition by scholars who apply it to a phenomenon based on their own characterization of the term; and it can be an emic definition used by ­people who attribute the term to themselves and claim it proudly. In each of ­these three cases, the speaker speaks from a dif­fer­ent space and to a dif­fer­ent audience: one word, multiple contexts, and divergent meanings. This multiplicity of meanings is attributable to several ele­ments: first, the difficulty of defining the content of the term; second, the overlapping levels of discourse involved (po­liti­ cal, media, academic, and popu­lar); and third, their belonging to dif­fer­ent repertoires, depending on the positioning of each speaker. Like any other word, fascism is a communicative tool based on implicit cultural backgrounds that make it pos­ si­ble for the audience to interpret the term; it is a constructed notion expressing a relational situation. As early as 1946, George Orwell observed in Politics and the En­glish Language that “fascism has now no meaning except in so far as it signifies ‘something not desirable.’ ”22 Labeling Rus­sia as fascist thus often performs the s­ imple role of reducing the country to being the other of the West, embodying every­thing that is not desirable for “us.” ­Here I do not conceptualize Rus­sia as another that is

6 Introduction

fundamentally and radically dif­fer­ent, but on the contrary as part of a continuum with the West. To borrow a meta­phor from Oscar Wilde’s Picture of Dorian Gray, in which the sins are reported not on the sinner but on his portrait, Soviet and post-­Soviet Rus­sia have in many ways served as the West’s mirror. Rus­sia has amplified many aspects of the West’s own development, excesses, ­mistakes, and failures over the course of the c­ entury by testing, on its own soil, socialism, totalitarianism, democracy, neoliberalism, and now illiberalism. Rus­sia is thus not an exception: what is happening in Rus­sia ­today is deeply inscribed into broader global trends that can also be observed, sometimes on a dif­fer­ent scale, in the West. The exercise of assessing the “nature” of the Rus­sian po­liti­cal regime is difficult ­because it is largely based on value judgments and has a very pronounced normative character. Indeed, the Western view of Rus­sia depends mainly on the way each observer looks at his or her own society. The most vocal critics of Rus­ sia are often convinced of the absolute correctness of the Western liberal system and its status as an indisputable international yardstick, whereas ­those with some reservations about it adopt a form of relativism that may be more favorable to some of Rus­sia’s arguments. The study of Rus­sia has long been molded by outdated binaries—­democracy/authoritarianism, West/non-­West, Eu­rope/Asia, and ­others. The new line of divide on Western liberalism versus Rus­sia’s fascism (and, on the Rus­sian side, on Rus­sia’s antifascism against Western renewed fascism) only contributes another black-­and-­white pair with very ­limited heuristic value. Propaganda, defined as arousing “an active and mythical belief” without critical distance, can be found on both sides, in Russia as well as in the West.23 To defy this sterile binary and offer an alternative framework, this book draws on social constructionism, which asserts that social real­ity is created by h ­ uman beings whose identity is a permanent, ongoing, and dynamic pro­cess of interacting with ­others and reacting to situations.24 A critical ele­ment of this situated identity is the fact that social identities are “produced and reproduced, as well as transformed and dismantled, discursively.”25 Language encodes culture, including shared understandings of identity, power, history, and values. Narratives operate in the world, serve as a rationale for action, and offer a self-­portrait of the speaker. Even if, in theory, an infinite range of narrative possibilities exists, narrative positions are l­imited by the given context. As identity is situated, each storyline builds itself in interaction with ­others; it may sometimes c­ ounter another narrative by trying to change the plot, the characters, or the implied moral values.26 Occupying the moral ground in order to position oneself constitutes an impor­tant part of this meaning-­making pro­cess. Discursive practices therefore constitute a central ele­ment of identity—­identity being something that ­people do in their everyday social practices more than something they are in an essential way.

Rus­s ia and the Symbolic Landscape of Fascism

7

Narrative positioning belongs to the research fields that look at individuals or groups of individuals, but a relatively similar framework can also be applied to states. To legitimize themselves in the eyes of both their domestic and international audiences, states build myths—­that is, depoliticized speech that asserts a certain picture of the world without explanation, thereby helping to naturalize par­tic­u­lar worldviews and power relations, through which they offer a self-­ portrayal, a storyline with plot, characters, and morality.27 ­These strategic narratives work si­mul­ta­neously at multiple points on a spectrum of persuasion: at the thin end is convincing actors to behave in a par­tic­u­lar way, and at the thick end is structuring the experience of the international system and its meaning and making it “commonsensical.” The social theory of international affairs invites us to look at a state’s positioning as a product of interaction with other states and domestic determinants.28 For Rus­sia, both contexts are difficult. On the international scene, the country finds itself in the position of a status-­seeker—­its request to be an agenda-­setter of the international community is contested by the United States and Eu­rope, which allocate Moscow a lower status as a rule-­taker in the best case scenario, or a spoiler and rogue state in the worst case.29 Domestic determinants also limit the ability of the Rus­sian state to reinvent itself: the authorities rely on deeply entrenched paradigms inherited from Soviet times,30 economic realities that cannot be transformed overnight, and on a longue durée ­going back to Rus­sia’s imperial past and to the country’s uneasy spatial realities. It is also hampered by domestic debates over the country’s identity and by the need to take Rus­sian public opinion into consideration.31 To answer t­hese challenges, Rus­sia’s identity positioning on the international scene and ­toward its own public opinion has vividly evolved over the past three de­cades. It moved from a social mobility strategy (aspiring to join nations seen as having higher status, i.e., Western countries) to a mixed strategy of both social competition (acquiring new tools to change the rankings and upgrade itself) and social creativity (refusing comparison and proposing alternative rankings that would position it above Western countries).32

Fascism as Rus­s ia’s Narrative on Eu­r ope In this book, I argue that fascism has become one of Rus­sia’s strategic narratives, operationalized at two levels. At home it is used to generate cultural consensus in ­favor of the regime status quo. On the international scene it is deployed to upgrade or at least stabilize the country’s status as having a legitimate say in Eu­ro­pean security, thanks to the 1945 victory. By calling its enemies fascists, the Rus­sian regime describes its own understanding of the international system, offering a

8 Introduction

storyline that puts the Rus­sian ­people and its values and goals at the center of the plot. Another strategic narrative, ideologically the reverse but performing exactly the same function, is displayed by all t­ hose who denounce Rus­sia as fascist: through it, they frame their own vision of the world, identify adversaries, and position themselves on a moral high ground. “Fascism” should therefore be studied as a discursive landscape, a mythmaking pro­cess that creates order from chaos and justifies power relationships on the international scene. Hence, this book is not written in a polemical spirit to point a fin­ger at enemies or to celebrate t­ hose on the “right side of history.” It is based on the presupposition that ­because perceptions are always embedded in the speaker’s own world, the only legitimate path to questioning Rus­sia’s po­liti­cal development is questioning “our own”—­the West’s. ­Because identities are situational, engaging in a narrative competition takes at least two parties; fascism is a discursive strug­gle over describing the world and especially the status of Eu­rope and its relationship to both the United States and Rus­sia. Rus­sia offers a ­great case study to contribute to the discussion on fascism by refining some of its concepts. First, although fascism studies scholars have been working hard to develop a consensual definition of what types of regime or mindset can be qualified as fascist, hesitations remain in identifying the bound­aries of fascism: How many fascist features must a regime accumulate to be labeled fascist? How do we integrate some subtypes that do not enter into the full definition of fascism? What do we do when some criteria considered as fascist can also be found in demo­cratic systems and function in a pluralistic environment? Using paraphrases such as fascistoid or parafascist, or talking about “hybridity,” does not solve the heuristic issue of classification. The case of Rus­sia thus invites us to discuss the risks of using peripheral and ephemeral characteristics to qualify a regime or a ­whole society and of being hypnotized by the proverbial fascist tree that hides the broader ideological forest. Second, Rus­sia allows us to address the apparent paradox of a country whose cultural consensus is founded on being the antifascism power par excellence but, still, is seen by many outsiders and some insiders as fascist, what­ever the exact definition of the term. It thus illustrates the tensions existing between fascism as a generic notion and fascism in each historically specific context: For instance, can ­there exist a culturally Russified fascism that would still be antifascist in the sense of being opposed to Eu­ro­pean versions of fascism? This line of inquiry paves the way for an examination of the place that fascist doctrinal components occupy on the broader continuum of a conservative repertoire and the difficulties in clearly identifying the ideological boundary that prompts a shift from seeing something as conservative, illiberal, or reactionary to categorizing it as fascist.

Rus­s ia and the Symbolic Landscape of Fascism

9

Third, ­because the Putin regime took the lead in a new moralist International and very early developed an illiberal ideology, Russia constitutes a unique ground for a better-­refined discussion of why t­ oday’s illiberalism should not be labeled fascism. Name-­calling fascist every­thing and every­one that expresses criticisms of liberalism squanders the heuristic value of the term. Using the case of Rus­sia, I hope to demonstrate that overstretching the conceptual apparatus of fascism to denounce all adversaries of Western liberalism obscures our understanding of Rus­sian society and its po­liti­cal regime and of the current transformations of Western socie­ties. This book is based on mixed methods combining po­liti­cal science, po­liti­cal philosophy, intellectual history, sociology, and cultural anthropology. Chapter 1 explores the lit­er­at­ure on generic fascism, on a supposed specific “Rus­sian fascism,” and on the rise of illiberalism to posit the conceptual frames needed for our analy­sis of Rus­sia. Chapter 2 goes back in time to look at the Soviet construction of the Rus­sian term fashizm and some of the ambiguities that the Soviet society cultivated t­ oward the term and its historical personification, Nazi Germany. Chapters 3 and 4 delve into Rus­sia’s positioning as the antifascism power par excellence, both t­oward its domestic audience by cultivating the memory of the ­Great Patriotic War as the cornerstone of social consensus and t­ oward the international community by fighting over memory issues with its Central and Eastern Eu­ro­pean neighbors. Chapters 5, 6, and 7 investigate where a supposed “Rus­sian fascism” can be located, looking at the po­liti­cal niches inside state structures that may nurture such a narrative, the grassroots actors trying to promote dif­fer­ent components of the fascist repertoire, and Rus­sia’s strategy of bolstering the Eu­ro­pean and U.S. Far Right. Chapter 8 synthesizes ­these dif­fer­ent segments into a broader discussion deconstructing the main theories of Rus­sia’s alleged fascism. The concluding chapter comes back to fascism as one ele­ment of Rus­sia’s key strategic narrative helping the country to achieve its status-­seeking policy and to secure its legitimacy as an agenda-­setter defining what Eu­rope should be and the place Rus­sia should occupy in it.

1 RUS­S IA’S “FASCISM” OR “ILLIBERALISM”?

In this chapter, I look at the field of fascism studies to identify the ele­ments of the debate that pre­sent questions relevant to addressing the case of Rus­sia. ­Because even its main critics recognize that the country cannot be qualified as fully fascist, my investigation begins at the periphery of the definition with a challenging but necessary question: Where does fascism begin? How many features considered fascist by scholars should a country accumulate to be labeled as such? A specific part of the discussion involves questions surrounding the existence of a specific “Rus­sian fascism.” With some exceptions, this subfield of study has been developing outside of any comparative framework, which has contributed to the idea that Rus­sia shows unique features of “deviance” and a recurring “illness” of radical nationalism, often explained by certain cultural characteristics. Accusations of Rus­sian fascism intensified not only with the 2014 war with Ukraine but also with a larger trend ­toward using Reductio ad Hitlerum as a new tool for character assassination in international affairs. This broader context is rooted in the rise of illiberal movements and ideologies, of which Rus­sia is often seen as the vanguard if not the main funder and hidden hand. The tendency to accuse every­one who challenges liberalism of being a new fascist has dramatically obscured our understanding of t­oday’s Rus­sia as well as the current transformations of the world order and Western domestic scenes.

10

Rus­s ia’s “Fascism” or “Illiberalism”?

11

Defining Fascism and Its Bound­a ries Fascism constitutes a puzzling ideology for the social sciences. Of all ideologies, it is prob­ably the one that has elicited the greatest number of scholarly controversies; liberalism and communism have generated more consensual definitions.1 For a long time, several hypotheses ­shaped the study of fascism. The first theory was that Italian fascism and German Nazism w ­ ere somehow unique in world history and that comparative studies ­were therefore useless in explaining the phenomenon.2 The second hypothesis was that generic fascism had no real ideological content; it was less an ideology than a reaction, an “anti-” movement. Dif­fer­ent schools colluded to interpret fascism mostly as a social, materialistic phenomenon, or as an ideological one. For example, Marxist schools of thought insisted on understanding fascism as a social action resulting from social strug­gles rather than just abstract ideas. However, their approach was hampered by perceiving fascism as only a reactionary movement explainable through cap­i­tal­ist contradictions and by marginalizing its ideological components, in par­tic­u­lar the role of racism in shaping it.3 Another dividing line has separated historians of fascism: some see fascism as an answer to communism and therefore they tend to study fascism and communism as two products that mirror and influence each other, based on the totalitarianism theory that equates them both.4 ­Others, conversely, root fascism in the longue durée of anti-­Enlightenment ideologies, which emerged at the end of the eigh­teenth c­ entury to refute notions of pro­gress, universalism, and humanism.5 For them, fascism is more than an ideology that rejects liberalism and Marxism; it is a cultural phenomenon more than a po­liti­cal one, primarily based on the refutation of universalism, rationalism, and materialism. Unlike other conservative or reactionary ideologies, it hopes for a revolutionary tabula rasa to rebuild a new society from scratch. Over the years, almost all social science disciplines have been involved in the study of fascism. Weberian theorists explain fascism as the response of victims of modernization when social changes are too rapid and not equally beneficial to all, which creates a new utopia that restores lost certainties and identifies scapegoats.6 Inspired by Frankfurt school thinkers such as Theodor W. Adorno or Max Horkheimer, scholars have expanded their Marxist–­Hegelian approach by including psychoanalytic insights and so­cio­log­i­cal findings.7 Michel Foucault’s concept of “governmentality” also gave birth to a new generation of scholars who looked at fascism as an extreme, totalitarian case of governmentality that takes control over all aspects of social, private, and public life.8 Psychoanalysis and social psy­ chol­ogy have investigated the libidinal pattern of the masses, which are prone to vio­lence and easily manipulated by a leader perceived as the all-­powerful primal

12 CHAPTER 1

­father.9 In Lacanian vocabulary, fascist exultation taps into p ­ eople’s narcissist selves and helps diagnose a collective psychosis.10 Although history, po­liti­cal philosophy, and po­liti­cal science have remained at the forefront, economics has brought new insights by looking at structural economic dimensions: fascist regimes extended government control over the economy, nationalized key industries, made massive state investments, and introduced several mea­sures of economic planning and price controls.11 Last but not least, cultural studies has helped revive the study of fascism by exploring the importance of visual propaganda, aesthetics, and theatrical staging. This has led to an understanding of fascism as a secular religion that compensates for its doctrinal eclecticism and lack of internal coherence with a power­ful visuality.12 In the 1990s, a more consensual definition of fascism began to take shape, mostly inspired by the work of Roger Griffin. In his International Fascism: Theories, ­Causes, and the New Consensus (1998), Griffin offers the following definition as a product of majority agreement among scholars: “Like conservatism, anarchism, liberalism, or ecologism, fascism is definable as an ideology with a specific ‘positive,’ utopian vision of the ideal state of society, a vision which can assume a number of distinctive forms determined by local circumstances while retaining a core matrix of axioms.”13 Since then, fascism has been understood not as an anti-­movement, but rather as a genuine ideology, with its own philosophical coherence and identifiable content. For Griffin, fascism can be summarized and subsumed as a “palinge­ne­tic ultranationalism”: the feeling of a rapid cultural decline does not inspire cultural pessimism but instead prompts a call for a revolutionary understanding of the nation’s revival. In an authoritative 2012 article, he proposes a less jargon-­laden and more explicit definition of fascism as “a revolutionary form of nationalism which assumes unique ideological, cultural, po­liti­ cal, and orga­nizational expressions according to the circumstances and national context where it takes shape.”14 Having established some consensus on a minimal definition of fascism, Griffin called for the development of a new trend in scholarship, one based on comparative studies over time and space, in order to “decenter” fascism by recognizing the critical role that the study of so-­called peripheral fascisms has played in our understanding of the phenomenon. The notion that Italy and Germany are the core models for defining fascism has now been overtaken by the knowledge we have accumulated about fascist movements and ideologies in France, the United Kingdom, the United States, South Africa, Spain, Portugal, Latin Amer­i­ca, and many countries in Central and Eastern Eu­rope.15 Griffin also invited the academic community studying fascism to enter into dialogue with t­hose working on subjects such as po­liti­cal religion and terrorism. As he concluded in his 2012 article, fascism finds “ways to adapt to the unfolding conditions of moder-

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nity, thereby assuming new guises practically unrecognizable from its inter-­war manifestations.”16 In this book I take issue with the placement of fascism within the more general phenomenon of nationalism.17 I do not believe that defining fascism as something quantitatively more—­read: “more radical”—­than a putatively “normal” nationalism is heuristic. I see the primacy of a myth of regeneration, termed by Griffin as the palinge­ne­tic nature of fascism, as the driving engine that makes a vision of the world and society “fascist.” This perspective allows us to take into account the metapo­liti­cal dimension of fascism, which is critical for recognizing the phenomenon and dissociating it from other ideologies. In this book, I define fascism as a metapo­liti­cal ideology that calls for the total destruction of modernity by creating an alternative world based on ancient values reconstructed with violent means. The apocalyptic dimension of fascism—­destroying to rebuild— appears more relevant than seeing it as an “extreme” nationalism. I therefore share the definition proposed by one of the main Rus­sian scholars of fascism, Aleksandr A. Galkin, who characterized fascism as “rightist-­conservative revolutionarism” (pravokonservativnyi revoliutsionarizm), emphasizing the revolutionary aspect more than the nationalist one.18 In a 1995 article, the celebrated Italian novelist, literary critic, and semiotician Umberto Eco took note of this diversity of definitions of fascism. He remarked that although ­there was only one form of Nazism, ­there are multiple fascisms that mix several features in dif­fer­ent combinations. He therefore advanced the notion of Ur-­Fascism, a kind of generic fascism sharing “minimal” features, such as a cult of tradition, rejection of modernism, fear of difference, obsession with plot, denunciation of pacifism, contempt for the weak, education of all to become heroes, popu­lar elitism, selective pop­ul­ism, machismo, and newspeak.19 Although Eco’s proposed typology powerfully captures the fascist mindset, it opens the door to two key unresolved questions. First, how many of ­these features does a regime have to display to be considered fascist? Without some fine-­ tuning into the typology question, “fascism” may refer only to Nazi Germany and/ or Mussolini’s Italy; it may also include the Spanish, Portuguese, and Latin American cases; or it may embrace dozens of countries. But inflating the number of countries labeled as fascist obviously reduces the heuristic value of the classification; being a nonliberal or antiliberal regime does not equate to being fascist. Second, how does one conceptualize the fact that some fascist features also exist in nonfascist regimes, even in so-­called established democracies? In the latter, some constituencies may share several of the characteristics advanced by Eco: fear of difference, obsession with plot, selective pop­u­lism, machismo, and so forth. Newspeak is anything but a specificity of fascism. If some of the features that define fascism belong on a continuum with “democracy” rather than with a

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radically dif­fer­ent po­liti­cal spectrum, who decides where—­and how—to draw the dividing line? Where does fascism begin? ­These questions are critical for conceptualizing the Rus­sian case.

Searching for “Rus­s ian Fascism”: Typologies and Exceptionalism Most academic lit­er­a­ture on Rus­sia’s regime does not build on fascism studies; it discusses the dif­fer­ent qualifications of the po­liti­cal system around the broad concepts of hybridity, duality, substitutes, and “in between-­ness.”20 Many scholars have brought a better understanding of the Rus­sian regime and society but still continue to assume preconstituted essentialist components.21 Rus­sia has so far been defined as a “ ‘patronal’ regime,” “managed democracy,” “elective autocracy,” “managed pluralism,” “competitive authoritarianism,” and so on—­all descriptors meant to indicate that the Rus­sian state implements authoritarian practices with the aim of mediating divergent interest groups, while at the same time balancing its need for popu­lar support recognized through cocreational mechanisms and elections.22 Yet several scholars have borrowed from the fascism studies field to discuss post-­Soviet Rus­sia. Two phases can be discerned. The first, in the 1990s, looked at the rapid rise of far-­right movements in Rus­sia, with an emphasis on three key personalities: Aleksandr Barkashov, Vladimir Zhirinovsky, and Aleksandr Dugin. At the same time, a parallel debate developed on the relevance of juxtaposing Weimar Germany and Boris Yeltsin’s Rus­sia. Since 2014 and the annexation of Crimea, a second phase has concentrated on labeling both Putin’s regime and his personality as fascist. Linking ­these two phases over three de­cades, the figure of Dugin has remained core in the Western obsession with identifying fascism in Rus­sia. As early as the 1980s, several scholars noticed the revival of Rus­sian nationalism among dissident circles and Soviet state structures, and drew parallels with prerevolutionary organ­izations such as the Black Hundreds (Chernia sotnia), conventionally presented as Rus­sia’s first protofascist movement, and the broad reactionism of the late tsarist governments.23 In the 1990s, scholarly attention turned to the rapid rise of the Far Right and paramilitary brigades. ­These multifaceted phenomena ­were labeled as fascist by many authors, such as Stephen Shenfield in his classic Rus­sian Fascism, or Walter Laqueur in his Black Hundreds, and some went further by speaking about the “Nazification of Rus­sia” or capturing all far-­ right movements ­under the Nazism label.24 In the majority of t­hese works, fascism, conflated with all forms of Rus­sian nationalism, tended to be seen as a

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deviance, leading to the proliferation of medical meta­phors: the body of Rus­sia was sick, nationalism was a cancer or a gangrene for which medi­cation or cures must be found, and so on. So­cio­log­i­cal perspectives ­were rare, which contributed to keeping the study of “Rus­sian fascism” in the field of intellectual history, without taking into consideration the deep transformations under­gone by the society. Research was also marked by a supposed Rus­sian exceptionalism, and this lack of a comparative approach did not help to place the Rus­sian case into a broader context of reemerging far-­right movements. It is only u ­ nder the urging of Andreas Umland that research into Rus­sian fascism began being connected to broader Eu­ ro­pean trends and to debates around Griffin’s definition.25 Another area of research has inquired into the parallel between Weimar Germany and Yeltsin’s Rus­sia. This juxtaposition can be criticized on historical and methodological grounds, but it nevertheless produced a fertile debate that highlights impor­tant ele­ments for our discussion.26 Weimar Germany and early post-­ Soviet Rus­ sia faced similarly dramatic structural transformations: the disintegration of an empire; an incomplete revolution that allowed the legacies of the previous regime to drastically influence the new one; an imperial syndrome with the presence of coethnics abroad; and a massive socioeconomic collapse. Both countries also had liberal forces that ­were unable to consolidate their popu­ lar support and ­were rapidly marginalized. They shared a vibrant nationalist counterculture embodied in an active illiberal civil society, as well as a belief in Sonderweg, a special path for their country (osobyi put´ in Rus­sian).27 Yet differences between Weimar Germany and Yeltsin’s Rus­sia are critical in explaining their divergent trajectories. Germany had a well-­developed party system; this has never been the case in Rus­sia, where patronal mechanisms prob­ably help to prevent ideological polarization. The lack of a well-­organized civil society in Rus­sia, compared to Germany, is also helpful in illuminating where the similarities between the two countries end. This comparative frame primarily discussed the Rus­sian case in terms of ­whether or not extreme figures such as the far-­right politician Vladimir Zhirinovsky, with 23 ­percent of the votes in the December 1993 parliamentary elections, could potentially seize power in a manner similar to Hitler. But this scenario never played out: the Rus­sian state reasserted itself in the early 2000s, and radical groups did not capture power. Zhirinovsky secured his status as part of the “constructive opposition,” attracting protest votes while si­mul­ta­neously supporting the authorities. In a response to Stephen Hanson and Jeffrey Kopstein, Stephen Shenfield considered the possibility of another path: a fascist threat that would not emanate from a par­tic­u­lar organ­ization, but would instead penetrate state structures from within the regime.28 At the time, Shenfield was referring to Aleksandr Barkashov’s neo-­Nazi Rus­sian National Unity movement, but his premise

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became a central ele­ment of the second phase of the debate. Indeed, the focal point shifted, and instead of discussing a pos­si­ble takeover by fascists, analysts began addressing the pos­si­ble fascization of the Rus­sian regime itself. Alexander Motyl was prob­ably the first scholar to denounce Putin’s Rus­sia as fascist. In 2007, he wrote that the country would be “best termed an unconsolidated fascist state.”29 With the 2014 Ukrainian turn, he developed his theory in several op-­eds and academic articles. He has argued that post-­Crimea Rus­sia perfectly fits the bill of a fascist regime, which he defines as having charismatic dictators with hypermasculine personality cults. ­These regimes generally evince a hypernationalist ethos, a cult of vio­lence, mass mobilization of youth, high levels of repression, power­ful propaganda machines, and imperialist proj­ects. Fascist regimes are hugely popu­lar—­usually b ­ ecause the charismatic leader appeals to broad sectors of the population.30 Accordingly, Motyl invited the international community to avoid using euphemisms such as “authoritarian” or “illiberal” and encouraged it to stop being afraid of using the “f-­word”—­that is, labeling Rus­sia as fascist. In 2016, he further developed his points, seeing Rus­sia’s fascism as inherent in its status as a “fully authoritarian po­liti­cal system with a personalistic dictator and a cult of the leader.”31 Beginning in 2014, Motyl was joined by the Yale professor Timothy Snyder, who likewise became one of the most vocal proponents of labeling Rus­sia as fascist. In a series of op-­eds published in the New York Times and the New York Review of Books, Snyder drew parallels between Putin’s Rus­sia and Hitler’s Germany. In an article of March 20, 2014, he compared Rus­sia’s annexation of Crimea and the war in Donbas with pre–­Second World War Eu­rope, boldly stating, “Vladimir Putin has chosen to rehabilitate the alliance between Hitler and Stalin that began World War II.”32 With such statements, Snyder tries to kill two birds with one stone, si­mul­ta­neously accusing Putin of being like both Hitler and like Stalin, and thus using the totalitarianism theory of equality between Nazism and communism to assimilate Putin to Hitler. Beginning in November 2014, Snyder brought a more historical argument to the discussion: that a sign of Rus­sia’s fascism was the tendency by Putin and Rus­sian officials to obscure the meaning of the 1939 Molotov–­Ribbentrop Pact.33 For Snyder, the historical parallel was significant: “The Molotov–­Ribbentrop pact was not only about territory in Eastern Eu­rope but also about the entire Eu­ro­pean ­legal order. . . . ​In his own way, Putin is now attempting much the same ­thing. Just as Stalin sought to turn the most radical of Eu­ro­pean forces, Adolf Hitler, against Eu­rope itself, so Putin is allying with his grab bag of anti-­European populists, fascists, and separatists. His allies on the Far Right are precisely the po­liti­cal forces that wish to bring an end to the current Eu­ro­pean order: the Eu­ro­pean Union.”34

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Snyder sees fascism, if not Nazism, not only among the country’s leaders but also in Rus­sian society as a ­whole. He depicts Rus­sia as a country in which “Jews are blamed for the Holocaust on national tele­v i­sion; an intellectual close to the Kremlin praises Hitler as a statesman; Rus­sian Nazis march on May Day; [and] Nuremberg-­style rallies where torches are carried in swastika formations are presented as anti-­fascist,”35 a perspective he has developed further in papers and lectures.36 The historical parallels Snyder wants readers to be aware of are indirectly rooted in his research experience as a historian of the Holocaust. His book Bloodlands: Eu­rope Between Hitler and Stalin treated the mass murders committed by the Nazi and Stalinist regimes as two aspects of a single history, thereby contributing to the already old equivalency of Nazism and communism.37 But the book omitted differences between the two totalitarianisms, particularly in the ideological reasons for state vio­lence against certain groups, and it neglected to take into account the actions of local governments and populations, which had agency of their own.38 In a third phase, in 2015, Snyder added a new ele­ment to his construction: the Kremlin’s supposed promotion of the White reactionary émigré Ivan Ilyin (1883–­ 1954), whom Snyder has presented as “a prophet of Rus­sian fascism” and the ideological inspiration for Putin since he returned to the presidency in 2012.39 In a fruitless detour, Snyder even tried to blame Ilyin’s ideological stance for the Kremlin’s meddling in the 2016 U.S. presidential election.40 The same happened with his Road to Unfreedom: Rus­sia, Eu­rope, Amer­i­ca, which, as Sophie Pinkham notes, “downplay[s] the role of homegrown po­liti­cal forces and exaggerate[s] the decisiveness of Rus­sian propaganda campaigns” in both Donald Trump’s victory and Eu­ro­pean elections. Snyder’s attempts to demonstrate that “the road to unfreedom is a one-­way street” coming from Rus­sia relies on strong ideological bias.41 Motyl and Snyder may be the most prominent voices among scholars who label the Rus­sian regime as fascist, but they are not alone. The New York University professor Mikhail Iampolski considers t­ oday’s Rus­sia a “quasi-­fascist” regime,42 which he explains by citing the difficulties in mourning the loss of the empire; the emphasis on national exceptionalism; intolerance t­ oward foreigners and democracy; an aesthetic that celebrates vio­lence; a confusion between heroes and victims; and so forth. Andrei Zubov, previously at the Moscow State Institute of International Relations, noted that Rus­sia displays features resembling Latin American dictatorial regimes or the Mussolini era, including its corporate economic system, the militarization of society, and the ­union of Church and state.43 The distinguished sociologist Lev Gudkov, director of the Levada Center, has gone further, perceiving the rise of what he calls “a Rus­sian Nazism” (russkii natsizm). In defining the term, he listed the growing power of the security ser­vices, a nonin­ de­pen­dent justice system, and the rise of a new ideology, that of the “divided

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nation” or the “Rus­sian World.”44 In other interviews, he has repeated this notion with references to the regime’s need to delegitimize e­ very liberal value embodied in the Maidan revolution. Allusions to Nazi Germany have also been made by several journalists, who have compared presidential youth movements such as Putin’s Nashi to the Hitlerjugend, the Nazi youth movement.45 Some other scholars offer more sophisticated approaches. For example, Marcel van Herpen states that the Putin regime defies categorization in existing po­ liti­cal models and should be seen as “a hybrid mixture of Mussolinian Fascism, Bonapartism, and Berlusconism.”46 Van Herpen’s refreshing contribution brings into the discussion new po­liti­cal -­isms such as Bonapartism and Berlusconism. He also identifies Mussolinian fascism as being the only kind of fascism in line with the Putin regime, rejecting comparisons with Nazism. According to him, Griffin’s classic definition of fascism as a “palinge­ne­tic ultranationalism” is meaningful, but it forgets a core ele­ment of fascism: the cult of vio­lence, preparation for war, and a systemic drive for imperial conquest. In van Herpen’s analy­sis of Rus­sia, this is precisely where the fascism of the Putin regime supposedly lies: in its neo-­imperial goals. He therefore considers Putin’s regime “crypto-­fascist” in the sense that it consciously conceals its neo-­imperialist goals u ­ nder the label of “spheres of influence” in order to avoid being officially recognized and denounced as a fascist state.47 Another voice in this discussion is that of Vladislav Inozemtsev, a professor of economics at Moscow’s Higher School of Economics. Unlike most scholars, Inozemtsev looks not only at ideological features but also at structural ones, such as the economy. In a 2016 interview on Rus­sian tele­v i­sion, he stated that Rus­sia represents a “soft version [miagkii variant] of a fascist regime.”48 He compared Rus­sia to Mussolini’s Italy and Franco’s Spain, as well as to Weimar Germany, but he rejected any parallel with Nazism, claiming that it is impossible to develop the notion of race in a multinational Rus­sia that still pre­sents itself as an empire, and further explaining that Putin has no ambitions to reshape the world order. In a longer paper, he proposed a more refined characterization of Rus­sia as protofascist.49 He asserted that Rus­sia “can no longer be accurately described as an ‘illiberal democracy,’ something on the order of what the Polish or Hungarian governments have become in recent months and now years. It is becoming a fascist state—­a moderate one so far, perhaps, but fascist all the same.”50 However, unlike many of his counter­parts, Inozemtsev challenges the role of nationalism in the characterization of Rus­sia as fascist, ­because it has a centuries-­ long imperial tradition and lacks an ideology of ethnic superiority: “The con­ temporary Rus­sian state manages to be increasingly fascist without being prejudicially nationalistic.”51 He also refuses to make overly alarmist statements, as he believes that no fascist regime can survive the inevitable demise of its leader:

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any fascism currently pre­sent in the Rus­sian regime w ­ ill, he contends, dis­appear the day Putin leaves power. He advances another set of arguments to define the Putin regime as fascist based on four ele­ments: the ongoing étatization of the national economy; a nurtured anti-­Westernism; the claim that parts of “historical Rus­sia” ­were taken away unlawfully; and the intermingling of symbolism and propaganda. As ­these examples illustrate, most academic lit­er­a­ture does not integrate the fascism lens into its analy­sis of Rus­sia’s regime; the accusation of Rus­sia as fascist comes from the margins of research, from figures who do not belong to po­liti­cal science or who pre­sent themselves as public intellectuals. However, b ­ ecause of the symbolic strength of the accusation and the Western tradition of othering Rus­ sia, ­these voices, while still in the minority, have become particularly vocal.

The Rise of Illiberalism and the Current Fascism Debate The new emphasis on Putin’s regime as belonging to the fascist universe can be explained not only by the 2014 war with Ukraine and annexation of Crimea but also in the broader context of a rapid rise of far-­right populist movements in the ­whole “developed West,” from the United States and Eu­rope to Rus­sia, from Turkey and Israel to Brazil up to the Philippines and India. Challenges to the liberal hegemony that was thought to be victorious ­after the Cold War—­one remembers Francis Fukuyama’s famous “end of history”—­have amplified a new rhe­ toric on the return of fascism as a never-­ ending threat to liberalism and democracy. Positioning oneself as a prophet forewarning about the risk of a new fascism has become a fash­ion­able trend in bookselling strategies, for instance, Madeleine Albright’s Fascism: A Warning, and Timothy Snyder’s On Tyranny: Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth ­Century.52 Criticizing all ­those who deny liberalism’s legitimacy with accusations of fascism has thus taken on unpre­ce­dented proportions. Since 2016, the parallel between Trump, Putin, and Hitler has become a highly evocative and emotional label for all t­ hose denouncing the 45th U.S. president. Even within the Eu­ro­pean Union, the Greek debt crisis has suddenly (and, for many observers, surprisingly) been connected to Germany’s war reparations, showing that history is still alive and a “useable past” for t­ oday’s politics.53 The terminology of fascism was also deployed against Germany by Turkish activists dissatisfied with Chancellor Angela Merkel’s position on Recep Tayyip Erdoğan’s reelection in Turkey.54 The same rhe­toric regularly shapes interactions between Israel and the Muslim world, with mutual accusations of ­either creating a new racist and segregationist policy or having supported the Nazi extermination strategy. And it constituted the main historical

20 CHAPTER 1

frame of reference for the Ukrainian–­Russian conflict of 2014, with mutual accusations of being fascist. For the countries of Central and Eastern Eu­rope as well as for Rus­sia the contemporaneity of the past is even more crucial: memory wars over interpretations of the Second World War have immediate implications for ­today’s geopo­liti­cal positioning. Controlling the labeling of po­liti­cal opponents and assassinating a country’s brand through the accusation of fascism is inscribed into a broader trend: the rise of character assassination in world politics. Reductio ad Hitlerum, as Leo Strauss described it as early as 1951, borrows its name from the logical term reductio ad absurdum and belongs to the category of ad hominem argumentation,55 in which an argument is rebutted by attacking the character of its proponent more than its substance. Reductio ad Hitlerum is based on guilt by association—­the supposed similarity of an argument or an action to ­those associated with Hitler and the Nazi regime.56 Indeed, with the small exception of ­those who use it in an emic way (the minority of p ­ eople who claim the right to be called fascists), the term fascism always implies an ideological guilt and causality for vio­lence, primarily due to the embodiment of fascism in Nazi ideology and the Holocaust. The Internet plays a critical role in promoting this rhetorical escalation: Godwin’s law asserts, “As an online discussion grows longer, the probability of a comparison involving Hitler approaches 1.”57 The persuasiveness of the Reductio ad Hitlerum is dual: it vilifies the e­ nemy by identifying it with the most murderous ideology, and it identifies the attacker with ­those who fought against Nazism or w ­ ere its victims, thus using a very power­ful historical reference to establish the attacker’s moral superiority. It also reveals the extent to which the Nazi period remains a critical compass in all Western socie­ ties. Whereas defining the “good” has become more complex and debatable, identifying the “bad,” the universal evil, remains pos­si­ble through the memory of Nazi vio­lence. As François de Smet explains, what allows the rhetorical escalation of labeling opponents “Hitler” belongs to the psychoanalytical realm: it combines a form of unmentionable admiration for the pure and extreme vio­lence of the Nazi regime (a call to the primitive instincts of h ­ uman beings, to take a Freudian perspective) with relief that this regime was destroyed.58 It also demonstrates the degree to which history remains a po­liti­cal language in our socie­ties. In 2019, the polemics around the notion of concentration camps to describe the new camps for mi­grants located at the United States–­Mexico border illustrates two visions of the use of history: on one side the Holocaust Museum denouncing a too simplistic parallel with Nazism,59 and on the other a petition of historians asking the institution to revise its position.60 At stake ­here is thus not only a scholarly definition of what a concentration camp is, but a moral positioning: Does the use of the Reductio ad Hitlerum create the risk of losing our

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understanding of the horrors of the Nazi regime and disrespecting the victims of the Holocaust, or, on the contrary, does it help to bring awareness of new risks of mass vio­lence and violations of basic ­human rights? Beyond the issue of the (in)efficacy of the Reductio ad Hitlerum, the current trend of trivializing references to Hitler may have dangerous repercussions for po­liti­cal life and civic consensus. First, by contributing to a radical othering of the opponent and framing ­those with divergent worldviews as primordial enemies that may put one’s own life in danger, it refuses to recognize the legitimacy of other opinions. Second, through its hyperbole, it tends to normalize a historical moment that remains exceptional and should be preserved as the “universal evil” in world memory. It also indirectly risks missing more genuine criminal actions and genocide ­going on contemporaneously. Third—­and this has been overlooked so far—it allows users of the Reductio ad Hitlerum to hijack the memory of ­those who fought against Nazism or its victims and to reinforce their own moral ground by presenting themselves as the heirs of any form of re­sis­tance. It risks disrespecting the memory of millions of ­people who died in Nazi camps by downplaying their suffering and comparing it with po­liti­cal events in which mass vio­lence is absent. In this book, I state that the terminological inflation of fascism that we currently observe obscures more than explains the structural transformations of our socie­ties: the term illiberalism offers a significantly more heuristically helpful approach to capture t­ hese evolutions. Of course, the starting point for defining illiberalism may be contentious, as each scholar is also a citizen with his or her own perspective on who is legitimately “liberal” and “illiberal” in t­ oday’s world. Nonetheless, certain aspects of liberalism are generally agreed upon and can serve as the basis for a useful definition of illiberalism. Liberalism emphasizes individual autonomy over the ­will of the collective; the protection of individual rights; and, for the past few de­cades, the defense of some forms of multiculturalism domestically and multilateralism on the international scene. Yet it remains highly contextualized, depending on space—­each country’s po­liti­cal culture—­and time. The understanding of what is liberal is constantly evolving; liberalism ­today is no longer what was defined as such at the end of the Second World War.61 I see illiberalism not as the opposite of liberalism (that is, not as a nonliberalism or an antiliberalism) but more as a postliberalism, that is, as an ideology that pushes back against liberalism a­ fter having experienced it. This distinction between nonliberalism and illiberalism is essential for dissociating what is happening t­ oday from developments in regimes that did not experience liberalism, such as China and other classic authoritarian/totalitarian regimes. The aim of such a dissociation is twofold. First, it avoids the creation of a normative catchall category that would include all the so-­called nonliberal regimes—­a large majority of

22 CHAPTER 1

the world—­and offers a more contextualized and granular approach to the current phenomenon. Second, it circumvents the culturalization of illiberalism as a “contagion” spreading from East to West (from Rus­sia or from China), seeing it instead as a cocreational phenomenon that has sprung up almost si­mul­ta­neously in dif­fer­ent contexts. I thus define illiberalism as a new, postliberal po­liti­cal paradigm that reasserts the rights of a supposed s­ ilent majority by promoting sovereignty in the spheres of politics (rejection of supranational and multilateral institutions, reassertion of the nation-­state), the economy (protectionism), and culture (rejection of multiculturalism and minority rights, essentialist definition of who is part of the nation and what the nation’s genuine cultural features should be). This phenomenon is ­limited to countries that have experienced liberalism and is also restricted in time—it began in the 2000s ­after several of the waves of demo­cratization/liberalization in Eu­rope that followed the collapse of the Iron Curtain and the fall of the Soviet Union. The concept of illiberalism allows us to better capture current ideological trends that cannot be subsumed u ­ nder traditional categories such as Far Right, pop­u­ lism, demo­cratic backlash, or, even less, fascism. First, illiberalism is not necessarily synonymous with the classical Far Right. Illiberal movements do not want to remain in a marginal countercultural position; in fact, they hope to do just the opposite and to become the new mainstream. With that goal in mind, they have recrafted the main far-­right theories into “smoother” versions and blended them with the ac­cep­tance of some princi­ples of demo­cratic repre­sen­ta­tion.62 They may even pre­sent themselves as defenders of values that the old-­fashioned Far Right previously rejected—­perhaps most notably on issues of secularism (against the supposed Islamization of Eu­rope) and ­women’s rights (against supposed mi­grant aggression against ­women). They belong to what Rogers Brubaker calls “populist civilizationism”—­that is, the definition of a Eu­ro­ pean civilization built in essentialist opposition to Islam and mi­grants. This civilizationism promotes “an identitarian ‘Christianism,’ a secularist posture, a philosemitic stance, and an ostensibly liberal defense of gender equality, gay rights, and freedom of speech.”63 Of course, many illiberal parties and their leadership have direct roots in far-­right parties;64 yet they represent a new “stage of development” that should be dissociated from that background to be better captured. Second, illiberalism is not necessarily a synonym of pop­u­lism. Pop­u­lism is not a po­liti­cal doctrine per se, but a discursive frame based on polarization, founded on the “us versus them” divide, which can be used by both the Right and the Left.65 Pop­u­lism builds its legitimacy on the claim that the p ­ eople’s unity is threatened by an antagonistic other, associated in one way or another with the dominant elite group.66 This other can be formulated in socioeconomic terms (the rich, the oli-

Rus­s ia’s “Fascism” or “Illiberalism”?

23

garchs, the bourgeoisie) or in cultural terms (the foreigner, the mi­grant, the fifth column). Obviously, when populist leaders achieve electoral success and come to power, their rhe­toric ­faces tensions, as they suddenly also represent the “establishment” and ­will not be able to meet all the demands of their constituencies.67 Although many illiberal leaders are indeed populist and have been studied as such, pop­u­lism also exists outside the illiberal framework. It is widespread among some leftist parties and figures, for instance, Italy’s Five Star movement (M5S) and the Unbowed France party of Jean-­Luc Mélenchon. Moreover, some illiberal leaders are not populists but statists. Vladimir Putin, for example, does not believe in the ­people’s unity against the state or the elite: he does not advance an agenda of polarization but actually pursues one of consensus and unity in which the state has full legitimacy over the ­people that it represents.68 Third, illiberalism is not necessarily similar to “demo­cratic backlash.” Some scholars tend to conflate democracy and liberalism,69 whereas ­others dissociate democracy as a mechanism of repre­sen­ta­tion from liberalism as an ideology that prioritizes the protection and promotion of individual liberties.70 As the cases of many Eu­ro­pean countries show, the rise of illiberalism is a backlash against liberalism that is facilitated by demo­cratic princi­ples—­with illiberal parties able to legitimately win demo­cratic elections. Of course, some bridges still remain between the two notions: once in power, illiberal parties develop a style of governance that implies patronal politics and infringements on media freedom and judicial in­de­pen­dence and therefore weakens demo­cratic practices and institutions.71 However, this demo­cratic backlash is a product of their arrival in power, not of the way they won it. Illiberalism as an ideology offered to the electorate precedes demo­cratic backlash, which may follow once illiberal parties gain power. Bringing the concept of illiberalism into the discussion on fascism allows us to better capture t­ oday’s trends by avoiding the imposition of an infamous label that would not only demonize ­these trends po­liti­cally but also categorize them without scholarly discussion. It is indeed critical to distinguish between neofascist or neo-­Nazi groupuscules and leaders who claim totalitarian doctrines and violent practices but remain very marginal so­cio­log­i­cally; classical far-­right movements, which continue to embrace some radical doctrines but try to compete electorally (e.g., the Golden Dawn in Greece); and “reformed” far-­right populist movements, embodying illiberalism, such as the French National Front/National Rally or Matteo Salvini’s Lega, which have undertaken some “normalization” pro­cess in the hope of accessing power or at least becoming part of governing co­ ali­tions.72 The same goes for the United States: accusing Donald Trump of being a fascist ­because of his links through Steve Bannon with the Alt-­Right website Breitbart highlight some doctrinal genealogies. Yet, it does not suffice to explain the mechanisms on which his popu­lar success relies, the sociology of his supporting

24 CHAPTER 1

constituencies ­going from Christian Evangelicals to blue-­collar towns, while inscribing him into the rise of illiberalism gives us more heuristic tools for comprehension. If all nonliberal figures are said to fall u ­ nder the category of a new fascism rising, this inaccurate generalization overlooks the genuine popu­lar support that illiberal movements have gained in recent years, the structural mechanisms that explain their success once in power (as in Hungary or Poland, for instance), and the need to rethink liberalism in order to respond to t­ hese new t­ rials. The same logic applies to Rus­sia. As Andreas Umland has already noted, if one defines Putin himself as fascist, then one no longer has a term to name t­hose much more radical actors who claim to be fascist or t­ hose whose actions and ideologies can be described as fascist in a more classic sense of the term.73 If one labels the Rus­ sian regime as a w ­ hole as fascist, one loses the ability to perceive the plasticity of its foreign policy, the plurality of its ideological references, and the ad hoc nature of its po­liti­cal consensus. One also misses the comparative approach that shows how Rus­sia’s illiberalism is rooted in broader, pan-­Western structural trends and is not the product of a supposed Rus­sian exceptionalism or deviance.

Rus­s ia’s Three Layers: Classical Fascism, Para-­Fascism, and Illiberalism To disentangle the puzzle of Rus­sia’s supposed fascism, one should dissociate three conceptual components: first, classical fascism, that is, the features on which more or less all scholars of fascism studies agree as constituting the “core” ele­ments needed to define a regime or an ideology as fascist; second, para-­fascism, that is, movements that may instrumentalize some features of fascism but inscribe them into a broader continuum of far-­right, reactionary, or ultraconservative ideologies; and third, illiberal trends that belong to another po­liti­cal category specific to ­today’s transformations and are not related to the fascism realm other than by being labeled as such by their detractors. The first layer, classical fascism, refers to historical regimes (Mussolini’s Italy and Nazi Germany), their subordinate partners in Eu­rope (ranging from Pétain’s Vichy state to Romania’s Iron Guard regime), as well as to ­today neo-­Nazi nostalgics (mostly white supremacists). The success of this classical fascism—­ Umland calls it “mimetical fascist,”74 as it copies and pastes foreign models—in Rus­sia is minimal. Historical fascism attracted radical-­right groups and their brownshirt militia movements as well as some intellectual figures such as Aleksandr Dugin in the early 1990s, but they soon had to adjust their discourses by diluting the references to Nazi Germany and promoting softer versions of fascism

Rus­s ia’s “Fascism” or “Illiberalism”?

25

that ­were better adapted to the Rus­sian cultural context. In the 2000s and 2010s, historical fascism largely dis­appeared from the Rus­sian cultural repertoire and was replaced by white supremacy–­style discourse, which was perceived as more modern b ­ ecause it came from the United States—­and more acceptable b ­ ecause it insisted on mainstream nativist claims rather than open extermination policies. As the St. Petersburg writer and h ­ uman rights activist Nina Katerli explained as early as 1996: “If our ­people possess immunity, then it is only to the word ‘fascism’ . . . ​perceived as an insult, not to its content or meaning. . . . ​But as for our national-­patriots, d ­ on’t they speak our native language, and swear their love for Rus­sia, and explain that the Aryans are none other than us and the swastika is not a fascist but a primordial Rus­sian sun-­symbol? So it is enough to replace the word ‘fascism’ with ‘national socialism’ or, better yet, ‘­people’s socialism,’ and many ­people are completely reassured.”75 Attraction to historical fascism or its revamped white-­supremacist version is nothing specific to Rus­sia: one can find it at the margins of almost all Western socie­ties, and it remains so­cio­log­i­cally smaller in Rus­sia than, for instance, in the United States. In the past three de­cades, t­ hose supporting classical fascism in Rus­ sia have been restrained to a fringe status and have not secured any official support from state structures. They have faced alternating periods of ­limited tolerance or open repression—­the latter being the dominant policy since 2012. As I ­will discuss ­later, if intellectual figures such as Dugin have avoided repression, it is ­because of their ability to speak ideological languages other than that of fascism—­ languages that are more in tune with official narratives such as Rus­sia as a Eurasian ­great power, which allows them to find roofs ­under which they are protected. The second layer is para-­fascism, that is, doctrines inspired by some precepts of fascism but rooted in a broader continuum of far-­right concepts. Historically, Rus­sia has offered a large spectrum of reactionary or ultraconservative ideologies that cannot be subsumed ­under the fascism label, or that share some characteristics with it but also have a wider appeal. Contrary to classical fascism, born outside of Rus­sia and then imported, para-­fascism has local roots and is colored with specific Rus­sian cultural references. One can identify three main para-­fascist ideologies: the Black Hundreds, Eurasianism, and what one may call mystical Stalinism or National Bolshevism. The Black Hundreds model attracts ­those nostalgic for prerevolutionary Rus­ sia, with an emphasis on the need for an autocratic regime, the saintly figure of the tsar, and the cult of an omnipresent Orthodoxy. It relates to fascism through a virulent anti-­Semitism and pogromic tendencies—­today mostly against l­abor mi­grants. Eurasianism speaks to t­ hose who believe in a Rus­sian imperial destiny of controlling the ­whole continent in the name of a messianic, anti-­Western

26 CHAPTER 1

ideology with anticolonial undertones. It draws from fascism its belief in a po­ liti­cal regime led by an enlightened elite, moved by a core ideology, which would create a new world order.76 Classic Eurasianism from the 1920s to 1930s insisted on the destiny of a Russia–­Eurasia founded on the interaction between Slavic and Turkic ­people, whereas neo-­Eurasianism calls for a revisionist version of geopolitics that ­will make Rus­sia the leading ­great power in a deeply reshaped international order.77 The third para-­fascist trend, mystical Stalinism or National Bolshevism, appeals mostly to t­hose nostalgic for Stalinism as a kind of “golden age” of a Soviet totalitarian regime reigning over an indoctrinated society. Its proponents have revamped their Stalinist nostalgia by adding an Orthodox color to it: Stalinism would be legitimized by its religious, mystical nature. It is associated with fascism ­because of its calls for a mystical vio­lence that would transform the nature of society and humankind. ­These three para-­fascisms have deeper roots in ­today’s Rus­sia than classical fascism. First, unlike the latter, they do not directly confront the memory of the ­Great Patriotic War and the posture of Rus­sia as the antifascism regime par excellence. Second, they are well acclimated to the cultural context and can rely on broader trends of rediscovering and rehabilitating previous epochs—­tsarist Rus­ sia, interwar emigration, or Stalinism. They have also been able to secure more solid niches than classical fascism: the Black Hundred nostalgia is nurtured u ­ nder the protective umbrella of the Rus­sian Orthodox Church, and the Eurasianism and mystical Stalinism strands prosper in the shadow of some segments of the military–­industrial ecosystem. This does not mean that the w ­ hole Patriarchate and military–­industrial sector adhere to their princi­ples, but they do see t­ hese as part of a continuum of conservative ideologies that they embrace. ­These groups are thus allowed to exist and express themselves without encountering the same repression of state organs that is applied to t­ hose defending classical fascism. Yet in no way have ­these groups been able to secure any kind of ideological hegemony among state structures; their voice is not repressed—­but it is only one among myriad ­others. The third layer is the new illiberalism. Illiberalism is the only ideology in power in ­today’s Rus­sia, that is, the only ideology directly supported by the Presidential Administration and the government. Para-­fascism, and even less, classical fascism, are not. Illiberal views inform the official narrative on conservatism as a reaction to “excessive liberalism” and the ­mistakes of the “U.S.-­led world order”; they inspire restrictive legislation on f­amily and gender issues, legitimize the rise of an illiberal civil society—­from Orthodox activists to Cossacks and vigilante groups of all sorts—­and are instrumental to Rus­sia’s foreign policy of challenging Western dominance. However, as we saw previously, even if Rus­sia has been at the forefront of this illiberal wave, illiberalism is nothing specific to the country. It

Rus­s ia’s “Fascism” or “Illiberalism”?

27

should thus be interpreted as part of a wider trend currently vis­i­ble throughout the Western hemi­sphere.

The lit­er­a­ture on fascism does not inform our discussion on Rus­sia with defined features for qualifying a regime or a society as fascist, but it instead produces a large spectrum of questions on the bound­aries of the definition. The debate about what is happening at the periphery of fascism offers much more relevant conceptual questions to our understanding of Rus­sia. The Rus­sian regime has authoritarian features, but authoritarianism is not a synonym of fascism. The Kremlin does promote an illiberal positioning on the international and domestic scene, but illiberalism needs to be dissociated from the easily disqualifying label of fascism. Rus­sian society has some constituencies that are attracted to fascist ideologies, but on a smaller scale than, for instance, the United States. In such a context, how many features of “fascism” need Rus­sia, its regime, or its society, to demonstrate to be considered as fascist? If some features are identified as fascist and many ­others are better understood through other terminologies—­authoritarianism, hybrid regime, pop­ul­ism, illiberalism, conservatism—­how should the articulation be framed? Before delving into t­ hese questions, we should first address the paradox of Rus­sia seeing itself as the antifascism power par excellence, and the Soviet roots of this positioning.

2 THE SOVIET LEGACY IN THINKING ABOUT FASCISM

In the Soviet tradition, as in ­today’s Rus­sia, the term fashizm does not define a set of abstract princi­ples related to the nature of a po­liti­cal regime and its mass indoctrination techniques but rather embodies a very concrete ­enemy of the nation: Nazi Germany. The Second World War, called the ­Great Patriotic War in Rus­sian (Velikaia otechestvennaia voina), and the May 9, 1945, Victory Day (Den´ pobedy) are indeed watershed events in Rus­sia’s history as well as in Rus­sians’ memories. Over two de­cades, beginning in the mid-1960s, the Soviet state constructed a power­ful epic around the nation’s uniquely high contribution to the war, and its victory over Nazi Germany as a means of legitimizing the socialist regime in its competition with the cap­i­tal­ist world. Yet the understudied phenomenon of attraction to some ele­ments of Nazi culture, mostly its aesthetic, also circulated among certain segments of Soviet society. As Mischa Gabowitsch has noted, “the very solemnity of Soviet anti-­fascism, and its centrality to the country’s po­liti­cal identity, also led to the emergence of a dif­fer­ent kind of irony about fascism, one that is perhaps best described as stiob [parody].”1 ­These two components constitute the fundaments inherited from Soviet times on the basis of which the notion of fascism is operationalized in ­today’s Rus­sia.

Constructing the Second World War Epic In the first twenty years following the end of the war, up u ­ ntil 1965, the Soviet regime took an ambivalent stance on commemorating the war. The country was 28

The Soviet Legacy in Thinking about Fascism

29

still recovering from its enormous h ­ uman losses, and lingering individual and ­family grief precluded any cele­bration. Moreover, neither Stalin nor, ­later, Nikita Khrushchev was interested in opening discussions about the Soviet leadership’s mismanagement of the first months of the war or the Molotov–­Ribbentrop Pact. ­After the first commemoration of the end of the war in 1946, Stalin de­cided to demote Victory Day from a state holiday to a regular day; citizens could only celebrate in private. Following Stalin’s death in 1953, Khrushchev revived Victory Day as a low-­key holiday, inscribed into a strategy of revival of local patriotism.2 As Nina Tumarkin points out, the ­enemy was no longer fascism, now they ­were capitalism and imperialism, thus limiting the ideological potential of war memory as an engine of social consensus.3 The cult of war as we know it ­today is therefore intimately linked to the Brezhnev era (1965–1982). Once general secretary of the Communist Party, Leonid Brezhnev immediately reinstated the state holiday on May 9, 1965. He ordered that ­there be a military parade in Red Square for the first time in two de­cades. His speech defined the tone for the way Rus­sia would remember the war in the forthcoming de­cades: the ­Great Patriotic War was a victory by the ­people and for the ­people, irrespective of the po­liti­cal regime that was in power at the time—he did not even mention Stalin by name.4 This setting provided the context in which commemoration of the ­Great Patriotic War was institutionalized as a sacred symbol of the Soviet Union, a confirmation of the soundness of the socialist system and the unity of its ­peoples. Year ­after year, cele­brations ­were progressively ritualized and they incorporated all layers of society: official statements by party members and military parades at the state level; public gatherings around the local war memorial for a wreath-­laying ceremony; well-­orchestrated honor guards (vakhta pamiati) and oaths before the eternal flame or the tomb of the unknown soldier for the collective per­for­mance; and personal and family-­oriented mourning rituals, such as taking flowers to cemeteries, for individuals.5 Brides would place their bouquets at the memorials where young c­ ouples would pose for photo­graphs on their wedding day. Each city and republic tailored its cele­bration to local memory of the war and had its own local heroes. Mimicking religious commemorations, the cele­brations of the ­Great Patriotic War featured “living saints”—­initially veterans who had fought at the front (frontovniki), then, as they died off, anyone who had survived the war. They also exhibited sacred relics, such as soldiers’ letters, objects from daily life, and weapons. Last but not least, the Soviet state sponsored memorial architectural ensembles in ­every city to commemorate the war and its casualties, especially in the thirteen Hero Cities and Hero Fortresses that had suffered the worst losses.6 The state narrative constantly vacillated between mourning the war dead and celebrating the nation’s heroism in defeating Hitler.7

30 CHAPTER 2

Often described as years of po­liti­cal and economic stagnation, the Brezhnev de­cades ­were also a time when cultural and societal realms flourished.8 As po­liti­ cal repression and ideological pressure eased, Soviet citizens re-­created spaces of autonomy and meaning in the private sphere, allowing for new collective identities to coalesce and prosper, both formally (revived religious, national, and urban identities) and under­ground (youth subcultures and dissident circles). The progressive fraying of the Soviet ideological fabric gave birth to a new generation of citizens who had access to a larger array of cultural and artistic products, including parody (stiob), alternative narratives, and a certain degree of consumerism.9 The Soviet apparatus grew concerned not only about the birth of dissident cultures but also about the younger generation’s growing disillusionment with the regime, which made it more laborious to mobilize society ­behind the ideological goals promoted by the state. In the 1970s, the G ­ reat Patriotic War’s cult thus went hand in hand with a new policy of military–­patriotic education for c­ hildren and teen­agers, made necessary by the broad relaxation of ideological pressure and the progressive rise of Rus­ sian nationalist sentiment in some parts of the Soviet apparatus.10 Exalting the memory of the war appeared to be the best, and perhaps the only, tool that resonated with society as a w ­ hole. As Tumarkin summarizes in her seminal work The Living and the Dead, the G ­ reat Patriotic War was a “reservoir of national suffering to be tapped and tapped again to mobilize loyalty, maintain order, and achieve a semblance of energy to ­counter the growing national apathy and loss of popu­ lar resilience of spirit.”11 Starting in 1985, perestroika ushered in a painful period of questioning the Soviet historical master narratives. Blank pages of history, such as the Molotov–­ Ribbentrop Pact, the occupation of the Baltic states, the massacres at Katyn and Babi Yar, and the uniqueness of the Holocaust, w ­ ere suddenly filled in and openly discussed. The long-­sacred war was criticized at several levels and reverence ­toward it eroded. Attending Victory Day cele­brations in 1990, Tumarkin observed that young ­people openly mocked veterans wearing their Soviet medals.12 In 1992, the first year of post-­Soviet Rus­sia, the military parade in Red Square was canceled, as though it had lost its meaning in such a time of trou­bles.

Fashizm: Ever yday Semantic Space and Academic Production In Soviet times, the term fascism (fashizm) belonged more to an emotional than to an analytical lexicon. It was widely used in Soviet official newspeak of the 1930s to denounce the Nazi Party and the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpar-

The Soviet Legacy in Thinking about Fascism

31

tei, as well as to criticize social democracy, seen at that time as the “objective ally” of Nazism in preventing a communist revolution in Germany. Soviet propaganda and especially the Comintern promoted, for instance, the notion of “social-­ fascism” (sotsial-­fashizm) to describe the leftist forces that refused to ally with the Soviet Union.13 The term national socialism (national-­sotsializm) was largely avoided, as it created a semantic ambiguity by suggesting that Nazism and communism both contained something related to socialism. During the war, antifascist slogans multiplied, propagated through flyers denouncing the invasion. German soldiers w ­ ere represented as physically ugly and caricatured as bloodthirsty vampires, rats, or insects; their bodies w ­ ere transformed into swastikas or represented by the traditional Soviet trope of fat cap­i­ tal­ists. The most widespread term was fashisty, followed by Nemtsy (Germans), Fritsty (Fritz, a derogatory term for German soldiers also used in France), or a combination of t­ hese terms, such as nemetsko-­fashisty (the German fascists).14 In 1941, the famous writer and journalist Ilya Ehrenburg (1891–1967) became the first to equate Germans and fascists in his articles in Krasnaia zvezda, the Red Army newspaper.15 As an adjective, fashist was usually paired with one of two names, okkupanty (occupants) or zakhvachiki (invaders). Fashist was thus an epithet associated more with the notion of invasion than with any doctrinal content. The term natsi (Nazi) rarely appeared, except in sophisticated flyers targeting a more educated audience. For instance, it was used to denounce Nazi occupation as a new “prison of ­peoples”—­a meta­phor traditionally deployed in relation to the tsarist empire.16 ­After the war, the term fashist continued to have a life of its own in Soviet culture as a very common insult. Enemies of all sorts ­were labeled fashisty in official discourse—it referred to almost every­one promoting an ideology of aggression ­toward the Soviet Union, from British conservatives to Chinese communists. The term was also widely used in everyday life, often with a certain level of stiob, to criticize someone with whom one disagreed or whom one disliked. With the postwar improvement of Soviet-­German relations, the “German” color of fashizm began to fade. War­time slogans, such as Smert´ nemtsam! (Death to the Germans), ­were relegated to history. Academic discourse on the topic of fascism remained constrained by the ideological bound­aries of the Soviet regime. In the 1950s, almost no books on the history of Nazism ­were published in the USSR. However, contrary to what Walter Laqueur professes in his work,17 “Hitler,” “Nazism,” and “Fascism” did have entries in the second edition of the ­Great Soviet Encyclopedia, published in the 1950s, and the Soviet regime did republish the transcripts of the Nuremberg ­trials, the most detailed account of Nazi crimes.18 More publications on Nazi Germany appeared in the 1960s. Memoir lit­er­a­ture emerged, especially accounts of the

32 CHAPTER 2

guerrilla partisan re­sis­tance. Between 1960 and 1965, the Ministry of Defense released a six-­volume encyclopedia, History of the ­Great Patriotic War of the Soviet Union, 1941–1945.19 Two academic books, Sketches of Con­temporary History of Germany by Vasilii Kulbakin and Germany ­under Fascist Rule 1933–1939 by German Rozanov, analyzed the history of Germany in the 1930s, but they lacked any specific focus on the most criminal aspects of national socialism.20 Kulbakin dedicated only one chapter to the 1933–­1945 period. In it he did not mention the Nazis’ virulent anti-­Semitism, limiting himself to a description of Mein Kampf’s plan to destroy about twenty million Slavs. He devoted only two pages to mass vio­lence in occupied territories, with nothing specific about the treatment of Jews.21 Rozanov, too, only briefly alluded to Nazi ideology and did not devote any of his chapters to the Nazi mass extermination policy.22 In 1965, as a product of Khrushchev’s cultural thaw, the acclaimed documentary film Ordinary Fascism (Obyknovennyi fascism) by Mikhail Romm (1901– 1971), which compiled images from Nazi-­era film materials, allowed Soviet public opinion to discover some previously concealed aspects of Nazism for the first time. ­Going beyond the usual Soviet pathos on the “fascist threat,” Romm’s narration (a voiceover) combines irony and despair, sarcasm and trauma, creating an ambivalent space for a subtle comparison of Nazism and Stalinism. The film could also afford to emphasize Jewish suffering more than previous Soviet documentaries, l­imited by Stalinist anti-­Semitism. It thus largely contributed to forging Soviet public opinion on the Holocaust.23 ­Under Brezhnev, the academic narrative evolved and fledgling research on national socialism emerged.24 At a time when the Holocaust became a central ele­ ment of Western historiography of the war, it remains rarely mentioned as such in Soviet historiography.25 Terms such as mass extermination (massovoe istreblenie), annihilation (unichtozhenie), or catastrophe (katastrofa) ­were used instead. The Black Book of Soviet Jewry, prepared by Ilya Ehrenburg and Vasily Grossman, was banned in 1948 and never formally published in the Soviet Union, even if it circulated as samizdat.26 However, the Soviet regime did not deny the mass killing of Jews: it was explic­itly mentioned on several occasions by official newspapers such as Pravda, often coinciding with t­ rials of Nazi perpetrators in Eu­rope or Israel, and it was discussed in the third edition of the ­Great Soviet Encyclopedia.27 ­Under Brezhnev, several volumes of documents referring to Jewish suffering w ­ ere published, and through his novels, the Soviet writer Sergei Smirnov (1915–­1976) helped the broader public learn the degree to which Jews ­were the central victims of Nazism. With a few exceptions, the Holocaust was never given the unpre­ce­dented status in Soviet lit­er­a­ture that it acquired in the West during the same period. Some scholars argue that this refusal to recognize the uniqueness of the Holocaust was

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deliberate and linked to the widespread anti-­Semitic policy u ­ nder Stalin and within the party apparatus.28 However, other explanations make more sense or complement that version of events. First, seen from the Soviet perspective, the destruction of the Jews was only part of a broader planned destruction of all Eastern Eu­ro­pean populations. For a long time, the Soviet narrative considered Jewish victims killed on Soviet territory as Soviet victims, what­ever their nationality (ethnicity) or religion. Second, the magnitude of Rus­sia’s own ­human losses did not leave much space for another ­people’s victimhood narrative. Third, the desire to avoid discussing collaboration and the role of some Soviet citizens in the genocide of their fellow countrymen likely also played a role.29 During perestroika and a­ fter the collapse of the Soviet Union, many once-­ official narratives ­were challenged and sometimes revised. The opening of archives, especially ­those of the Politburo of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union and of the State Defense Committee, as well as Rus­sian historians’ new access to Eu­ro­pean archives, offered fresh insights into many of the previously blank pages of Second World War history. The existence of the Molotov–­ Ribbentrop Pact, long denied by the Soviet government, was recognized—­and denounced—by the Supreme Soviet in 1989. Immediately, the Acad­emy of Sciences Institute of History was allowed to work on the pact’s history. The Holocaust was also discussed, with the first official commemorations taking place at Babi Yar in 1989. That same year, the Soviet archives and the Yad Vashem Institute of Jerusalem signed an agreement to access one another’s archives and develop academic cooperation. The massacre of Polish officers by the P ­ eople’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs in Katyn forest, previously denied by the Soviet regime, was investigated in 1990–­1991. The Rus­sian government acknowledged Soviet responsibility for it but refused to classify it as a war crime or to designate the dead as victims of the ­Great Purge, thereby declining formal posthumous rehabilitation.30

The Soviet Cryptic Fascination with Nazi Germany Although Soviet public opinion has been ­shaped by its rejection of fascism as the nation’s absolute threat, this has existed in parallel with a cryptic fascination with Nazi Germany that has gone largely undiscussed. This attraction was sometimes rooted in genuinely ideological sympathies. Yet it was mostly a taste for prohibited and provocative ideologies that contributed to the soft diffusion in Soviet culture of some Nazi symbols and aesthetics. Nazi propaganda, criminal culture, and cinema and culture have been the three main sources of this cryptic fascination.

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Nazi Propaganda The first and most ideologically straightforward source of diffusion came from Nazi propaganda itself, which circulated in all the territories occupied by Nazi troops that ­were part of the Soviet Union (Ukraine, Belarus, and parts of the Caucasus and Western Rus­sia) or that would become such ­after the war (the Baltic states, parts of Poland, Finland, and Romania). Even if the Soviet regime tried to seize all Nazi and collaborationist documentation, some outlets continued to circulate under­ground, and small circles remembered and repeated the main catchphrases and mottos advanced by Nazi propaganda. The Baltic states, Ukraine, and, to a lesser extent, Belarus and Moldova, ­were of the most concern to the Soviet authorities, ­because over the course of the following de­cades several dissident groups continued to commemorate the memory of local soldiers who fought against the Soviet army on the side of Germany. In 1969, the hymn of the Estonian SS legion was, for instance, sung in Tallinn during a concert, part of a larger trend that accelerated in the 1980s with the steady breakdown of the Soviet ideological consensus and the growing expression of nationalist resentment.31 With the onset of de-­Stalinization in 1956, some Rus­sian dissident groupuscules began to profess their adherence to a certain form of fascism. Among ­those that we know about, mostly through KGB reports, w ­ ere Viktor Polenov’s so-­called Popular-­Democratic Party, Viacheslav Solonev’s National Party, Aleksei Dobrovolskii’s Rus­sian National Socialist Party, and the circle of the poet Stanislav Krasovitskii, all of which w ­ ere active between 1956 and 1961 u ­ ntil their leaders ­were arrested. In the 1960s, several new groups emerged in Leningrad, notably the Pan-­ Russian Social-­Christian Union of the Liberation of the Nation.32 Each of them offered a specific combination of references to fascism, Nazism, monarchism, and the Black Hundreds. All ­these small groups denounced the egalitarian ideology of the Soviet regime, its roots in the universalism and humanism of the Enlightenment, and the mediocrity of Soviet life; they called for a return to a pagan and Aryan society in which men innately belonged to unmovable hierarchies or castes. Such groups multiplied in the 1970s with the maturation of the dissident movement and the development of samizdat lit­er­a­ture, especially the nationalist-­ minded journal Veche.33 National Bolshevism, a topic reintroduced by the dissident Gennadii Shimanov (1937–2013), was the first ideological trend to try to reconcile traditional Rus­sian nationalism, Bolshevik revolutionarism, and fascist inspiration.34 Neo-­paganism, too, became fash­ion­able in some of t­ hese circles as a way to criticize the role of Judaism and its heir, Chris­tian­ity.35 For instance, at the end of the 1970s, Viktor Bezverkhii (1930–2000), a teacher in one of the naval schools in Leningrad, clandestinely attempted to promote theories of white racial domination and develop a neo-­pagan movement. Kept ­under close

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surveillance by the KGB, which was concerned about his openly national-­socialist slogans, Bezverkhii was indicted for publishing a samizdat version of Mein Kampf in Rus­sian. More direct borrowings from the Eu­ro­pean fascist tradition w ­ ere identifiable in the Yuzhinsky or Golovin Circle, a dissident group that emerged in the 1950s ­under the guidance of the novelist Yuri Mamleev (1931–2015), who was l­ater joined by the poet Evgenii Golovin (1938–2010), the Islamic phi­los­op ­ her Geidar Dzhemal (1947–2016), the poet Vladimir Stepanov (1941–2011), and, in the 1980s, the young Aleksandr Dugin (1962). The Circle initially believed that its answer to the Soviet regime would not be found in a rival po­liti­cal ideology, but rather in metaphysics and the search for another level of real­ity. This initial path allowed for the discovery and assimilation of the main advocates of Traditionalism,36 René Guénon (1886–1951) and Julius Evola (1898–1974); German Conservative Revolution theories; Nazi occultism (such as references to a Hyperborean original cradle and the existence of a universal, runic, Aryan protolanguage); and postwar fascist doctrines from Italy and Latin Amer­i­ca. Declaring that he had been initiated into black magic by his grand­mother, the main cult figure of the circle, Golovin, presented it as an “SS Black Order,” established a hierarchy among the members, and instituted a Masonic-­style initiation ritual—­with the addition of alcohol and sex. He wrote a hymn for the Black Order and proclaimed himself its Reichsführer.37 The circle’s members appreciated the carnival-­like character of references to Nazism and their provocative flavor in the conformist Soviet Union of the stagnation years: being edgy and rejecting conventional norms was at the heart of the group’s activities. A former member of the circle, Arkadii Rovner, ­later stated that, for Golovin, a “Heil Hitler” salute meant “Down with Soviet power.”38 Over the course of three de­cades, the Yuzhinsky Circle evolved, experiencing every­thing from Mamleev’s dabbling with far-­right metaphysics to Golovin’s discovery of the po­liti­cal side of Traditionalism to Dugin’s revisiting of Nazi mysticism and his attempts to transform it into an engine for po­liti­cal activism.39 References to Eu­ro­pean fascism, however, did not shape the mindset of Pamyat, the nationalist hub and “cadres school” of the 1980s. Active from 1982 to 1989, Pamyat can be considered the cradle of all post-­Soviet radical-­right movements; it served as a unique platform for all nationalist dogmas to meet, merge, or compete.40 National Bolshevism and references to the early twentieth-­century Black Hundreds movement ­were the two main doctrines promoted by the association. The two ­were alike in their anti-­Semitism but divided by their interpretations of the Rus­sian past: the National Bolsheviks favored the Soviet regime in its Stalinist form, whereas ­those nostalgic for the Black Hundreds hearkened back to tsarist Rus­sia and its Orthodox legacy. Eu­ro­pean fascism was never welcome in this

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dual ideological combination—as encapsulated by the expulsion of two members of the Yuzhinsky Circle, Dugin and Dzhemal, from Pamyat’s Central Council in 1988. The pair ­were accused of “anti-­Soviet intentions” and “Satanism,” a reference to their Nazi symbolism and Black Order rituals.41 Indeed, at the time, Rus­ sian nationalists chiefly defined themselves ­either as promoting a Rus­sian path distinctive from the West or as defenders of the Soviet Union against the German ­enemy, thereby marginalizing all t­ hose who promoted pan-­European ideologies inspired by fascism or national socialism.42

Criminal Culture The second source of knowledge about fascism and national socialism in the Soviet Union was the criminal subculture, especially the zeks, a colloquial Rus­sian term for ­labor camp prisoners. ­These two sources ­were partly linked: a large number of post-1945 GULAG po­liti­cal prisoners had been jailed (rightly or wrongly) for cooperating with the fascist ­enemy during the war, for surrendering to German troops, or for living in Nazi-­occupied territories. Prisons thus preserved the memory of Nazi slogans longer than the rest of Soviet society. Many zeks proclaimed themselves ­either fascists or cap­it­ al­ists so as to demonstrate their rejection of the Soviet system.43 A good win­dow on this unknown realm has been the study of tattoos, which play a central role in criminal body language (pakhany).44 Tattoos ­were both a passport into the carceral world and magic inscriptions in their own right. Repre­ sen­ta­tions of Hitler, Nazi uniforms, and SS helmets, as well as slogans about Rus­sia being dominated by Jews and the communist regime being a product of world Jewry, w ­ ere numerous among convicts; Orthodox crosses, churches, and Tsar Nicholas II w ­ ere even more frequently represented. Nonetheless, as Aleksei Plutser-­Samo stated, “many of ­these anti-­communist tattoos actually have no connection with po­liti­cal dissidence” and should not be interpreted literally.45 For instance, the Nazi swastika was not necessarily a sign of support for some Nazi-­ related ideology, but rather the symbol of all the antisocials and anarchists who rebelled against the camp authorities and refused to re­spect the rules and etiquette of the criminal world. The practice of using Nazi symbols to signal one’s rejection of Soviet norms extended far beyond the circles of po­liti­cal prisoners. It also invaded the criminal world when, between 1955 and 1957, more than 4 million p ­ eople ­were suddenly released from GULAGs and reintegrated into society. The Soviet Union had one of the highest rates of incarceration (although b ­ ehind the United States and China): about 14 million ­people ­were in GULAGs between 1929 and 1953, 6–7 million more ­were exiled to remote regions, and about 7 million passed through ­labor

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colonies and ­labor settlements.46 This total amounted to more than 10 ­percent of the 1950s Soviet population (28 million of 208 million), although many of ­these sentences overlapped, so the total number is prob­ably lower. In the following de­ cades, between the mid-1960s and the mid-1980s, a total of 35 million Soviet citizens (­here again 10 ­percent of the population) passed through the zona—­the prison system, which, in its globality, encompassed both po­liti­cal prisoners and economic convicts. Such high numbers mean that Soviet society as a ­whole was influenced, in one way or another, by prison culture. In jail, incarcerated citizens discovered fascist mottos and Nazi symbols, contributing to their diffusion once freed. In the 1970s and 1980s, many criminal subcultures and street gangs had a­ dopted symbols or aesthetics inspired by fascism, including swastika tattoos, the fascist salute, and shouts of “heil!” In the majority of cases, however, ­these symbols served simply as proud displays of an individual’s or group’s subversive identity and w ­ ere devoid of any other ideological meaning.

Cinema and Culture The third source of knowledge about fashizm, the most diffuse and the least ideologically rooted, comes from the cultural realm, particularly cinema. As a power­ ful cultural and visual tool, the film industry, both cinema and tele­v i­sion, deeply ­shaped everyday Soviet culture. Without revisiting this im­mense legacy, let us just mention the twelve-­part tele­v i­sion series Seventeen Moments of Spring (Semnadtsat´ mgnovenii vesny) and its portrayal of Nazi Germany in quite an attractive way. Broadcast for the first time in the summer of 1972, the series was an immediate hit: the estimated audience for each episode was between fifty million and eighty million viewers, making it the most successful tele­v i­sion show of its time.47 Ivan Zassoursky noted that “during its first showing, city streets would empty. It was a larger-­than-­life hit, attracting greater audiences than hockey matches.”48 The series remained popu­lar throughout the Soviet era and is still a cultural reference point ­today, influencing pop culture as well as language: many of the series’ character names and expressions have become part of the Rus­sian vernacular.49 In 2009, for its thirty-­fifth anniversary, the film was restored and colorized and shown on the Rossiia channel, with the same success. Portraying the exploits of a Soviet spy operating in Nazi Germany, Seventeen Moments of Spring exposed the Soviet public to a seductive and romanticized version of Nazism, with several positive German figures, including some Nazi leaders. The series masterfully captured many attractive features of Nazi culture: the cult of the perfectly trained body, the neoclassical inspiration of the Greek and Roman worlds, and the strength of a collective mindset indoctrinated by power­ful

38 CHAPTER 2

symbolism.50 The series’ hero, Maksim Isaev, who operated u ­ nder the name Max Otto von Stierlitz, became a cult figure, the Soviet version of James Bond—­but Bond is a man of action, whereas Stierlitz embodies an intellectual spy trying to preserve honesty and authenticity in a corrupt world. His ability to work undercover in Nazi culture and to excel in doublethink illustrates a disturbing and loosely formulated parallel between Nazi Germany and the Stalin-­era Soviet Union. As the film critic and scenarist Marya Turovskaya noted, “Seventeen Moments of Spring structured the late Soviet imagination with re­spect to fascism with greater force than the well-­known ideological ste­reo­types or extremely sparse historical lit­er­a­ture.”51 The series also reinforced many widespread clichés about Germany, including German precision, cleanliness, work ethic, sobriety, and technological superiority. ­These features resonated strongly with a Soviet culture that was likewise ­shaped by the cult of neoclassicism, physical training, and mass industrialization. This contributed to the creation in Soviet culture of an ambivalent attitude t­oward Germany, which was seen both as a model country from which to draw inspiration and as the ultimate ­enemy that posed an existential threat to the nation: Nazi Germany could have been superior to and victorious over the Soviet Union, a possibility that was strong enough to create tacit admiration. The same ambivalence can be found in France, Germany’s other historical ­enemy. The cult of Nazi aesthetics and its fundamentally provocative character in Soviet society was particularly attractive to younger generations. “Playing the fascist” was common in many Soviet youth subcultures, even before the tele­v i­sion series came out. As early as the end of the 1950s, some under­ground groups of school-­age ­children celebrated Hitler and collected swastikas and photos from Nazi Germany. Some, such as the small club SS Viking, dismantled in 1957 in Kiev, w ­ ere ideologically more structured, calling for the creation of a national-­ communist regime. But the majority of them knew very l­ittle about Nazism, and in the 1970s their acquaintance with it was l­ imited to Seventeen Moments of Spring. The historian Richard Stites reported that the leaders of a neo-­Nazi cell, arrested in the 1970s, said they ­were so influenced by the series that they gave themselves the names of some of the leading Nazi characters.52 In the early 1980s, several cases of pro-­Nazi under­ground school group activity w ­ ere documented, the most prominent of which occurred in 1981 in the small city of Kurgan, where about a hundred school pupils went into the streets with swastikas and shouted the slogan “Fascism ­will save Rus­sia!”53 The paradoxical attraction of Nazi symbolism also influenced the decision of the respectable journal Nauka i religiia to publish excerpts of the Morning of the Magicians in 1966.54 Written by Louis Pauwels (1920–1997), then-­editor of the

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weekly magazine supplement to the French rightist newspaper Le Figaro, and Jacques Bergier (1912–1978), the book quickly became a classic thanks to its conspiracy theories about the role of occult socie­ties in world politics.55 It was one of the first works to empathetically describe the close links between Nazism and occult theories. One may won­der about the reasons ­behind the Nauka i religiia editorial board’s decision to publish extracts of such a book, specifically ­those sections concerning the esoteric contents of Nazism. This gives us insight into the ways in which the Khrushchevian cultural thaw allowed for the rediscovery of previously unknown aspects of Eu­ro­pean culture. Allusions to Nazi aesthetics further spread through countercultural groups, in par­tic­ul­ar the musical under­ground. This phenomenon was imported to the Soviet Union from the West. In the 1970s, the emergence of punk culture, first in the United Kingdom, then in West Germany and progressively across the rest of Eu­rope, was based on the idea of taboo-­breaking or shock value in postwar society.56 For example, the Sex Pistols’ first appearance on British tele­v i­sion was accompanied by a swastika. In the 1970s, the use of Nazi-­era imagery became a standard component of punk clothing. Called “Nazi chic,” it had more to do with the subversive nature of punk culture—­which went hand in hand with a preference for leather clothing and sadomasochist or fetishist symbols—­than the White Power tradition, even if neo-­Nazi skinhead groups obviously developed genuine sympathies for national socialism. Punk culture reached the Soviet musical under­ground in the 1970s, accompanied by “Nazi chic” fashion.57 In the early 1980s, the rock musician Oleg Sudakov named his band Armiia Vlasova to provocatively celebrate A. A. Vlasov, the Soviet General who rallied Nazi Germany during the war.58 In 1987, the lead singer of the famous rock group Alisa was accused of yelling “Heil Hitler!” during a skirmish with the militia.59 Though he was ­later found innocent, this event illustrates the general trend of using Nazi symbolism to demonstrate belonging to a countercultural milieu. In some Rus­sian subcultures, a short haircut for men is still ­today called a Hitlerjugend, even if the haircut is actually borrowed from the British working class.60

The Rise of Rus­s ian Nationalism inside Soviet State Structures An overview of this understudied fascination with fascism and Nazi Germany in the Soviet Union would not be complete without looking at what happened in more official circles. Although it was obviously impossible to allude positively to

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Nazi Germany in any public discourse, the Soviet establishment shared the same pop culture as the rest of the population. We know, for instance, that Leonid Brezhnev and many members of the Politburo ­were big fans of Seventeen Moments of Spring. The series was required viewing for law enforcement agencies, and it grandly enhanced the prestige of the KGB—­Putin himself acknowledged that his decision to join the institution was motivated by the spy thrillers of his childhood such as Seventeen Moments and Rezident.61 More broadly, ­after de-­Stalinization, the Soviet state apparatus and the Communist Party discreetly and progressively began to reintegrate ele­ments of the tsarist past into the official culture. This rehabilitation was facilitated by the then-­widespread anti-­Semitism of the late Stalin era. For instance, the Leningrad University Department of History class of 1950, to which not one Jewish student had been admitted, was informally called “The White Guard Class,” a sign that prerevolutionary anti-­Semitism had not been forgotten.62 This emerging nostalgia and anti-­Semitic atmosphere, associated with ethnic Rus­sian apparatchiks’ growing resentment t­oward the other republics, which they deemed privileged by state subsidies, contributed to the birth of the so-­called Rus­sian Party (Russkaia partiia). This informal nationalist faction developed inside the Communist Party, primarily the Komsomol and the state apparatus, attempting to dissociate RSFSR (Rus­sian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic) institutions from pan-­Soviet ones and fighting to promote Rus­sians as a weakened nation endangered by the Soviet federal construction.63 From the mid-1960s onward, defending the “Rus­sian cause” within state institutions allowed for the structuring of many ideological trends that, in one way or another, rehabilitated ele­ments of the fascist or national-­socialist repertoire. For some, this cause found expression through nostalgia for the tsarist regime: in 1965–1966, the nationalist painter Ilia Glazunov (1930–2016) published a long text, in Molodaia gvardiia, titled “The Road Leading to You” (Doroga k tebe), in which he overtly sought to redeem Orthodoxy and the prerevolutionary period, including its protofascist movements, such as the Black Hundreds.64 For ­others, defending the “Rus­sian cause” was intimately connected to advancing an anti-­ Semitic agenda: building on the Soviet anti-­Israeli stance in international affairs, the Zionology (sionologiia) movement took off, with essayists such as Valerii Emelianov (1929–1999), an expert on the ­Middle East close to Nikita Khrushchev; Evgenii Evseev (1932–1990); Vladimir Begun (1929–1989); and Igor Shafarevich (1923–2017). According to them, Jews had been the force b ­ ehind Russophobia for centuries, and the Black Hundred pogroms ­were justified as Rus­sian self-­defense.65 Soviet Zionology allowed for anti-­Semitism to be wrapped into the denunciation of Israel’s policies, ­going so far as to declare that Zionism was Jewish fascism and a new form of Nazism.66

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The “Rus­sian cause” further expressed itself through theories inspired by fascist indoctrination methods. In 1965, Valerii Trushin, secretary of the Moscow City Committee of the Komsomols, requested that Valerii Skurlatov (1938), then a PhD student and ­later a trained physicist and researcher at the Institute of Scientific Information on Social Sciences (INION), write a Code of Morals (Ustav nrava) intended to educate Komsomol youth in a very fascist-­inspired spirit. For instance, Skurlatov called for the militarization of youth, corporal punishment for disobedience, the “revival of ancient peasant customs,” and “vari­ous forms of stratification of a caste type,” as well as the sterilization of ­women who had intercourse with foreigners.67 The code caused a scandal and Skurlatov was expelled from the Communist Party, but he pursued a successful c­areer as a scientist.68 Fi­nally, attraction to Nazi culture appeared in the promotion of Aryanism and its derivative, neo-­paganism.69 The first public manifesto of Rus­sian neo-­paganism was a letter published anonymously in 1973 by Valerii Emelianov, explic­itly formulating the idea that Chris­tian­ity was nothing more than an expression of Jewish domination and that it only served the interests of Zionism.70 A few years ­later, in 1978, Valerii Skurlatov published one of the first articles on Rus­sians’ Aryan identity, and in 1982, Vladimir Chivilikhin (1928–1984), the author of the novel Memory (Pamiat´), from which the famous nationalist organ­ization took its name, explic­itly proclaimed that Rus­sians “are the ones, and not the Germans, who should be considered Aryans.”71 This identification with an Aryan identity allowed for the partial rehabilitation of some key theories of Nazi occultism and their integration into a revamped Rus­sian nationalist imaginary.

As one can see from this brief overview, it would be a ­mistake to represent Soviet society as totally immune to any reference to fascism or Nazi symbolism. Although the traumas of the war and the victory of 1945 have progressively been sanctified, and are among the most consensual ele­ments of collective memory, ideological breaches have always existed, mostly linked to the need to transgress Soviet norms. ­These breaches have varied in nature. Some ­were genuinely ideological: the part of the population that felt itself the victim of the Soviet system—­ especially in the Baltic republics and Ukraine, which suffered most of the burden of war­time atrocities and postwar repressions—­cultivated fascist references in re­ sis­tance to the Soviet regime. Under­ground subcultures, in par­tic­u­lar t­hose linked to the prison world, sought to exhibit their subversiveness by provoking Soviet society on its most taboo topics. Discovering power­ful counternarratives was irresistibly attractive to ­those in search of nonconformism and provocation. Other transgressions ­were of a more historical and cultural nature: rehabilitating

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forbidden nationalist ele­ments such as tsarism, the Black Hundreds, and Aryan references was an indirect way of advancing the agenda of the “Rus­sian nation” within Soviet state structures. The last breach, which was also the most widespread, the least ideological, and the fuzziest, was the confused attraction to Nazi visual symbols and ele­ments of the fascist aesthetic that was scattered across several segments of late Soviet culture.

3 ANTIFASCISM AS THE RENEWED SOCIAL CONSENSUS U ­ NDER PUTIN

The nation’s foundational myth since the 1970s, the “war against fascism,” is still understood t­ oday in Rus­sia as an event of mythic proportions: larger-­than-­life, it exemplifies the highest ­human values of courage and sacrifice, elevating the Rus­ sian ­people to the double status of martyr and hero. As stated by the minister of foreign affairs, Sergey Lavrov, at the 2005 Victory Day cele­brations, 1945 was “the victory of life over death [pobeda zhizni nad smert´iu].”1 The war conveys such profound meanings that it continues to form the backbone of social consensus in Russia—­manifesting, more broadly, t­ oday’s nostalgia for late Soviet culture and Soviet welfare. Yet for the regime, Rus­sia’s strug­gle against fascism does not simply belong to the past; the crusade is ongoing. Vladimir Putin revealed this mindset when he declared that the “imperishable lesson [urok] from the war is [still] ­today very ­actual and impor­tant.”2 The president has indeed regularly warned citizens that “fascism” could return and Rus­sia may once again be called to rescue itself—­and the world—­from this evil. Long before the Ukrainian crisis of 2014, the notion of Rus­sia as the antifascist power par excellence was already written in stone in both elite discourse and public opinion.

Revamping the War Epic in the Putin Era The ­Great Patriotic War occupies a unique space in Rus­sia’s con­temporary memory for several reasons. First, it is a critical episode from the “usable past” that the state has at its disposal to strengthen the current social consensus through 43

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shared memory. Second, it is the only tool the regime can promote that receives near-­unanimous approval from society, therefore helping to consolidate an implicit contract between the governing and the governed that might other­wise be strained. Third, it is an irreplaceable device for ensuring memory transmission from older to younger generations and a critical tool for socializing youth and preserving a sense of collective continuity. The perestroika-­era debates criticizing the way the Soviet leadership conducted the war ­were therefore short-­lived and came to a halt with the fiftieth anniversary of the victory in 1995, when the master narrative inherited from the Soviet regime was restored.3 That year, a weakened Boris Yeltsin tried to recapture the power of the G ­ reat Patriotic War commemoration by reviving the Red Square parade, to the chagrin of his main po­liti­cal opponent, Gennady Zyuganov, leader of the Communist Party of Rus­sia, who ­until then had maintained control over the niche of Soviet nostalgia. On May 9, 1995, a large memorial park in Poklonnaya Gora, a Moscow suburb, was dedicated to the war. A statue of Marshal Zhukov, who conquered Berlin, was restored in Manezh Square, and a new sculpture depicting Rus­sia’s historic victories over the Mongols, Napoleon, and Nazi Germany was unveiled on Kutuzovsky Ave­nue. Postage stamps ­were issued commemorating Stalin, Roo­se­velt, and Churchill.4 One year ­later, on May 8, 1996, Yeltsin visited Volgograd (formerly Sta­lin­grad), one of the most impor­tant Hero Cities, and he attended ceremonies in Brest, Belarus, on June 22 for the fifty-­fifth anniversary of the Nazi invasion.5 ­After becoming president in 2000, Putin’s policy of rehabilitating Soviet symbols contributed to relegitimizing the war as a critical moment in the nation’s history. In December 2000, a new law regarding Rus­sia’s flag, coat of arms, and anthem offered a new ideological compromise to reconcile Rus­sia’s three major eras: the tsarist regime, the Soviet Union, and the in­de­pen­dent new state. The national coat of arms combines the symbols of the two previous regimes: the red flag represents the Soviet period, and the double-­headed ea­gle at its center recalls the imperial era. The melody of the Soviet national anthem was brought back to replace a nineteenth-­century tune composed by Mikhail Glinka that had been ­adopted in the early 1990s. The lyr­ics of the anthem, composed by Aleksandr Aleksandrov, ­were amended to remove references to communism. The former red flag of the Soviet army was reintroduced as the flag of the Rus­sian armed forces.6 It was redesigned in 2003 to incorporate the double-­headed ea­gle of tsarism, the four five-­pointed stars that Trotsky had proposed,7 and the slogan “Motherland, Duty, Honor,” which had been used by tsarist armies in the eigh­teenth ­century.8 In 2007, pressured by patriotic forces to reintroduce the Soviet flag with the hammer and sickle in one way or another, Putin found a ­middle way by renaming it

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the Victory Flag (znamia pobedy), evoking the Reichstag ­battle on May 1, 1945, and allowing it to be celebrated as such during historical commemorations.9 The unique status of May 9 has been reinforced by the Kremlin’s heavy investment in commemorations. In the 2000s and 2010s, cinema and tele­v i­sion created multiple blockbuster films and series about the war.10 Brezhnev-­era rituals and pathos have been reintroduced: they appear in leaders’ speeches, public gatherings, youth participation, patriotic concerts, broadcasts of classic Soviet war movies for the two weeks preceding May 9, and so on.11 In 2010, images of Stalin, long absent from public commemorations, reemerged, but his presence sparked a backlash and was eliminated in the years that followed.12 As in Soviet times, the link between Victory Day and the legitimacy of the current po­liti­cal status quo is explicit. Putin has gradually inserted himself into the commemorations, trying to personify the memory of the war. He has described his ­family’s plight during the siege of Leningrad and participated in designing many new commemorative ele­ments or institutions.13 This trend ­toward making Victory Day an annual occasion for celebrating Rus­sia in all its incarnations—­Russia as a state, a nation, and a p ­ eople, and Putin as the embodiment of all of them—­has become a fundamental feature of the current regime. The 2015 commemoration was particularly memorable, not only b ­ ecause it was the seventieth anniversary of the end of the war but also b ­ ecause of the concurrent tension with the West over Ukraine. It was the grandest commemoration ever, with large numbers of Rus­sian troops and ultramodern military equipment on display, as well as 1,300 troops from ten foreign countries, mostly former Soviet republics that had also played a critical role in the war. For the first time, troops from China, India, Serbia, and Mongolia paraded in Red Square. Although most Western countries boycotted the cele­bration or sent only second-­tier po­ liti­cal leaders, the parade featured many of Rus­sia’s new and old friends on the international scene,14 along with some Western war veterans, including former U.S. and British soldiers. Several ­factors can explain the structural need to reprise Brezhnev-­era commemorations. First, members of the Putin regime ­were educated in the 1960s and 1970s and tend to incorporate their formative experiences into their vision of what should unite society and socialize younger generations. Second, the G ­ reat Patriotic War remains the principal myth capable of uniting Rus­sian society. Indeed, almost thirty years a­ fter the collapse of the Soviet Union, the country still lacks commemorative dates related to its latest incarnation as a state that would resonate with the population. June 12, the day of Rus­sia’s declaration of sovereignty in 1990, has never caught on and remains a state-­centric holiday. November 4, instituted in 2005 to replace the November 7 holiday that had long marked the

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Bolshevik Revolution, commemorates the popu­lar uprising in Moscow against the Polish–­Lithuanian republic in 1612 and, therefore, the end of the Time of Trou­bles. But the new National Unity Day was rapidly appropriated by Rus­sian nationalists, who or­ga­nize Rus­sian Marches on that day.15 The authorities reclaimed the holiday in the early 2010s, but it remains meaningless to most citizens, who see it as a state-­centric holiday. May 9 therefore continues to be the only genuinely popu­lar commemoration, bringing together millions of Rus­sians.16 Yet a central focus of the G ­ reat Patriotic War’s commemorations, its veterans, has been gradually disappearing. Thanks to their dual status as both living heroes and the comrades of fallen soldiers, veterans have been the essential link that allows May 9 to be both a state cele­bration and an individual and ­family one, to bridge past and pre­sent, and to facilitate dialogue between generations. To perpetuate a cult of war based on sanctifying veterans, new commemoration practices had to be in­ven­ted, both at the grassroots and the state levels. At the official level, Rus­sian military–­patriotic institutions and civil society groups began to address this issue in the second half of the 2000s, realizing the need to update the performative nature of the commemoration by using new media technologies.17 For example, the pro-­presidential youth movement Nashi began filming interviews with the last remaining veterans to keep them alive digitally.18 In 2010, the website pobedeteli.ru (The Victors) listed over one million Second World War veterans living in Rus­sia and abroad.19 Histories and memories of hundreds of thousands of veterans have also been entered into an online National Chronicle (narodnaia letopis´).20 At a grassroots level, the Immortal Regiment (bessmertnyi polk) epitomizes this wave of new memory initiatives. In 2007, p ­ eople participating in the May 9 parade in Tyumen ­were invited to carry pictures of ­family members who had participated in any way in the war. The interpretation of Victory Day as a parade of specific individual memories was a success, as it reflected the popu­lar perception of the war as an individual story embedded in the ­family fabric. The Immortal Regiment concept was then progressively captured by state institutions such as the Council of Veterans, and institutionalized as part of nationwide commemorations. In 2015, it brought out around 12 million p ­ eople in 1,200 cities, with between 350,000 and 500,000 ­people participating in Moscow alone.21 The displays w ­ ere criticized by some as an artificial Kremlin invention but, although they ­were “hijacked” by the regime, with Putin and all the top government officials participating, the popu­lar character of the parades cannot be denied. A 2016 Levada Center poll found positive attitudes t­ oward the Immortal Regiment among 91 ­percent of respondents, with only 6 ­percent characterizing the event as pro-­government.22 The Regiment also inspired more radical proposals (though ­these ­were not implemented), including granting the

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Second World War dead the right to vote, a right that would be exercised by their descendants.23 Another “in­ven­ted tradition” has been the massive use of the orange-­and-­ black-­striped St. George’s Ribbon. Con­ve­niently, it combines tsarist and Soviet symbolism. Catherine the ­Great instituted the military decoration and Stalin reintroduced it in 1942, with some color changes, as the Order of the Guard. The ribbon was first revived for the May 2005 cele­bration as an anti–­Orange Revolution symbol, and since then it has largely been worn by civilians as an act of remembrance. Initiated at that time by Nashi, the wearing of the ribbon was quickly criticized by some as a pro-­Putin strategy to capture the legitimacy of the Second World War. Within a few years, however, it had become a ubiquitous symbol displayed during all G ­ reat Patriotic War commemorations. With the Ukrainian crisis in 2014, it assumed a new politicized meaning: the ribbon was prominently displayed all over Crimea and worn by several Donbas insurgent militias, as well as by Rus­sian nationalist groups. This new meaning became so widespread that it has since become interpreted primarily as a pro-­Russian, anti-­Ukrainian symbol.24 The introduction of religious symbols, even if the cele­bration remains largely secular, constitutes another vis­i­ble transformation in the commemoration pro­ cess. The religious overtones can be straightforward, as with the presence of the Rus­sian Orthodox Church, or symbolic. For many p ­ eople, May 9 commemorations are so iconic that a very specific list of rites, gestures, statements, and symbols must be included in the per­for­mance; other­w ise, the ritual “effect” of the commemoration is lost. For example, f­ amily photos shown at the Immortal Regiment are displayed as icons, and the fact that some photos are abandoned in trash bins at the end of the event is considered sacrilegious. Putin himself has used religiously inspired vocabulary to describe the memory of the war. In 2005, he stated that May 9 “has been and ­will forever remain a sacred day [9-oe maia byl i navsegda ostanetsia sviashchennym dnem].”25 Therefore, any falsification or distortion in the portrayal of the war is, according to him, “a personal insult, a sacrilege.”26 The use of the term sacrilege (sviatotatstvo) moves historical distortions closer to the notion of blasphemy (bogokhul’stvo), a concept that has been rehabilitated by the Rus­sian Orthodox Church and obtained ­legal status with the 2013 law against blasphemy and swearing.27 Fi­nally, consumerism has overtaken part of the commemoration pro­cess. Since the 2000s, Soviet nostalgia has become a successful commercial product. Soviet vintage is everywhere: Bolshevik-­style flyers, well-­known Soviet slogans, Soviet foods, objects and designs, and so on.28 Consumerism has also infiltrated remembrance of the war, and May 9 has become a commercial occasion: famous pop stars sing war­time songs, clothing designers stage war-­inspired fashion shows,

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supermarkets offer May 9 sales, p ­ eople play war­time songs on their cell phones and buy the distinctive budionovki hats worn by Red Army soldiers, and everyday products are wrapped in a facsimile St. George’s Ribbon. This consumption of war-­related products has ignited heated discussions in the media and among the public. The use of war-­related symbols in a grotesque or absurd way—­ sometimes consciously, sometimes not—­has shocked part of the population, with some citizens condemning war consumerism as blasphemy.29 The pro­cess of inventing new traditions is by no means specific to Rus­sia; it is a normal part of any nation-­building pro­cess. The rites of public mourning and commemoration regularly self-­update by integrating new traditions, which often have a consumerist dimension. Mixing a sacrosanct event with commercial branding confirms the profound transformation of remembrance practices and per­for­mances of mourning, evidencing the genuinely popu­lar character of the May 9 holiday.

Educating on Fashizm: History Textbooks and Academic Production Since the Second World War memory is such a cornerstone of Rus­sian society, writing its history obviously constitutes a central discursive battlefield. ­These histories, from school textbooks to academic historiography, attempt to strike a balance between new discoveries in archival works, the evolution of research questions and methodologies, politicized perspectives, and public opinion sensitive to the maintenance of the war’s foundational myths. The primary objective of public school is to shape ­children as ­future citizens. This approach gives preeminence to a ready-­made narrative that avoids controversial issues and teaches what to think, not how to think. Rus­sia is hardly unique in offering a highly simplified narrative in school. Textbooks are, by definition, conservative, in the sense that they are often latecomers to new interpretative frameworks, and they prioritize the preservation of the nation’s master narrative.30 They are not supposed to represent the “truth” of historical events; they often have ­limited capacity to discuss nuances, and it is not easy for teachers to deviate from the master narrative. In the 1990s, a multitude of narratives emerged from the collapse of the centralized state.31 Teachers faced a deluge of new information about the Soviet past and had to sift through a range of highly contradictory discourses; they ­were given no direction about what to teach or how to teach it. The new open market for textbooks meant competition over content. Some new textbooks based on the Rus­sian emigration narrative rehabilitated the tsarist past in an unequivocally pos-

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itive manner and ­were very critical of the Soviet period; for example, Igor Dolutskii’s History of the Fatherland in the Twentieth C ­ entury approved by the Ministry of Education in 1994, promoted a “White” and pro-­émigré reading of the ­century.32 As soon as Putin came to power, he imposed his famous “power vertical,” retaking control over some aspects of society, including the textbook market. The government launched a commission that reviewed the contents of history textbooks and removed several of them from the list of officially approved textbooks—­including Dolutskii’s, which was deemed too anti-­Soviet.33 In 2007, the government revisited the need for a more coherent narrative and proposed to develop a unique textbook of twentieth-­century history that would be mandatory for all. The Ministry of Education first released a manual for teachers (not a student text), A New History of Rus­sia, 1945–2006 by Aleksandr Filippov and o ­ thers,34 which aimed to promote a unified historical discourse that values every­thing state-­centric. A second initiative was launched in 2013, on Putin’s order, by two state-­sponsored historical socie­ties, the Rus­sian Historical Society and the Rus­sian Society for Military History, comprising predominantly po­liti­ cal figures and a handful of historians.35 They released a new “historic-­cultural standard”—­a list of key points to be included in each f­ uture textbook—­here also with the goal of crafting a storyline focused on centralization, stability, and order as Rus­sia’s historical backbone. Both initiatives ­were widely criticized by the academic community.36 Eventually, in 2014, the minister of education and science formally abandoned the attempt to produce a unique textbook, leaving the “standard” as a guideline but not enforcing it as a mandatory narrative to follow.37 Although neither of t­ hese initiatives succeeded in creating a mono­poly on the “usable past,” they both influenced textbook production: new works w ­ ere produced in conformity with the state-­backed storyline, “through a combination of oblique signaling, selective endorsements, and self-­censorship.”38 The state’s failed desire to produce a unified historical narrative can be explained by the vivid and contradictory debates on the interpretation of the Stalin era, the most conflictual period in recent history, and one seen by the authorities as carry­ing a risk of politicization against the current status quo. The Fillipov teachers’ manual of 2007 famously advanced a positive assessment of Stalinism and tempered its view of the po­liti­cal repressions, describing Stalin as “an effective man­ ag­er” (effektivnyi manadzher).39 This typifies the general tendency to explain away po­liti­cal repressions as a regrettable but necessary phenomenon required by the Soviet Union’s rapid industrialization ­under Stalin: industrialization and related vio­lence, such as collectivization, ­were unavoidable in order to prepare the country for war.40 The “victory against fascism” thus plays a fundamental role in legitimizing a posteriori Stalinist vio­lence: it does not deny or silence state vio­lence, but instead justifies it as a lesser evil, the price to pay for the 1945 victory.

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War is part of the history curriculum for the last three years of secondary school (the ninth through eleventh grades). In the 1990s, it was ­limited to three or four hours of instruction each year; that number has since increased to eight to twelve hours, which allows war to be covered in greater detail.41 Each textbook offers its own tone, nuances, and foci. Broadly speaking, the 1945 victory is portrayed as both the ­people’s victory and Stalin’s personal success. Contrary to Soviet times, the role of partisan (guerrilla) warfare has been downplayed to provide a more state-­centric vision of the war—­and also to avoid discussing the criminal activities of many guerrilla groups. The lack of preparation by Stalin and high-­ranking Soviet officers is almost never discussed; the focus is placed on ­human suffering and heroic sacrifice. The Molotov–­Ribbentrop Pact of 1939 is presented as a by-­product of both the Munich Agreement and the British and French refusal to sign a nonaggression treaty with the Soviet Union. Moscow was thus left with no other choice, the narrative goes, than to temporarily ally with Germany. The secret amendments are also discussed, as is the fact that they ­were not ratified by the Supreme Soviet. Some textbooks state that the pact was justified but the secret amendments w ­ ere not;42 ­others do not make this distinction and mention only Stalin’s “difficult choice” in regard to moving the borders westward to protect the country from the expected Nazi invasion.43 However, in all textbooks, the territorial consequences of the pact are barely touched upon, and left to appear almost as a historical footnote: the Soviet Union entered Polish and Finnish territories, and the three Baltic states voluntarily agreed to join the Soviet Union in exchange for protection from Nazism. Some textbooks remind readers that t­ hese ­were all Rus­sian imperial territories lost between 1918 and 1920, thus implicitly justifying their reintegration.44 All the contentious issues are left to teachers’ personal interpretations, and the current international debates about the Soviet Union’s status as an occupier are ignored. Textbooks usually devote a mere two pages to the strenuous question of collaboration with Nazi troops. Collaborationists are defined as traitors to the Soviet Union, but the discursive tone can also be relatively neutral and purely descriptive. The case of Andrei Vlasov (1901–1946), the Red Army general who defected to Germany in 1942 a­ fter helping defend Leningrad from the Nazi blockade,45 is systematically mentioned, as is the collaboration of some segments of the Rus­sian émigré population and some minority ethnic groups.46 Some textbooks highlight that Soviet prisoners of war reluctantly agreed to work for German troops b ­ ecause the Soviet regime would other­wise treat them as deserters.47 The fact that a segment of Soviet society collaborated ­under Nazi occupation is rarely evoked, and ­there is almost no discussion of their pos­si­ble anti-­Soviet or anti-­Stalin motivations.48

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Analyses of Nazism as an ideology are absent from the vast majority of textbooks. Accounts of Hitler’s rise to power, as well as Mein Kampf as Hitlerism’s foundational text, are also lacking. While quotations by Hitler or Goebbels announcing their goal of destroying Rus­sians and/or Slavs can be found in ­every textbook, the Holocaust is mentioned only briefly, in the context of the broader Lebensraum colonization proj­ect to “cleanse” Eastern Eu­ro­pean territories of their populations. For instance, one of the ninth-­grade textbooks confines the Holocaust to two sentences: “Among the unwanted p ­ eople, first in line w ­ ere Jews, Roma, and prisoners of war. The mass killing of Jews (the Holocaust) happened on all of the occupied territories (one of their symbols is Babi Yar, close to Kiev).”49 The most popu­lar eleventh-­grade textbook, the 2013 edition of Twentieth-­Century Rus­sian History from the publisher Prosveshchenie, devotes ­little attention to fascism as an ideology. It reproduces a very Soviet-­style narrative of Hitler’s ascent to power in 1933: “German fascists, taking advantage of the deep schism in the working class, the unhappiness of the masses u ­ nder the conditions of the 1929–­1933 global economic crisis, and the assistance of influential anticommunist forces within and outside of the country, decisively took power. . . . ​The fascists immediately set about realizing their program of arming the country and liquidating bourgeois-­ democratic freedoms. Foreign policy subordinated itself to a single goal: preparation for the launch of aggressive wars for world supremacy.”50 Textbooks often conclude their section on the Second World War with a general statement detached from actors and agencies, such as “Fascism committed unbelievable crimes against humanity,”51 or “The Second World War and the ­Great Patriotic War showed all the depth of the threat that fascism brought to mankind.”52 Rus­sian pupils are therefore only minimally educated on the Molotov–­Ribbentrop Pact and its consequences for Eastern Eu­rope, leaving them without the tools to understand ongoing memory wars with Rus­sia’s neighbors. Furthermore, they do not acquire knowledge of fascism as an ideology and are left with very ­little historical information on national socialism in Germany. Their understanding of the Second World War centers on the war itself—­German aggression and Soviet citizens’ heroic defense of their homeland—­rather than the ideological context that produced fascist regimes. On several occasions, President Putin and his government have stated that the mission of schools is to form the patriotic spirit of youth, and, by extension, that ambivalent historical moments or dark pages of national history are not proper subjects for pupils and should be left to professional historians. Indeed, academics have, ­until recently, faced ­little interference from the state, even if tensions have been noticeably increasing between ­those who want to preserve the sacrosanct war narrative and follow state directions and ­those who wish to take new directions in their research, exploring topics such as the controversial years prior to the Nazi

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invasion, Stalin’s culpability in the war, the deportations of “enemies of the ­people,” everyday life in the GULAG, and collaborationism.53 In the 2000s and 2010s, a growing number of academic studies appeared on collaborationism in Soviet territories occupied by Nazi troops. It became one of the most sensitive historical topics related to the issue of fascism, as it implied the existence, backed by documentary evidence, of Rus­sian citizens who sympathized with Nazi Germany. The debate has a purely historiographical side: how to differentiate Soviet citizens who had no choice other than to collaborate with or be engaged as auxiliaries by Nazi troops from t­ hose who welcomed the Nazis’ arrival and supported their ideology, and how to interpret archives that ­were biased on both sides. But the debate has also taken on a more po­liti­cal tone for three reasons. First, it has become part of a broader discussion on the reintegration of Rus­sian émigré culture into con­temporary Rus­sia, since some of its main representatives, celebrated for their inestimable contribution to Rus­sian culture, collaborated with Nazi Germany against the Soviet Union. Second, the most infamous figure of collaborationism, Andrei Vlasov, has been co-­opted by Rus­sian neofascist groups as a national hero deserving of rehabilitation, thus blurring the lines between historical judgment and con­temporary debates. Third, as Rus­sia has begun to fight against the rehabilitation of collaborationist movements in the Baltic states and in other Central and Eastern Eu­ro­pean countries, it has become more cautious to discuss homegrown collaborationist stances. Attempts to rehabilitate Vlasov emerged in the early 1990s, inspired by émigré culture, but they only gathered force in the following de­cade. In 2001, the small monarchist movement For Faith and Fatherland (Za veru i otechestvo) submitted a claim to the Main Military Procuracy asking for a revision of Vlasov’s death sentence (imposed by a Soviet tribunal in 1946), saying, “Vlasov was a patriot who spent much time re-­evaluating his ser­v ice in the Red Army and the essence of Stalin’s regime before agreeing to collaborate with the Germans.”54 The Military Procuracy concluded that the 1991 law “On the Rehabilitation of the Victims of Po­liti­cal Repressions” did not apply to Vlasov, and the case was closed. In 2009, Vlasov’s rehabilitation was ­under consideration by the Synod of Bishops, the governing body of the Rus­sian Orthodox Church Outside Rus­sia. One of Moscow Patriarchate’s archpriests, Grigorii Mitrofanov, a professor at St. Petersburg Theological Acad­emy, published Tragedy of Rus­sia: Forbidden Topics of the 20th ­Century History in Church Sermons, in which he interpreted Vlasov movement as a genuine Christian re­sis­tance against an atheist regime.55 The Federation Council (the Rus­sian Senate) has to take a clear stance against any move in that direction. The same line of defense of Vlasov has been advanced by the former Moscow mayor Gavriil Popov, one of the famous proponents of reforms during

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late perestroika and now the dean of a private university, the International Moscow University. In his book Summoning the Spirit of General Vlasov (2007), Popov, who does not hide his ideological proximity to the interwar solidarist movement, which collaborated with Nazi Germany, believes that Vlasov did not betray Rus­sia but, on the contrary, that he embodies an anti-­Stalin vision of Rus­ sia that w ­ ill shape the ­future of the country and hence should be rehabilitated.56 The controversy surrounding Vlasov’s pos­si­ble rehabilitation also affected the historian community. In a 2003 manual for teachers, History of Twentieth-­Century Rus­sia, Aleksandr Chubarian, head of the Institute of World History of the Rus­ sian Acad­emy of Sciences, could still offer a nuanced perspective on the issue of collaborationism without being challenged. He insisted, for instance, on the need to look not only at famous figures such as Vlasov but also at the approximately one million Soviet citizens who had worked, in one way or another, for the Germans. He emphasized the need to recognize that many of them had sided with the Nazis b ­ ecause of their resentment of Bolshevik actions and Stalinist collectivization. He also mentioned that many Soviet prisoners of war had no choice but to fight on the German side and that their capture resulted from the m ­ istakes of high-­ranking Soviet military leaders. Referring to the postwar trial on collaborationism in Eu­rope, Chubarian declared, “­There is no reason to consider as traitors hundreds of thousands of Soviet citizens who found themselves prisoners or living in occupied territories. Many of them wanted just to survive and come back to their Homeland.”57 Historiographical debates became more polemical in the 2010s, with more sharply contrasted perceptions. Two examples illustrate t­hese clashes. The first discusses why General Vlasov shifted from the Soviet side to Nazi Germany: Was it for ideological reasons to fight against Stalinism, out of pure opportunism as a Nazi “puppet,” or ­because, as a prisoner of war, he knew he would be deported if recaptured by Soviet troops? In 2015, the Rus­sian State Archives, ­under the supervision of its director Andrei Artizov, published a unique three-­volume archival study documenting the complex history of the Vlasov movement.58 Artizov himself supports the official view of Vlasov as a typical product of Nazi actions in occupied territories (insisting that Goebbels, Himmler, Goering, and Ribbentrop all met with Vlasov) and tries to downplay the potential interpretation of Vlasov’s defection as a critique of Stalinism.59 The debate came to a head in 2016–2017 with the PhD dissertation of Kirill Aleksandrov at the St. Petersburg Institute of History of the Rus­sian Acad­emy of Sciences.60 Aleksandrov, known for being a sympathizer of the interwar solidarist movement, moved to the other extreme, justifying Vlasov’s actions as an example of “social protest” against Stalinist vio­lence. In his main book, Rus­sian Soldiers of the Wehrmacht: Heroes or Traitors?, Aleksandrov insists, for instance,

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that the Vlasovites won the support of the population and fought for Rus­sia’s statehood and national identity.61 His dissertation on Vlasov’s officer corps was validated by the defense committee, but it gave rise to several critiques within the historian community and among veterans’ associations. Artizov requested that a new committee conduct a second review of the study in the hope of getting the argument debunked.62 That hope was fulfilled, and Aleksandrov was ultimately refused the title of Doctor of History.63 The second example is linked to the so-­called Republic of Lokot (located in the Briansk region, on the border between t­ oday’s Belarus and Ukraine), where a pro-­Nazi puppet regime led by Konstantin Voskoboinik (1895–1942) and his Viking P ­ eople’s National Socialist Party of Rus­sia briefly held power in 1941–­1943. One of the main specialists on the topic, the St. Petersburg Institute of History’s Boris Kovalev, the author of several books on everyday life ­under Nazi occupation, was criticized by both sides.64 Some consider his treatment of collaborationists to be too harsh, whereas o ­ thers accuse him of being too positive about justifying collaboration in the name of a widespread anti-­Stalinist sentiment among the population.65 The Republic of Lokot may seem a minor moment in Soviet history, but it has high symbolic value as the main case of a genuine collaborationist episode on Soviet territory (Vlasov collaborated outside the Soviet borders). Nor has its memory been forgotten: in 2009, a group of citizens erected a memorial in the form of an Orthodox cross and wreath at Voskoboinik’s grave in Lokot, revealing that some inhabitants had positive memories of that historical moment. By a few hours ­later, the cross and wreath had been destroyed.66 The case of Andrei Zubov best illustrates the politicization of professional historians in interpretations of the Second World War and collaborationism. As a professor at the Moscow State Institute of International Relations (MGIMO), Zubov supervised the 2009 publication of the two-­volume History of Twentieth-­ Century Rus­sia.67 The 2,000-­plus-­page compilation involved about 40 contributing authors; a fourth edition was released in 2016. Originally, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn (1918–2008) was a member of the editorial board; the Nobel Laureate l­ater retracted his support for the proj­ect, but it continues to be known as the “Solzhenitsynian” version of Rus­sian history. It advances a very anti-­Soviet narrative of Rus­sia’s history and a sympathetic treatment of all ­those who collaborated with Nazi Germany to defeat Stalinism. Zubov claimed that Nazis and Bolsheviks both wanted to destroy the Rus­sian peasant world; thus, Stalin, too, can be called a fascist. Zubov considers the term ­Great Patriotic War to be a product of Soviet propaganda and proposes renaming the conflict more straightforwardly the “Soviet–­Nazi war.”68 His interpretation drew virulent criticism from the rest of the historian community,69 and this opprobrium only increased following his opposition to the an-

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nexation of Crimea, for which he was fired from the MGIMO, and his decision to join the anti-­Putin liberal party PARNAS (­People’s Freedom Party). Zubov’s interpretation of the war is embedded in a broader conception of Rus­sia: he is a fervent Orthodox Christian, a member of several Synodal Commissions, and one of the authors of the Moscow Patriarchate’s Social Concept.70 His opinion reflects the views of the pro-­tsarist lobby inside the high-­ranking Church membership. While many of ­these polemics remain confined to a small circle of specialists, some “spillover” may spread to a broader audience through tele­v i­sion. In 2009, for instance, a scandal erupted ­after NTV broadcasted a documentary film about Marshal Zhukov and Soviet troops recapturing the small city of Rzhev on the Volga from Nazi troops; the film was criticized by so-­called patriotic circles for showing too many nuances in the perceptions of the local population.71 In 2014, for the seventieth anniversary of the siege of Leningrad, the in­de­pen­dent Dozhd channel or­ga­nized a survey asking, “Would it have been better to give up Leningrad to Nazi troops in order to save hundreds of thousands of lives?” The question outraged many citizens, especially veterans’ associations. The channel had to withdraw the survey, apologize, endure l­ egal investigations, and atone by broadcasting war films and other patriotic programming.72 In 2016, public attention turned to the Panfilov division, famous in Soviet historiography for its role in defending Moscow from Nazi tanks. A screen adaptation of the story, 28 Panfilovtsy, was in production with the support of both the Rus­sian and Kazakh governments. Yet the story of twenty-­eight Panfilov soldiers defeating fifty Nazi tanks was a propaganda construction, or at least a highly fanciful version of real­ity, developed by the army newspaper Krasnaia zvezda, a fact confirmed by the Ministry of Defense as early as 1948.73 ­After the relevant documents w ­ ere declassified, former director of the Rus­sian State Archives Sergei Mironenko publicly criticized the myth and asked the public to reconcile itself with the historical truth, a stance that cost him his position. Several patriotic and veterans’ institutions, especially in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan, home to many Panfilov soldiers, petitioned Putin to keep the myth alive.74 In 2016, the Rus­sian president flew to Astana, where he watched an early screening of the film alongside the Kazakhstani president Nursultan Nazarbayev. Putin’s press secretary, Dmitrii Peskov, responding to questions about the film’s veracity, conceded that “one theory” holds that the entire story was in­ven­ted, but said that he could “only refer to the words of our Minister of Culture, [Vladimir] Medinskii,” who believes that the version of the legend “depicted in the film is the closest to that which took place in history.”75 The film 28 Panfilovtsy proved a commercial success, unlike many big-­budget, state-­supported Second World War films recently produced in Rus­sia.

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The Understanding of Fashizm in Rus­s ian Public Opinion Rus­sian public opinion finds itself largely in tune with the official discursive line and the mainstream textbook narrative. ­Whether conducted in the early 1990s or the 2010s, surveys confirm that about three-­quarters of Rus­sians think of the ­Great Patriotic War as the major event in Rus­sian history. According to a 2014 Public Opinion Foundation (Fond obshchestvennogo mneniia) survey, 86 ­percent of respondents named Victory Day as the most impor­tant date to know in Rus­ sian history, beating out Yuri Gagarin’s flight and the conversion to Chris­tian­ity, which garnered 67 ­percent and 66 ­percent, respectively. Unlike the latter two events, the ­actual dates of which ­were known by only 64 ­percent and 16 ­percent of respondents, respectively, 96 ­percent of respondents correctly identified the year in which the war was won.76 Even if the young are less well-­versed in the exact dates, such as that of the Nazi invasion of Soviet territory (June 22, 1941), than older generations,77 the population sees the war as the primary event of national history, regardless of social class, ethnicity, or age. According to the Levada Center sociologists Lev Gudkov and the late Boris Dubin, Rus­sian public opinion has increasingly come to describe the ­Great Patriotic War in national terms: it is a Rus­sian victory more than a Soviet victory. The role of the other Soviet p ­ eoples is gradually denied, with claims that Rus­sians performed the main combat duties. The war’s international context has been partially erased, too; not only are references to the Western allies less explicit, but the idea that the Soviet Union could have won the war without outside help is on the rise. In addition, analy­sis of the massive Soviet losses has worked to reinforce the link between war and suffering. The colossal loss of men and w ­ omen allegedly reflects the Rus­sian p ­ eople’s heroism, which is praised despite the h ­ uman suffering it entails.78 As Gudkov explains, the ­Great Patriotic War allows individuals to talk positively about themselves without referring to the state or the authorities—­ institutions that are perceived negatively. The dominant feeling is that, unlike the ­peoples of Western Eu­rope, Rus­sians reveal their true character in times of hardship, conflict, and suffering.79 This directly corroborates their vision of Rus­ sian identity, which is supposedly characterized by patience, resilience, spirituality, collectivism, and hospitality.80 The extent of the casualties is no longer attributed to Soviet mismanagement and Stalin’s lack of military preparation (a popu­lar interpretation during perestroika) but rather it is now explained by duplicitous German aggression.81 This version of events reinforces the general narrative of Rus­sia as a victim country, not as a full-­fledged participant in the pro­cess of Eu­rope’s entering into war. This victimhood atmosphere mainly affects the reading of the Molotov–­Ribbentrop

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Pact. For instance, in 2015, only 38 ­percent of respondents to a Levada Center survey said they believed that the Molotov–­Ribbentrop Pact was an ­actual historical fact (with half of them supporting it to some degree), 17 ­percent considered it a falsehood, and 45 ­percent had not heard of it.82 Since the mid-2000s, several surveys have noted a gradual increase in the number of ­people who deny the pact’s existence (only 9 ­percent in 2005) and a decrease of ­those who condemn it (13 ­percent in 2015 versus 24 ­percent in 2005).83 The war is interpreted primarily as a strug­gle for survival rather than a world conflict against a genocidal ideology. A 2002 Levada Center survey about the meaning of the war found that 44 ­percent of respondents saw it as “a war for the survival of our homeland,” 20 ­percent as a “war between the Soviet Union and Hitler’s Germany,” and 27 ­percent as a “war against fascism for freedom and democracy around the world.”84 ­These numbers have remained stable over the years. ­Because fashizm epitomizes the ­enemy and therefore the other, the idea of a pos­si­ble “Rus­sian fascism” developing at home has never troubled public opinion. Surveys conducted in the 1990s show that only 1–8 ­percent of the Rus­sian public identifies domestic fascism as a risk for the country, making it one of the smallest perceived threats.85 In the mid-2000s, the survey question was modified to ask more globally about the risk of “po­liti­cal extremism (fascism, Muslim radicalism, extreme nationalism),” making it no longer pos­si­ble to capture any potential change in public opinion in relation to fascism. In order to complement the missing data, a new Levada Center survey was specifically commissioned for this book. The survey was carried out in November 2015 as part of the monthly Levada Center survey (omnibus) that uses a 1,603-­person representative sample of the population.86 Conducted one year ­after the peak of the Ukrainian crisis, its results are heavi­ly influenced by the situation at that time. The term fascism remains mostly associated with Nazi Germany (74 ­percent), followed by Ukraine, the Baltic states, and Poland—­those countries with which Rus­sia is currently waging memory wars.87 The Holocaust and any ideology of destruction of other nations ranks third, at 36 ­percent, followed by references to Islamist vio­lence (34 ­percent). The concept of fascism is not understood in ideological terms. According to respondents, the most criminal aspect of fascism remains the launch of the Second World War (62 ­percent), with the destruction of Jews at 49 ­percent, slightly below the destruction of Slavs at 54 ­percent. Only half of the respondents associate fascism to some degree with the quest for ethnic or racial purity and the issue of inferiority/superiority of some groups over ­others.88 Regarding the risk of fascism in t­ oday’s Rus­sia, respondents hold a multifaceted but relatively unconcerned view. Some 38 ­percent believe that small radical fascist groups exist but do not pose any po­liti­cal risk. Another 30 ­percent think

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that the idea of a “fascist threat” in Rus­sia is an artificial creation (nadumannaia ugroza). Fifteen ­percent do feel that the current regime is taking risks by playing with nationalist rhe­toric, a proportion roughly equal to ­those liberals critical of Putin’s regime. Very few respondents associate fascism with con­temporary figures. The most frequently mentioned is the leader of the forbidden National Bolshevik Party, Eduard Limonov (7 ­percent), followed by Vladimir Zhirinovsky (4 ­percent). The very low numbers confirm that fashizm is not part of the current semantic space used to discuss domestic politics whereas it dominates the toolkit used to describe other countries, such as Ukraine. The survey commissioned in 2015 was supplemented by two focus groups that, even if not statistically representative, helped refine interpretations of the data. In both focus groups, ­people very distinctly associated fascism with death and concentration camps, ele­ments that are not prominent in textbooks but are well-­ known through fiction, documentary films, and f­ amily stories. However, unlike in most Western countries, “fascist” concentration camps are not associated with the Holocaust or Jews, but with the deaths of h ­ uman beings, the planned destruction of Slavs, and the invasion of the Soviet Union. Another nuance brought out by the focus groups relates to the perception of fascists at home. In both groups, the question of how to categorize radical nationalist groups, as fascists or patriots, raised vocal debates. This ambivalence, which would not exist in many Western countries, demonstrates that the boundary between the two groups may not be obvious; participants insisted that it was the use of vio­lence that differentiated violent and illegitimate “fascists” from nonviolent legitimate “patriots.” The semantic space of fashizm has thus evolved ­little since the 1970s. The term remains in use with several flexible meanings, ­either as an insult with no defined content to name ­every ­enemy or opponent or as a term with some content to accuse someone of having something in common with “fascism.” In the latter case, the “fascism” is not Italian fascism, which is largely absent from the Rus­sian ideational landscape, but almost exclusively that of Nazi Germany. Yet the terms national socialism and Nazism are not deployed outside of the academic framework and do not belong to popu­lar, everyday language, which continues to use fashizm when speaking about Nazi Germany. The term Nazis (Natsi, often Natsiki) is more widespread than natsizm itself but is used to describe neo-­Nazi groups, especially in slang subcultures. In some intellectual circles, the accusation of “fascism” can also be linked to the notion of totalitarianism, in the sense of equating any regime labeled fascist with Nazi and Stalinist totalitarianisms. This reading is very pre­sent among Putin’s opponents, who seek to use the term as an easy way to discredit the regime. In po­liti­cal discourse, the term is instrumentalized by all sides: liberals refer to their nationalist and communist opponents as fashisty while in return, the latter two accuse liberals of fascism based on an old Soviet trope

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that the United States in general, and the CIA in par­tic­u­lar, is fascist—­referring ­either to its racial segregation past or to its support for anti-­Soviet forces. Moreover, constitutive myths of late Soviet culture, such as the cult figure of Max Otto von Stierlitz (see chapter 2), have remained alive. In 1999, two of the main so­cio­log­i­cal centers, VTsIOM (Rus­sian Public Opinion Research Center) and ROMIR (affiliated with Gallup International), conducted parallel surveys on the most popu­lar fictional and historical figures the Rus­sian public would vote for in the next presidential election. In the VTsIOM survey, leading the ranking ­were two historical figures, Peter the ­Great and Marshal Zhukov, followed by two fictional characters, Gleb Zheglov, played by Vladimir Vysotsky in the iconic film The Meeting Place Cannot Be Changed (Mesto vstrechi izmenit´ nel´zia, 1979), and then Stierlitz. The ROMIR survey ranked Zhukov first, Stierlitz second. On March 14, 2000, at the end of the presidential campaign that elected Vladimir Putin, the newspaper Kommersant-­Vlast´ published on its cover a photo of Stierlitz with the caption “Stierlitz, our president.”89 The constructed parallel made between Stierlitz and Putin, just elected for his first mandate a­ fter a muscular campaign against Chechen insurgency, clearly signaled the crafting of Putin’s image as a strong and authoritative man, building on his legitimacy as a KGB agent. Twenty years ­later, in late 2019, a new survey conducted by VTsIOM ranked Stierlitz first among the fictional characters Rus­sians would vote for, with 50 ­percent of the respondents ready to vote for him, and only 8 ­percent against. The identification of Putin with Stierlitz perseveres, even if Stierlitz was bypassed among younger generations by another fictional cult hero, Danila Bagrov, in Brat and Brat 2.90

Rus­sian society is diverse and divided: everyday life, standards of living, values and perceptions, interpretations of the past, and projections into the f­ uture feature an array of contradictions, with urban/rural and big cities/provinces constituting the principal dividing lines. This diversity is seen as problematic both by the po­liti­cal leadership, which needs a unified “­silent majority” to support it, and by society itself, which continues to be ­shaped by the fear of territorial dismemberment and civil war. Memory of the G ­ reat Patriotic War thus offers a central historical moment on which to build consensus, a power­ful reservoir of meaning that allows cele­brations of individuals’ adhesion to the nation and its myths. It epitomizes the good sides of the Soviet Union and integrates well within the current nostalgia for late Soviet culture and daily life. The effect of the war on literally ­every ­family makes it even easier for its memory to reach quasi-­unanimity: it is presented not as an abstract historical topic that can be critically analyzed and discussed, but rather as

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a chapter of ­family history that provokes resonance in individual emotions and ­human values. Commemoration and mourning facilitate social inclusion and solidarity and seem to be more successful in socializing Rus­sian youth ­today than they ­were in Soviet times, when ­these ceremonies ­were received with some distance. However, as the generation of veterans fades away, the G ­ reat Patriotic War commemorations are in the pro­cess of deep transformations. The war remains a unique moment in which the victory is considered popu­lar—­made by the ­people themselves, not by the state or the party. New commemorative practices and in­ ven­ted traditions, such as the Immortal Regiment and, to a lesser extent, the St. George’s Ribbon, emerged as genuine grassroots initiatives before being co-­ opted by the authorities. Yet the state is gradually becoming the sole custodian of that memory, the deployment of which is more and more orchestrated. Any discourses premised on state failure—­the Soviet leadership’s unpreparedness during the first months of the war, for instance—­are thus being eradicated from public space. As comprehensively discussed by the historian Nikolay Koposov, “The new my­thol­ogy of the war emphasizes the unity of the ­people and the state, not the state’s vio­lence against the ­people.”91 Since the mid-2000s, the narrative on the war has gradually coalesced, reinforced by legislative activity that has aimed to erase any questions about the state’s historical legitimacy. Any ele­ments that would contradict the master storyline are dismissed: they may exist as historiographical facts discussed and documented by historians, but they should not affect the mainstream narrative’s mythical dimension. Narrations of the war may, therefore, vary dramatically depending on the category of expression. Public commemorations, which target the population as a ­whole, should re­spect à la lettre established rituals—­some coming from Soviet times, o ­ thers more recently in­ven­ted—­and reflect the sanctified formula. Textbooks, which seek to shape f­ uture citizens rather than build critical thinking skills, likewise remain quite traditional in their analy­sis, even if some historically ambivalent moments such as collaborationism are briefly described. Professional historians can still work on sensitive historical topics, provided that they do not engage in “politicized” activities on the side, that is, refrain from commenting on con­temporary issues and from drawing any parallels between past and pre­sent. The other consequence of the war’s role as a foundational memory myth for Rus­sia is that it has to be regularly updated in order to maintain its significance. State-­sponsored patriotic programs, developed since 2001 and regularly revised, focus on transmitting the memory of the war to new generations. As formulated in 2006 by the Institute of Rus­sian History, Rus­sia needs to “actualize the potential of the Second World War” b ­ ecause only “military history has a practical

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vision of the world.”92 The G ­ reat Patriotic War as a reservoir of meaning may therefore take a more pragmatic direction: that of mobilizing the population against a new ­enemy. The geopoliticization of war memory, particularly vis­ib ­ le since the mid-2000s and even more so since the war with Ukraine, made this potentiality a real­ity, encapsulated by the emergence of a new slogan emphasizing war-­preparedness: “1941–45, we can do it again” (1941–45 mozhno povtorit´). Mourning the past means also warning about the ­future. In such a context, “fascism” epitomizes both the historical e­ nemy and its pos­si­ble reactualization in the pre­sent or the ­future. It is the incarnation of Rus­sia’s eternal enmity, able to take dif­fer­ent concrete forms. And b ­ ecause the Rus­sian perception of “fascism” is not centered on ideological content or on the Holocaust, but rather on the notions of territorial expansion and occupation, the e­ nemy has a spatial origin—­ the West, Europe—­that can easily be deployed to feed con­temporary geopo­liti­cal tensions.

4 INTERNATIONAL MEMORY WARS Equating the Soviet Union with Nazism

A keystone for Rus­sian public opinion, the perception of Rus­sia as an antifascist power has been reinforced by memory wars that have reshaped the relationship between Rus­sia and its Central and Eastern Eu­ro­pean neighbors since the early 2000s. The emergence and gradual visibility gained by the narrative of the Soviet Union as an occupier with a totalitarian ideology equal to that of Nazism has deeply shocked the Rus­sian elite and public opinion, which sees in it a new revisionism. The Kremlin’s answer has been to reinforce the conventional vision of the war elaborated during the Cold War de­cades and then shared with the West. On May 9, 2005, the sixtieth anniversary of the end of the Second World War, Putin solemnly celebrated “a victory of civilization over barbarism in the form of fascism.”1 Si­mul­ta­neously, the Lithuanian president Valdas Adamkus stated that, on the contrary, for the Baltic states, May 9, 1945, was the day “we traded Hitler for Stalin.”2 ­These blunt statements encapsulate the meaning of the Second World War as a currency on the international scene: at stake is the recognition of Rus­sia’s having a legitimate say in Eu­ro­pean affairs ­because of the Soviet victory, or its exclusion for refusing to repent for its role in occupying a part of Eu­rope. Memory wars have thus focused on the issue of defining who was fascist and who colluded with Nazism—­the Soviet Union between 1939 and 1941 or the collaborationist forces in Central and Eastern Eu­rope.

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Reshaping Central and Eastern Eu­r o­p ean Historiographies The collapse of the Iron Curtain in 1989 and the subsequent reunification of Eu­rope challenged Western Eu­rope’s long-­held perceptions of itself and its relations with its neighbors, both Eastern and Mediterranean. T ­ hese two events paved the way for deep memory transformations that ­were not yet perceptible at the time. Some thirty years ­later, Eu­rope still lacks a unified, or at least a cohesive, historical narrative that takes into consideration differentiated national histories and perspectives while si­ mul­ta­neously integrating them into a broader, pan-­European framework. The Eu­ro­ pe­anization of memories has turned out to be more difficult to achieve than the Eu­ro­pe­anization of laws: the continent is still unable to reconcile the twentieth-­ century memory of Central and Eastern Eu­rope with that of Western Eu­rope and thereby to reach a consensual definition of Rus­sia’s place in Eu­rope.3 The Second World War remains the principal stumbling block on the path to creating a pacified pan-­European memory frame. For Western Eu­ro­pean countries, the end of the war opened the way to peaceful postwar reconstruction and three de­cades of fruitful economic development. For Central and Eastern Eu­ro­ pean countries, it began their forced entry into the socialist bloc, and for the three Baltic states, it also meant the loss of their statehood. Having experienced four de­cades “outside” the Eu­ro­pean framework, ­these countries felt a return to “normalcy” only with the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989 and then with their admission to the Eu­ro­pean Union (EU) and NATO in the 2000s. Thus, it is no coincidence that memory wars with Rus­sia escalated in the second half of that de­cade, once Central and Eastern Eu­ro­pean countries joined the Eu­ro­pean Union. For them, rewriting their own national histories of the twentieth c­ entury, particularly of the Second World War, has been intimately connected with reaffirming their Eu­ro­pean destiny and influencing what Maria Mälksoo aptly describes as the “Eu­ro­pean mnemonic map.”4 Joint re­sis­tance to fascism during the war was one of the few themes found on both sides of the Iron Curtain, a rare issue on which Soviet, U.S., and Eu­ro­pean historiographies shared a relatively similar approach during the Cold War de­cades. Germany’s sole guilt for perpetrating the atrocities of war and the horrors of the Holocaust allowed Soviet and Western narratives to focus blame on a single e­ nemy, leaving aside the collaborationist trends that existed all over Eu­rope, as well as violent Soviet actions carried out in the territories u ­ nder Moscow’s control. But for the “new Eu­ro­pe­ans” of Central and Eastern Eu­rope, this conventional discourse, shared by Western Eu­rope and Soviet Rus­sia, entirely obliterated the lived experience of Eu­rope’s median region, which saw itself as having been passed from Nazi to Soviet domination.5

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Newly articulated Central and Eastern Eu­ro­pean memory thus directly contests the Western–­Russian narrative that sees the Soviet Union as an ally of Western countries against the Axis powers. It equates the Soviet regime with the Nazi regime and calls for transitional justice, punishment, or at least finger-­pointing at the former perpetrators; the establishment of policies of restitution and compensation; the creation of truth commissions; and the opening of archives. Seen from Rus­sia, this new post–­Cold War Eu­ro­pean memory is pure historical revisionism: it con­ve­niently forgets that the “Yalta order”—­the post–­Second World War map of Europe—­was the accepted norm in Western Eu­rope for de­cades. For Moscow, this new memory emerged as a by-­product of a (geo)po­liti­cal strategy to isolate Rus­sia from Eu­rope: by trying to institute a kind of Nuremberg trial for the Soviet regime, the “new Eu­ro­pe­ans” deny Rus­sia’s right to participate in Eu­ro­pean affairs.6 They also opportunistically make Rus­sia their historical other, the long-­term and non-­European ­enemy that obstructed their obvious Eu­ro­pean destiny. As soon as the Berlin Wall collapsed, Central Eu­ro­pean countries delegitimized existing state-­sponsored national narratives and replaced them with long-­ suppressed memories that w ­ ere much more critical of the Soviet Union, local communists, and fellow travelers. If postcommunist memories and historiographies became rapidly more pluralistic, they still tend ­today to reproduce a nation-­ centric narrative, exalting the uniqueness of the titular ­people, marginalizing minorities, ignoring redrawn borders, and con­ve­niently forgetting local responsibility for the events of the Second World War.7 Constructing a parallel with the Shoah, they built for themselves what Wilfried Jilge calls “national Holocausts”—­ victim status and the perceived moral high ground that goes with it.8 They developed a strategy of “memory appropriation” in order to make their national suffering ­under communism the cornerstone of their new, postcommunist sense of identity and belonging to Eu­rope.9 ­These new historiographies and memories si­mul­ta­neously achieve several goals: they cultivate renewed pride in the country’s own history and uniqueness; avoid direct discussions of collaborationist groups that took part in the Holocaust and mass killings of civilians; and facilitate an easy sense of Eu­ro­pe­anness by situating the other, Rus­sia, as a non-­ European power.10 On the domestic scene, t­ hese memory issues rapidly became politicized in the course of demo­cratic competitions between liberal politicians and former communists. Czecho­slo­va­kia and Poland implemented lustration policies that allowed them to purge the administration, in par­tic­u­lar their security ser­vices and law enforcement agencies, of figures too closely tied to the former communist regimes.11 In the Baltic states, memory issues ­were even more intrinsically linked to public policy choices: both Latvia and Estonia de­cided to promote restrictive



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citizenship policies based on ethnicity. They marginalized the nontitular part of the population, the “Soviet immigrants” who had moved to the Baltic republics ­after June 1940, even though they composed 40 ­percent of the population of Latvia and 30 ­percent of that of Estonia.12 Official declarations and symbolic gestures multiplied. In 2005, for the sixtieth anniversary of the end of the war, the Estonian and Lithuanian presidents Arnold Rüütel and Valdas Adamkus refused to participate in the May 9 commemorations in Moscow.13 The following year, as Romania prepared to accede to the EU, President Traian Băsescu condemned the country’s former communist regime, saying it was illegitimate and criminal.14 In 2007, the Polish minister of culture proposed removing all communist-­era statues tied to the Second World War. Mihai Ghimpu, the president of Moldova, joined this trend in 2010, issuing a decree proclaiming June 28 as the “Day of Soviet Occupation of Moldova,” though this attempt was ultimately stymied by opposition from both Parliament and the Constitutional Court.15 That same year, Tbilisi established a State Commission for Finding Historical Truth, which was tasked with conducting extensive research and reporting on the tsarist and Soviet “occupation” of Georgia from 1801 to 1991.16 ­These postcommunist memories also express themselves through new museums and exhibitions. As early as 1993, Latvia opened a Museum of Occupation that not only memorializes what the country considers to be illegal Soviet occupation from 1940 to 1991 but also compares that experience with the Nazi occupation.17 In 2002, a similar proj­ect was launched in Budapest with the opening of the House of Terror Museum, which depicts the crimes of both the Hungarian Nazi Party and the Hungarian Communist Party.18 In 2003, the Estonian authorities opened their own Museum of Occupations (this time in the plural),19 and in 2006, Georgia did the same. Unlike its Baltic counter­parts, however, the Georgian museum drew no direct parallel with Nazi Germany; instead, it began with the country’s “annexation” by Moscow in 1921 and continued through 1991.20 Lithuania has been the most vocal on the issue of Soviet occupation damage: in 1991, even before the republic’s official in­de­pen­dence, the Lithuanian Supreme Council passed a resolution titled “On Compensation for the Damage Inflicted by the USSR on the Republic of Lithuania and Its Citizens,” and in 1992, the Vilnius presented Moscow with an estimate that the Soviet military alone had incurred more than US$80 billion in damages to the ­people, economy, nature, and agriculture of Lithuania. The country also took the lead in calling for a “communist Nuremberg.” In 2000, an International Congress on the Evaluation of Crimes of Communism was held in Vilnius and was attended, among ­others, by the former president of Poland, Lech Wałęsa. It a­ dopted an “Appeal to the World Community concerning the Establishment of the International Tribunal for the

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Prosecution of the Crimes of Communism and Their Perpetrators” and launched the Vilnius International Public Tribunal on the Evaluation of Crimes of Communism. Lithuania also ­adopted a broad understanding of the notion of genocide in its legislation, classifying it as “the killing and torturing and deportation of Lithuanian inhabitants committed during the occupation and annexation of Lithuania by Nazi Germany and the USSR.”21 The other two Baltic states, following in Lithuania’s footsteps, have criminalized what they see as the Soviet occupation of their territory. In 2004, Tallinn and Riga made an official request to Moscow for damages done during the Soviet occupation totaling several hundred million dollars. In 2005, the Estonian authorities released a White Book of the Estonian State Commission on Examination of the Policies of Repression, which documented Estonian losses during the Soviet occupation in terms of population, culture, and infrastructure.22 This reading of the Soviet past created tensions with the Rus­sian minority. In 2007, the Estonian government de­cided to remove the eternal flame burning in front of the Bronze Soldier statue and rechristened it the “Monument to Fallen Soldiers of the Second World War.” On May 9, Estonia’s Rus­sian community came out in droves and congregated around the statue to claim its own vision of history. In order to prevent the bronze soldier from becoming a rallying point for the country’s Rus­sian speakers, the authorities de­cided to move it from the center of the town to a nearby military cemetery, which triggered violent clashes between ethnic Rus­sians and the Estonian police that led to the death of one person on the Rus­sian side.23 ­These highly conflicting interpretations of the Bronze Soldier within the country’s Estonian and Rus­sian communities spilled over into the diplomatic realm, with Rus­sia launching several asymmetrical attacks on Estonia, including cyber wars and provocative gestures such as the border crossing of Nashi members in Soviet uniforms.24 Ukraine joined this Central and Eastern Eu­ro­pean chorus a­ fter the 2004 Orange Revolution, but with a slightly dif­fer­ent focus: the Holodomor (or famine) of 1932–1933, which killed an estimated seven to ten million ­people. In the 1990s and early 2000s, the Ukrainian historical and po­liti­cal communities ­were divided in their interpretations of the Soviet c­ entury, and particularly of this dramatic event. According to scholars such as Valerii Soldatenko in Ukraine and, among ­others, Robert Davies, Michael Ellman, Hiroaki Kuromiya, Mark Tauger, and Stephen Wheatcroft in the West, the famine resulted from the decision to collectivize the peasantry, and it affected all the major grain-­producing areas of the Soviet Union, including Rus­sia itself. It was a man-­made disaster, but not a genocide specifically targeting Ukrainians.25 To ­others, the famine was planned by the Kremlin to eliminate the Ukrainian in­de­pen­dence movement and should therefore be classified as genocide, defined by the intention to kill. This second narra-



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tive has always been pre­sent among the Ukrainian diaspora and was progressively reintegrated into the national narrative in the 1990s. Several prominent Western historians, including Robert Conquest, James Mace, Raphael Lemkin, and Timothy Snyder, support this thesis, as do many Ukrainian historians.26 ­After the Orange Revolution, the new government u ­ nder President Viktor Yushchenko sought to promote a more anti-­Soviet narrative. In 2006, the Verkhovna Rada (the Ukrainian parliament) passed a law recognizing the Holodomor as a deliberate act of genocide.27 That same year, it established an Institute of National Memory, inspired by the Polish model, to document crimes committed during the Stalinist era and commemorate vio­lence against the Ukrainian ­people and culture.28 In 2007, Yushchenko submitted a bill to the Rada criminalizing denial of the Holodomor and Holocaust.29 Several monuments commemorating the Holodomor ­were erected in Ukraine and abroad.30 In 2010, however, the new, pro-­Russian president, Viktor Yanukovych, changed the official tone by stating that the Holodomor did not specifically target the Ukrainian nation; rather, it was part of the “common tragedy” that affected Soviet ­peoples. From this point of view, Rus­sians, Belarusians, Kazakhs, and other ­peoples suffered alongside Ukrainians.31 Nonetheless, Yanukovych did not repeal the 2006 law, and that same year the Kyiv Court of Appeal found Stalin and other Soviet po­liti­cal leaders guilty of genocide. Since then, this Holodomor-­as-­genocide interpretation has remained the backbone of the anti-­Russian historical narrative,32 gradually joined by a reinterpretation of the Second World War that posits equality between the Soviet and Nazi regimes. As Central and Eastern Eu­rope’s new official memories elevate the Soviet Union to the status of a threat of equal magnitude to Nazi Germany, their virulent anti-­ Sovietism produces an ambivalent stance ­toward cases of collaborationism with the Nazi regime, diminishing the role local authorities and residents played in the Holocaust. ­There was already a long history of negation or at least obfuscation of the Holocaust in communist Eu­rope,33 which has been reinforced in the postcommunist period by the need to be seen as a victim, not a perpetrator. Slovakia, Latvia, Poland, and o ­ thers ambiguously interpret the role that local authorities and populations played in the Holocaust.34 For instance, in the name of protecting Poland’s reputation at home and abroad, the Law and Justice government implemented in 2018 a new law that imposes prison sentences on anyone who claims that the Polish ­people took part in the Holocaust or describes Nazi death camps as “Polish.”35 The same ambivalence can be seen regarding anti-­Soviet re­sis­tance movements, which often fought in German uniforms but are increasingly remembered as “freedom fighters.” In Estonia, former Nazi collaborationists parade ­every year to commemorate their actions, often wearing Waffen-­SS uniforms. In 2002, local

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activists and politicians in Pärnu erected a monument to the Estonians who fought with Germany for the liberation of their country. Depicting a soldier with German uniform and gear bearing an Iron Cross, the monument bears the inscription, “To the Estonians who fought against Bolshevism and for Estonian in­ de­pen­dence from 1940 to 1945.” The monument was moved to the town of Lihula and then, ­after the local government forcibly removed it, to the Museum of the Estonian Strug­gle for Liberty in Lagedi.36 In 2014, the last living Estonian SS veteran, Harald Nugiseks, a member of the collaborationist Knight’s Cross movement, was buried with full military honors. The Estonian defense minister Urmas Reinsalu eulogized him as “a legendary Estonian soldier whose tragedy was that he could not fight for Estonian freedom in an Estonian uniform.”37 In Latvia, the parliament voted to make March 16—­the day the SS Latvian Legion fought its main ­battle against the Soviet army in 1944— an official national day of remembrance, but following international pressure and complaints from the Rus­sian community, it was removed from the official list of state holidays in 2000. Since then, the commemoration has been or­ga­nized by veterans’ associations, but they have always received authorization to march on that date and have the implicit support of some government members, as well as of the Fatherland and Freedom party.38 In Ukraine, the rehabilitation of collaborationist movements has taken a more winding route, shifting along with an evolving po­liti­cal stance ­toward Rus­sia. The two main insurgent movements, the Organ­ization of Nationalist Ukrainians (OUN) and the Ukrainian Insurgent Army (UPA), and their main hero, Stepan Bandera (1909–1959), have always been celebrated as freedom fighters by the Ukrainian diaspora in the United States and Canada, especially by immigrants from Galicia. A ­ fter Ukraine’s in­de­pen­dence in late 1991, Bandera was progressively rehabilitated as a national hero, first in Western Ukraine, where the memory of tens of thousands of civilians deported to Soviet camps was still vivid, then across the ­whole country and in the new history textbooks commissioned by the Orange government.39 For the Kyiv authorities, Bandera was a Ukrainian nationalist fighting for his country’s in­de­pen­dence—­first in the 1930s against Poland, then in the early 1940s against the Soviet Union. Twice, in 1941 and 1944 (he was imprisoned in the intervening period), Bandera cooperated with Nazi Germany to resist the Soviet army. Even if his troops ­were not part of the Waffen-­SS Division Galizien, which was ­under direct German command, he adhered to many national-­socialist princi­ ples, called for an ethnically pure Ukrainian nation, and demonstrated a fierce anti-­Semitism in line with the Nazis’ genocidal policy. T ­ hese troubling biographical ele­ments have often been ignored, or at least minimized, in the new Ukrainian historiography.40 In 2009, for instance, the Yushchenko government honored



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Bandera with a postage stamp for his one-­hundredth birthday, and in 2010, he was posthumously given the official title of “Hero of Ukraine.”41 This honor provoked outrage in Eastern Ukraine and abroad, however, and it was eventually revoked. This rehabilitative trend accelerated ­after the Euromaidan. In 2015, just before the seventieth anniversary of Victory Day, Volodymyr Viatrovych, then minister of education and longtime director of the Institute for the Study of the Liberation Movement, an organ­ization founded to promote the heroic narrative of the OUN–­UPA, called on Parliament to vote for a set of four laws that codified the new, post-­Maidan historiography. Two of them are particularly influential in the memory war with Rus­sia. One decrees that OUN and UPA members are to be considered “fighters for Ukrainian in­de­pen­dence in the twentieth ­century,” making public denial of this claim unlawful. A second law, “Condemning Communist and National Socialist (Nazi) Totalitarian Regimes and Prohibiting the Propaganda of Their Symbols,” formally criminalizes the entire Soviet regime and ­orders the removal of any Soviet-­era symbols and making any breach punishable by up to ten years in prison.42 ­These decommunization laws, which ­were a­ dopted without any public debate and do not seem to have large majority support,43 have been extremely controversial: the historian community has expressed apprehension about being told how to think “correctly,”44 and the joint interim opinion from the Council of Eu­rope’s Venice Commission and the Organ­ ization for Security and Cooperation in Eu­rope/Office for Demo­cratic Institutions and ­Human Rights (OSCE/ODIHR) found that the second law infringed on ­people’s right to freedom of expression and association.45 In 2016, the first anniversary of ­these laws was marked by the initiation of a criminal investigation into attempts by veterans to unfurl a red flag on Victory Day, and in 2017, Viatrovych stated that displaying the Waffen-­SS Division Galizien symbols did not fall ­under the law.46 His decision to place Soviet-­era state archives ­under the jurisdiction of his Institute for National Remembrance has prompted concerns of “whitewashing” Ukrainian history.47 In many ways, Ukraine has been applying the same censorship tools as Rus­sia in a mirror game between the two countries that has gone largely unrecognized. Although anti-­ Semitism has been on the decline in Rus­sia, its recent rise in Ukraine since the Euromaidan revolution has confirmed that the rehabilitation of Second World War–­era nationalist insurgencies supported both by nationalist groups and by the Petro Poroshenko government may have dangerously affected the current societal status quo.48 It remains to be seen if President Zelensky’s more consensual historical policy ­will help slow down this radicalization.

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Using Eu­r o­p ean Institutions to Promote a “Communist Nuremberg” Hoping to see their own worldview integrated into a pan-­European narrative, Central and Eastern Eu­ro­pean countries have used Eu­ro­pean institutions to pursue their memory policies and give them an international character that would marginalize Rus­sia’s position.49 Eu­ro­pean institutions got caught up in ­these memory wars in the mid-2000s. Driven by the Baltic countries, the Parliamentary Assembly of the Council of Eu­ rope (PACE) de­cided in 2006 to vote on Resolution 1481, “The Need for International Condemnation of Crimes of Totalitarian Communist Regimes.” The resolution calls for the ­human rights violations committed by communist regimes to be investigated by an international commission and invites “communist or post-­communist parties in its member states which have not yet done so to reassess the history of communism and their own past, clearly distance themselves from the crimes committed by totalitarian communist regimes and condemn them without any ambiguity.”50 Although the text notes that many of ­these communist regimes never faced justice, unlike the Nazis ­after the Second World War, it does not explic­itly equate them to Nazism. In 2008, referring to the 2006 PACE resolution, the Eu­ro­pean Parliament passed another resolution instituting a “Eu­ro­pean Day of Remembrance for Victims of Stalinism and Nazism” on August 23, the date that the Molotov–­Ribbentrop Pact was signed. It affirms that “acts of aggression by Stalinism and Nazism fall into the category of war crimes and crimes against humanity,” thereby equating the crimes not of communism as a ­whole but of Stalinism in par­tic­u­lar with ­those of Nazism. The text clearly reveals the memory issue ­behind the resolution, stating that this day of remembrance was instituted ­because “the influence and significance of the Soviet order and occupation on and for citizens of the post-­ Communist states are ­little known in Eu­rope.”51 Yet a few months ­later, in 2009, the Eu­ro­pean Parliament backtracked somewhat, changing the name of the August 23 holiday from “Day of Remembrance for Victims of Stalinism and Nazism” to “Day of Remembrance for the Victims of All Totalitarian and Authoritarian Regimes.”52 This enlarged definition diluted the parallels previously drawn between Stalinism and Nazism, which opened the door to a broader definition encompassing not only totalitarianism but all fascist regimes, including Franco’s Spain, Salazar’s Portugal, and the Col­o­nels’ Greece. Moreover, the new resolution stated that “the uniqueness of the Holocaust must nevertheless be acknowledged,” an insistence on the specificity of Nazism among all totalitarianisms. This name change was prob­ably the result of internal disputes and competing influences within the Eu­ro­pean Parliament. To this day, however,



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Poland and the Baltic states continue to use the old name, clearly showing their stance on the question by equating Stalinism and Nazism.53 Several sentences of the resolution explic­itly target postcommunist regimes and seem to be aimed at the Baltic states’ claims for recognition. For instance, they declare that whereas “the dominant historical experience of Western Eu­rope was Nazism, . . . ​Central and Eastern Eu­ro­pean countries have experienced both Communism and Nazism; . . . ​therefore understanding has to be promoted in relation to the double legacy of dictatorship borne by t­ hese countries.”54 The Eu­ro­pean Parliament’s resolution also pushes for a more active memory and research policy. It states that it “regrets that, twenty years ­after the collapse of the Communist dictatorships in Central and Eastern Eu­rope, access to documents that are of personal relevance or needed for scientific research is still unduly restricted in some Member States; [and] calls for a genuine effort in all Member States ­towards opening up archives, including t­ hose of the former internal security ser­v ices, secret police and intelligence agencies, although steps must be taken to ensure that this pro­cess is not abused for po­liti­cal purposes.”55 The resolution supported the creation of the Platform of Eu­ro­pean Memory and Conscience, an educational proj­ect of the Eu­ro­pean Union promoted by the Visegrád Group (the Czech Republic, Hungary, Poland, and Slovakia). The Platform combines several government agencies, nongovernmental organ­izations, and research institutions focusing on the history of totalitarian regimes and promoting the memory and remembrance of victims. Several of its flagship institutions, such as the Stasi Rec­ords Agency and the Victims of Communism Memorial Foundation, openly target communism and condemn the lack of any denunciation of it on the part of Rus­sia and other post-­Soviet states.56 The same year, in 2009, the OSCE Assembly endorsed the EU Parliament’s Day of Remembrance with its own resolution, drafted by a Lithuanian delegate. The Vilnius document not only mentions the EU resolution u ­ nder its old name (“for Victims of Stalinism and Nazism”) but also states the parallel even more explic­ itly: “In the twentieth ­century Eu­ro­pean countries experienced two major totalitarian regimes, Nazi and Stalinist, which brought about genocide, violations of ­human rights and freedoms, war crimes and crimes against humanity.” It urges all OSCE members to take a “united stand against all totalitarian rule from what­ ever ideological background” and condemns “the glorification of the totalitarian regimes, including the holding of public demonstrations glorifying the Nazi or Stalinist past.”57 Despite Rus­sia’s best efforts to block it, the resolution passed, with twenty votes for, eight votes against, and four abstentions.58 Ten years ­later, in September 2019, the Eu­ro­pean Parliament voted on a new resolution, “On the Importance of Eu­ro­pean Remembrance for the F ­ uture of Europe”—­backed by the S&D (center-­left), Renew (liberal), EPP (Christian-­Democrat), and ECR

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(conservative) parliamentary groups—­once again condemning “all totalitarianisms” and associating Nazism with communism.59 The Baltic states have also tried to use the ­legal instruments at their disposal to condemn representatives of the Soviet regime for crimes against humanity and thus to export their lustration policy to the international scene. One such instance focused on the Second World War veteran Vassilii Kononov (1922–2011), a Latvian resident of Rus­sian origin, who was accused of genocide against the Latvian ­people.60 As a member of a Soviet partisan band, he had participated in the execution of Nazi collaborators in the small Latvian village of Mazie Bati in 1944. ­After several years of l­egal wrangling, a Latvian court found him guilty and sentenced him to six and a half years in prison. Kononov, who had by this time been offered Rus­sian citizenship by Vladimir Putin, filed a claim with the Eu­ro­pean Court of ­Human Rights (ECHR). The latter first de­cided in his ­favor, ordering Latvia to pay a30,000 in compensation, only to rule in ­favor of Latvia on appeal.61

Rus­s ia’s L ­ egal and Historiographical Response The Rus­sian authorities have responded to the new historiography by building their own rival narrative and creating tools to attack this memory scheme. In 2007, Dmitrii Rogozin, then Rus­sia’s ambassador to NATO, declared that Estonia’s removal of the Bronze Soldier, a Soviet war monument, was an insult to the remains of the fallen and constituted a casus belli.62 In 2008, at a meeting of the Rus­sian diplomatic corps, Putin explic­itly stated Rus­sia’s reaction to ­these memory wars: “We simply cannot accept that ­theses about the ‘civilizational mission of liberation’ of fascists and their panderers are currently promoted in some countries, moreover with state support.”63 Although he did not name any specific countries, he implicated the Baltic states by declaring that ­these countries are ­those with “nationalist tendencies,” ­those that are not respectful of the rights of ethnic minorities, and/or ­those that defend illegal decisions such as Kosovo’s in­de­pen­dence. Rus­sia’s response to ­these new memories articulated by Central and Eastern Eu­ro­pean countries has been twofold: l­egal and historiographical. On the l­egal front, Rus­sia has continued to emphasize the Nuremberg t­ rials as the absolute reference point for defining Second World War crimes, as this approach con­ve­ niently avoids discussing Soviet vio­lence committed in annexed territories. Moreover, the Soviet del­e­ga­tion made significant contributions to the l­ egal framework of the tribunal, making it a reference case for the Soviet Union’s role in shaping the postwar vision of international law.64 Rus­sia also tried to sponsor UN



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resolutions opposing the resurgence of Nazism in Eu­rope and equating it with racism. By joining the two terms, which w ­ ere conventionally linked during the Cold War, Moscow hoped to decouple the parallel between Nazism and communism/Stalinism and to build a broad consensus around Nazism as racism. In 2009, for instance, the United Nations General Assembly a­ dopted a Russia-­sponsored resolution to “combat racism, racial discrimination, xenophobia, and related intolerance, including attempts to valorize the Nazi movement and former Waffen­SS members and to desecrate monuments to the fighters against Nazism.”65 However, the resolution was rejected by the United States, and the majority of Eu­ro­pean countries abstained. The distinction between fighting any form of racial discrimination and the specific mention of memory wars with the Baltic states (“desecrate monuments to the fighters against Nazism”) was too obvious for Western countries to accept. ­After this failure, Moscow de­cided to make explicit its position on Rus­sia’s status as the l­egal successor of the Soviet Union. In 2010, the lawmaker Konstantin Kosachev proposed a comprehensive set of princi­ples to define once and for all Rus­sia’s (ambivalent) status ­toward the Soviet Union: as the USSR’s successor state, the Rus­sian Federation fulfills all its international obligations, but it does not recognize any moral responsibility or ­legal obligation for crimes committed by the Soviet authorities.66 Indeed, apologizing for Soviet crimes would open the door to claims for compensation, which remain unacceptable for Moscow. This pick-­and-­choose approach to the Soviet past obviously did not offer any long-­ term solution for Rus­sia’s neighbors, who continue to demand a more radical critique of the Soviet regime. In response to the Kononov case, Rus­sia declared that the ECHR decision was purely po­liti­cal. The minister of justice claimed that Kononov was the victim of retroactive Latvian legislation calling Soviet presence an illegal occupation. He also pointed out that no British or U.S. soldier had ever been punished for bombing occupied cities in Eu­rope during the war.67 The Kononov case has been widely publicized in Rus­sia, where public opinion typically sides with war veterans, and it has been regularly cited by Rus­sian institutions as an example of the politicization of Eu­ro­pean and international justice.68 At the historiographical level, the Rus­sian authorities have taken several steps to refine and unify the official historical narrative. The Rus­sian government first tried to develop a “reverse lustration” policy that would legally punish anyone who advanced a revisionist historiographical agenda. In 2005, Foreign Minister Sergey Lavrov declared that the huge cele­bration for the sixtieth anniversary of Victory Day was not merely for “upholding the historical truth about the war” but also for “fixing firmly in public consciousness a correct understanding of its lessons from the viewpoint of con­temporary world

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development.”69 In 2008, the Duma Committee for CIS Affairs, led by Konstantin Zatulin, a close ally of the longtime Moscow mayor Yury Luzhkov and known for his virulence against Rus­sia’s reluctant neighbors, drafted a bill titled “On Counteracting the Rehabilitation of Nazism, Nazi Criminals and Their Accomplices in New In­de­pen­dent States on the Territory of the Former USSR.” The bill included several ambiguities and inaccuracies that prob­ably explain why it was never put to a vote. It would, for instance, have applied to all citizens of post-­ Soviet states on the pretext that they ­were Soviet citizens on the day that Germany invaded the Soviet Union, a move that is legally impossible. Moreover, it made lengthy reference to the Nuremberg ­trials, whereas Moscow aimed to condemn not ­those discourses that deny the judgments of the Nuremberg tribunal, such as ­those of Holocaust deniers, but ­those that ­counter the conventional interpretation of 1945 as a Soviet victory.70 In 2009, the Regnum web portal announced that a United Rus­sia MP (member of parliament) would be submitting a bill on history in the Duma that would provide for the creation of a civilian tribunal to supervise the preservation of national memory and to amend the penal code to punish any effort to rehabilitate Nazism, accusations against the Allied Forces, or misrepre­sen­ta­tions of the Nuremberg ­trials with three-­to five-­year prison terms.71 Then-­minister of emergency situations Sergei Shoigu quickly confirmed the need for new legislative mea­ sures, similar to ­those banning Holocaust denial in vari­ous Eu­ro­pean countries, in order to “protect our history and the heroic deeds of our f­athers and grand­ fathers” in the Second World War.72 Voicing his support for such a point of view, Sergei Kovalev, a military historian at the Institute of Military History of the Ministry of Defense, expressed the general view blaming Central and Eastern Eu­ro­ pean countries for the failure of not only the Eu­ro­pean security architecture but also its memory architecture.73 On May 7 of that year, President Dmitry Medvedev announced on his blog the launch of a “Commission to Fight against Falsifications of History to the Detriment of Rus­sia’s Interests.” The commission, led by then-­director of the Presidential Administration Sergey Naryshkin, comprised twenty-­eight members, all of whom ­were appointed by the president and only five of whom ­were professional historians. The commission’s powers ­were more restricted than ­those envisaged in the bill that had created it.74 In addition, it provided no l­ egal definition of the term falsification: the key ele­ment in its title was in fact not falsification per se, but rather actions taken “to the detriment of Rus­sia’s interests.” The commission was designed to judge not classical revisionism, such as denial of the gas chambers, but “misleading” interpretations of the victory of 1945.75 Faced with international and domestic criticism, Naryshkin defended the commission by emphasizing that it would not review historical academic works and



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therefore played no role in censorship; rather, it only addressed attempts to undermine Rus­sia’s international prestige.76 But this agenda was all the more paradoxical, insofar as Rus­sia has no l­egal power to act outside its own borders. The commission was disbanded in 2013, having failed to establish broad censorship mechanisms over historiographical production and to impose memory norms on its neighbors.77 Yet it succeeded in engaging institutions such as the Rus­sian Archives (Rosarkhivy) and persuading segments of the academic community to orient their research in support of the state position. One of the only concrete products of the commission was Article 354.1 of the Penal Code, “On the Rehabilitation of Nazism,” proposed by several dozen MPs in February 2014 and signed by Putin that May. The timing cannot be misread: it was obviously a direct response to the tensions in Ukraine. The article makes it a criminal offense “to deny facts recognized by the international military tribunal that judged and punished the major war criminals of the Eu­ro­pean Axis countries,” confirming the sacrosanct nature of the Nuremberg t­ rials for Rus­sia. But the law adds two new ele­ments: it criminalizes “the deliberate diffusion of fake information about the actions of the Soviet Union during the Second World War” (rasprostranie zavedomo lozhnykh svedenii o deiatel´nosti SSSR v gody Vtoroi mirovoi voiny) and “the spreading of information about military and memorial commemorative dates related to Rus­sia’s defense that is clearly disrespectful of society, and publicly desecrating symbols of Rus­sia’s military glory.”78 The latter two points are questionable, as the law does not specify any criteria for determining when such a transgression has been committed. The new law thus criminalizes, without any way of punishing, Baltic and Ukrainian historiographies that rehabilitate collaborationist groups. It also potentially penalizes any new historical research that offers evidence of war crimes not mentioned in the Nuremberg t­ rials, especially t­ hose committed by the Soviet army.79 Additionally, it allows the organs of Rus­sian justice to go ­after anyone who promotes a historical memory that is “disrespectful of society”—­one that does not follow the official historical canon. However, as often happens, the law has not been applied in a systematic manner; instead, it is a readily available tool that can be deployed when conditions dictate. It was used, for instance, against a radical soccer group, Ultras, which was accused of denouncing Crimea’s annexation and diffusing “material validating the actions of criminal Germano-­fascist [nemetsko-­ fashistskii] groups during the ­Great Patriotic War,” and ­later against a VKontakte (the Rus­sian equivalent to Facebook) group promoting information on Bandera. The Algoritm publishing h ­ ouse was likewise fined for republishing Goebbels and 80 Mussolini. The failure of the history commission illustrates the difficulties involved in reducing the diversity of memories expressed in Rus­sia itself and in silencing

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nonconventional voices, and to an even greater degree the impossibility of using ­legal instruments to punish views expressed in neighboring countries, which remain out of reach of Rus­sian legislation. The Rus­sian authorities therefore had no choice but to reinforce their own voice and hope to make it the loudest in a polyphony of competing narratives. The Kremlin selected three historiographical moments it considers critical in fighting against the Central and Eastern Eu­ro­pean discourses that equate Nazism with communism: the Molotov–­Ribbentrop Pact of 1939, the interwar in­de­pen­dence of the Baltic states, and the broader issue of state apologies for Stalin-­era crimes. In Moscow’s view, the Second World War began in 1941 with the Nazi invasion; in no way can it be backdated to 1939 ­because this would mean, first, that the Soviet Union entered the war as an ally of Germany, and second, that the occupations of parts of Poland, Finland, and the Baltic states w ­ ere acts of war. Although Moscow’s discourse of May 9 as a Soviet victory remains untouched, the state narrative of the Molotov–­Ribbentrop Pact has shifted somewhat. The pact was officially repudiated as early as 1989, when the Soviet Congress of P ­ eople’s Deputies declared it immoral, but its subsequent interpretation in Rus­sian official documents has been ambivalent: it has been both slandered and minimized. Rus­sia’s official discourse states that the pact was inevitable a­ fter the Munich Agreement of 1938, in which the Western Allies agreed to the German annexation of the Sudetenland. By this logic, the pact is the Rus­sian equivalent of the West’s Munich Agreement and cannot be seen as having accelerated Eu­rope’s entry into total war. Despite some slight adjustments, this line has not changed. For instance, in 2009, just before a conciliatory trip to Poland, Putin published an article in the Polish daily Gazeta Wyborcza that condemned the agreement as immoral: “Without a doubt, the Ribbentrop–­Molotov Pact of August 1939 can be fully condemned.”81 But in November 2014, speaking before an audience of Rus­sian historians at the Museum of Modern Rus­sian History, Putin partially retracted his comments on the immoral character of the pact. He again insisted that Western countries ­were the first to try to avoid conflict with Hitler, leaving the Soviet Union alone to face war on the Eastern Front. But he added a new nuance by asserting Moscow’s right to avoid a war: “But what is so bad about it, if the Soviet Union did not want to fight? What is so bad?”82 Putin’s 2014 statement cannot be seen as a dramatic reversal: the Rus­sian narrative continues to equate the Munich Agreement with the Molotov–­Ribbentrop Pact and to remind listeners of the role of Western powers in Hitler’s conquest of part of Eu­rope. Putin perpetuates the idea that the Soviet regime had no choice but to buy time to prepare for war, a reading in tune with the general perception of the pact cultivated in Rus­sia. Moreover, Putin’s new interpretation of avoiding the war was highly contextualized: the statement was made during a moment of



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high international tension over Ukraine, and its implicit message was that Rus­sia wanted to avoid war with the West. A few months ­later, Minister of Education Vladimir Medinskii, known for his provocative statements, declared that the pact was “a colossal success of Stalin’s diplomacy,” forcing Putin, when the latter was asked to comment, to more subtly reply that “safeguarding the security of the Soviet Union was the first ele­ment of the Pact.”83 Moscow’s interpretations of the Molotov–­Ribbentrop Pact have a direct influence on the issue of Balts’ lost statehood and recovered in­de­pen­dence in 1991. Indeed, all Rus­sian officials, as well as the mainstream historiography, continue to silence discussion of the vio­lence committed by the Soviet regime in the annexation of the occupied Baltic states. In 2005, an Estonian journalist asked Putin why it was so hard for Rus­sia to apologize for the occupation of the Baltic states. The president replied: Now on the issue of occupation. I believe that in 1918, as a result of the Brest Peace Treaty, ­there was collusion, a conspiracy between Germany and Rus­sia, and Rus­sia transferred part of its territory to Germany’s de facto control. That was how Estonia’s statehood began. In 1939, ­there was more collusion between Rus­sia and Germany, and Germany returned ­these territories to Rus­sia. In 1939, they joined the Soviet Union. Was that good or bad? We ­will not go into this now—­this is history. . . . ​ So what, are we g­ oing to let the dead grab us by the sleeves e­ very day, preventing us from moving forward now? So if the Baltic countries joined the Soviet Union in 1939, the Soviet Union could not have occupied them in 1945 since they ­were part of the Soviet Union.84 ­ ere, too, Putin endorses the conventional Soviet reading that the Baltic states H “joined” the Soviet Union voluntarily for protection from Nazi invasion. More in­ter­est­ing is his linkage of the Baltic states’ situation during the Second World War to their in­de­pen­dence at the end of the First World War. Two versions of events clash ­here: the Baltic one, which sees interwar in­de­pen­dence as the benchmark confirming the Baltic states’ right to consider their situation in the second half of the twentieth ­century as an occupation, and the Rus­sian one, which sees the twenty years of Baltic statehood between the two wars as a short historical anomaly over a longue durée in which ­these states ­were part of the Rus­sian Empire and the Soviet Union. The Rus­sian leadership’s reluctance to address Soviet vio­lence committed during the war is also related to the b ­ itter feeling of not having been thanked for letting the three Baltic countries leave the Soviet Union peacefully at the end of perestroika. As Foreign Affairs Minister Lavrov told the Swedish newspaper Dagens Nyheter in 2016, “the Soviet Union behaved honorably. No one attempted

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to keep the Baltic republics by force. Nobody saw or heard any gratitude for this.”85 The same sour remarks are often made by Rus­sian officials on the issue of NATO expansion: Rus­sia did not block the Baltic states’ integration into the EU and NATO and expressed concern only for other states, thus recognizing indirectly—­ even if it was never formulated in such an explicit way—­that the three countries are outside Rus­sia’s “legitimate” sphere of influence and “belong” to Eu­rope. The constitutional amendments adopted in July 2020 confirmed Russia’s official position and the policy of legally penalizing those who may not share the state-sponsored vision of the Second World War: “The Russian Federation honors the memory of defenders of the Fatherland and protects historical truth. Diminishing the significance of the people’s heroism in defending the Fatherland is not permitted.”86 On other aspects of t­hese memory wars, such as the nature of Stalinist vio­ lence, which Central and Eastern Eu­ro­pean countries and part of the academic community equate with Nazism, Rus­sia’s position has been relatively constant. As we have seen in history textbooks, the official line remains that the Stalinist regime committed terrible mass vio­lence, but this was “excused” by the need to quickly industrialize and modernize a backward country and prepare it for war with Germany; the 1945 victory would thus confirm the wisdom of Stalin’s unfortunately painful policies. The victims of Stalinism can therefore be mourned, so long as this pro­cess does not request a legislative act defining Stalinism as a crime, apologies by the state, truth or reconciliation commissions, and a policy of naming, much less punishing, the executioners.87

Ukraine 2014: The ­G reat Patriotic War Redux The Euromaidan revolution, followed by the annexation of Crimea and Moscow’s support for insurgents in the Donbas, provided a new, abrupt impetus to memory wars that had been ­going on for a de­cade. The war for Donbas has indeed been largely a war on and for memory of the Second World War and about ­whether Rus­sia should be seen as a liberating or an occupying power. On the Rus­sian side, associating Ukraine with fascism was not born of the 2014 situation; it had deep roots in Soviet culture. The term banderovtsy (referring to partisans of Stepan Bandera) was, for instance, used widely in the Soviet era, applied to all ­those accused of being “bourgeois nationalists” as well as to Ukrainian dissidents in the 1970s and 1980s. The offering of familiar tropes to relabel the conflict with Kyiv thus largely explains how easily Rus­sian public opinion embraced the state-­produced narrative of the Ukrainian crisis as a reenactment of



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the G ­ reat Patriotic War, favoring highly emotional narratives and pathos. In the 2015 Levada Center survey commissioned for this research, three-­quarters of respondents agreed entirely or largely with the notion that “fascist forces arrived in power in Ukraine,” as well as with the claim that the new Ukrainian government represents the interests of Western countries and the United States in conducting an anti-­Russian policy.88 Putin has never explic­itly labeled the post-­Maidan government in Kyiv as fascist. However, in his March 18, 2014, speech celebrating the reintegration of Crimea into the Rus­sian motherland, he differentiated the Ukrainian popu­lar protests against corruption from “­those who stood b ­ ehind” and “had a dif­fer­ent agenda” and clearly stated that “nationalists, neo-­Nazis, Russophobes, and anti-­ Semites executed this coup. They continue to set the tone in Ukraine to this day.”89 ­These four terms allowed him to create a power­ful analogy between historical enemies (Nazism and anti-­Semitism) and con­temporary ones (nationalists and Russophobes). ­Later, he drew direct parallels between the Ukrainian crisis and the ­Great Patriotic War—­“We can all clearly see the intentions of ­these ideological heirs of Bandera, Hitler’s accomplice during the Second World War”90—­ strenuously implying that Rus­sia is once again fighting fascism in Ukraine. While Putin and members of the government refrained from using the fascist junta formulation, the Duma had no such reservations. The term was widely circulated by several members of the Liberal Demo­cratic Party of Rus­sia and the Communist Party of the Rus­sian Federation: Vladimir Zhirinovsky himself,91 as well as Leonid Slutskii, chair of the Duma’s Foreign Affairs Committee,92 and then Andrei Klishas, chair of the Federal Council’s Committee on Constitutional Law and Governmental Structure,93 and several Communist MPs. Gennady Zyuganov, meanwhile, referred to the “Banderovite-­fascist junta.”94 The Rus­sian media played a driving role in disseminating fascist-­tinged views of the conflict. They demonized the Ukrainian e­ nemy by comparing it to Nazi troops,95 describing Poroshenko’s government as fascist and its troops as death squads committing genocide against the ethnic Rus­sian minority in eastern Ukraine.96 The role of far-­right parties and paramilitary groups, such as Svoboda and Pravyi Sector, in the Maidan events and then in the new Ukrainian government was routinely hyped. Poroshenko’s government and Pravyi Sektor w ­ ere treated as one and the same, allowing for the demonization of the Ukrainian government as ultranationalist. Rus­sian media pointed to the Svoboda party’s cele­ bration of Bandera, as well as Pravyi Sektor’s use of the red-­and-­black flag of the Ukrainian Insurgent Army, to prove the fascist nature of the Maidan revolution.97 Soldiers in the Ukrainian army w ­ ere termed executioners (karateli in Rus­sian), a word also used to refer to the Nazi units charged with reprisal vio­lence against civilians.98 Traditional clichés of Ukrainophobia ­were legion, including the ideas

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that Ukrainians have been the puppets of ­great powers for centuries, that they are unable to control their own fate, and that they lack any “genuine” national identity.99 The main billboards sponsored by the pro-­Russian government of Crimea ahead of the March 16, 2014, referendum explic­itly told voters to choose between a Crimea symbolically covered by a Nazi swastika and one depicted in the colors of the Rus­sian flag. Numerous disinformation campaigns played the fascist card, describing, for example, the alleged discovery of eighty bodies in a mass grave in Komunar that ­were purported to be victims of “Ukrainian fascists” (further investigation revealed that only four bodies had been found, u ­ nder suspicious circumstances).100 A Cold War trope was also revived to frame the United States as a crypto-­fascist state and explain why Washington, D.C.—­and Brussels—­supported the Maidan, thereby accentuating the Rus­sian media’s already power­ful anti-­Western narrative.101 In 2015, Kyiv’s decision to ban thirty-­eight books by Rus­sian authors who supported the Donbas insurgency was instrumentalized by Rus­sian media to accentuate the parallel between Kyiv and Nazism. The tabloid news channel LifeNews stated, for instance, that “eighty-­two years ago, Nazi Germany burned thousands of books, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, and it is said that fascism began with the burning of books. . . . ​We dare to draw a parallel between radical Nazism and Ukrainian politics.”102 At the same time, the Donbas insurgents w ­ ere described by Rus­sian media as opolchentsy (citizens-­in-­arms). The term traditionally refers to the popu­lar militia of Kuzma Minin and Dmitrii Pozharsky that took the lead against the Polish–­ Lithuanian Rzeczpospolita invasion in the seventeenth ­century, as well as Second World War partisans fighting against Nazi troops. The implicit discursive line is the following: the Rus­sian state may be officially absent from the Donbas conflict, but ordinary Rus­sian citizens took up arms and risked their lives for their Rus­sian ­brothers and the reintegration of eastern Ukrainian regions into ­Mother Russia—­a parallel with the Second World War, in which the p ­ eople, rather than the state, played the leading role. ­Because in the minds of the Rus­sian public, fashizm implies Germany’s territorial expansion, it can easily be associated with any threat coming from the West. The Association Agreement between the Eu­ro­pean Union and Ukraine has thus been correlated with a potential expansion of the EU and NATO that replicates that of the Nazis, which would threaten Rus­sia’s sovereignty. The notion that evil has always come from the West has been picked up by many Rus­sian politicians and public figures. At a Moscow historians’ conference in 2014, Mikhail Miagkov, professor of history at the Moscow State Institute of International Relations, expressed it plainly: “Nazism is again coming to us from Eu­rope. . . . ​The bacilli



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of Nazism have not been destroyed. Unfortunately, they have infected, among other countries, our brotherly nation of Ukraine.”103 The Ukrainian crisis generated many new wars over symbols. The most noticeable of t­ hese torn symbols has been the orange-­and-­black-­striped St. George’s Ribbon. As support for the ribbon and support for Putin became closely intertwined, several post-­Soviet countries, including Ukraine, de­cided to ban it; Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, and Belarus proposed alternate designs incorporating the colors of their own national flags. Ukraine opted for the red poppy, replicating the British symbol widely used for First World War commemorations on November 11.104 The meaning of the St. George’s Ribbon was thus transformed, for some, from a symbol of Rus­sia’s victory over fascism to a symbol of Rus­sia’s fascism. Some interpret it primarily as an emblem displayed by the collaborationist Vlasov army. On Ekho Moskvy radio, the journalist Andrei Pozniakov curtly compared the Putin regime with Nazism, stating that “in the current situation, to put on the St. George ribbon for the sake of the cele­bration is very much like wearing a swastika ­after a series of Jewish pogroms and arguing that this is a sign of the sun, summer, and light.”105 In Ukraine, several street billboards and online posters mixed the Nazi swastika with the colors of the ribbon or depicted the black color of fascism as producing the orange-­and-­black stripes of the ribbon.106 Popu­lar memory debates, spread across the Internet and social media, have accompanied—­sometimes following, sometimes preceding—­these interstate debates.107 The very vivid Runet, the Russian-­speaking online world, has, for instance, facilitated ­these new symbolic battlefields and played its usual role of echo chamber. A rich world of cartoons, memes, and posters, often inspired by the tradition of Soviet caricatures, emerged on social media and Internet platforms. The majority of them equated the Maidan with the Second World War, EU and NATO expansion to the East with the Third Reich’s quest for Lebensraum, and then-­U.S. president Barack Obama with Hitler.108 Some framed the Yugo­slav wars as precursors to the Donbas b ­ attle, emphasizing that Rus­sians cannot forget their 109 ­brothers a second time. In her research, Elizaveta Gaufman notes the marked surge in the frequency of the word fashizm since shortly a­ fter the start of the Euromaidan crisis. Traditionally, searches for the term have been l­ imited to historical dates such as May 9 and June 22.110 The Cyrillic segment of Twitter data that Gaufman analyzed through Integrum World Wide confirms that in May and June 2014, fashizm was mostly associated with con­temporary events (including “Maidan,” “Rus­sian spring,” “genocide,” and “propaganda”), not historical ones.111 Figure 1 shows the growth in popularity on Google of the term fashizm during the toughest months of the Ukrainian crisis, with an unpre­ce­dented peak in March–­April 2014 and

82 CHAPTER 4 100 90 80 70 60 50 40 30 20 10 0

Starng date of weekly period (U.S. dang system MM/DD/YYYY)

FIGURE 1.  Popularity of the search term fashizm on Google in Rus­sia, 2013–2016. Source: Author’s calculation. The vertical axis mea­sures the frequency of searches for the term relative to all searches. The high point of that frequency is 100, and all the other points are proportional to it: a score of 20 means that the frequency of the query is one-­fifth of what it was at its maximum.

regular new heights in 2015; t­ here has been a progressive decline since then. The term banderovtsy followed a relatively similar trajectory but declined more rapidly than the broader fashizm.

As is proverbially said, memory tells us more about the pre­sent than about the past, and memory wars between Rus­sia and its neighbors are no exception. T ­ here may be no need for a unified Eu­ro­pean memory, insofar as attempting to forcibly create a single narrative would negate the diversity of being Eu­ro­pean. However, as the Ukrainian crisis demonstrates, memories have also been instrumental in “real” wars, as all parties claim that their martyrdom and heroism during the Second World War entitle them to some recognition t­ oday. Central and Eastern Eu­ro­pean states express insecurity regarding their status as Eu­ro­pe­ans: they still feel that they are at the margins of the continent, consider their Eu­ro­pean belonging subject to denial, and challenge the fact that Western Eu­rope continues to set the rules of the continent’s memory.112 They are caught between writing a history that would take into consideration the painful contradictions they had to face—­recognizing that collaborationism existed, but also encountering the legitimate presence of fellow travelers who subscribed to the communist ideal—­and the nationhood pro­cess that propels a simplistic, black-­



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and-­white collective memory.113 Alexei Miller well described this tension between the notion of “responsibility” during the war that has s­ haped Western perception and that of the “victimhood” that dominates Central and Eastern Eu­ro­pean historiography, which does not know how to reconcile the fact that one can be both a victim of Nazism (and Soviet domination) and a collaborator in the Holocaust.114 On the Rus­sian side, the symbolic stakes are even higher—­memory wars cannot be seen as a ­simple historiographical dispute over interpretations of the Molotov–­R ibbentrop Pact and its consequences. For Moscow, questioning the 1945 victory constitutes a provocation on multiple levels. First, it denies, or seems to deny, the incredibly high level of h ­ uman suffering and losses of the Soviet Union and directly confronts the collective memory s­ haped in subsequent de­cades. Second, it negates the extraordinary geopo­liti­cal triumph of the Soviet victory and the occupation of Berlin that redrew the map of Eu­rope.115 Third, it dismisses the de­cades of the Cold War and détente, during which the West and the Soviet Union agreed on the legitimacy of the Yalta order. Seen from Moscow, suddenly equating Nazism and communism and retroactively considering Soviet control over Central Eu­rope to be unacceptable is pure revisionism: it ignores the fact that the West validated this world order at Yalta and it places on Rus­sia full and unique responsibility for a divided Eu­rope. In Moscow’s logic, Central and Eastern Eu­ ro­pean countries should consider Western Eu­rope partially responsible for their tragic destiny and ­ought not to portray Rus­sia as the only guilty party. More importantly, for Moscow, negating 1945 as a victory directly undermines Rus­sia’s status as a legitimate actor on the Eu­ro­pean scene. If the Soviet Union did not vanquish Nazism, but is equally evil, then Rus­sia has no right to weigh in on Eu­ro­pean m ­ atters or request to be part of Eu­rope’s institutions. Indeed, Eu­ ro­pean peace and the Eu­ro­pean Union have been built on the “never again” narrative of the end of the war, of which Moscow is a critical cornerstone. By maintaining that it was victorious over fascism, Rus­sia sees itself as guarding a certain conception of what Eu­rope means; the 1945 victory confirms Rus­sia as a legitimate stakeholder in Eu­rope.

5 THE PUTIN REGIME’S IDEOLOGICAL PLURALITY

At the same time that Rus­sia criticizes the rehabilitation of collaborationist movements in Central and Eastern Eu­rope, it has to deal with its own far-­right movements at home, some of which, too, entertain themselves with borrowings from the fascist repertoire. Their existence has fed the narrative on the existence of a “Rus­sian fascism” that would be intimately connected to the “nature” of the po­ liti­cal system in place in Rus­sia. The Putin regime remains a hybrid construction, subject to multiple interpretations depending on the ­angle from which it is viewed. Far from being an immobile structure, it has deeply evolved over the past two de­cades, and has shown an impressive capacity to adapt to new contexts and take on new challenging geopo­liti­cal environments. An ad hoc construction, the regime permanently adjusts its own bound­aries: it regularly purges itself by excluding some of its members while at the same time developing new strategies for co-­opting other segments of society, which partly explains its longevity and ability to regularly rebound. It also demonstrates a large ideological plurality, with several ecosystems competing with each other by offering the Presidential Administration new ideological products in the hope of seeing them ­adopted at a higher level. Inside such a complex conglomerate, one can identify only two segments that sometimes play with the fascist repertoire as part of a broader continuum of reactionary ideologies: the military–­industrial complex and the Orthodox realm. Some members of the military–­industrial complex advance an agenda of ideological indoctrination on a large scale that reminds some po­liti­cal precepts of fascism; some figures belonging to the Orthodox realm celebrate the legacy of the 84

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Black Hundreds and of reactionary White émigrés. Yet ­these two segments constitute only one piece of the puzzle of the Rus­sian elites and cannot be considered as mainstream.

The Putin Regime, an Ad Hoc System Three schools work to decipher the “nature” of the Putin regime. The first considers it to be above all a kleptocracy, with corrupt members of the president’s inner circle seeking personal enrichment. Karen Dawisha’s book Putin’s Kleptocracy: Who Owns Rus­sia? offers the most detailed analy­sis of this aspect of the regime.1 Yet massive and well-­organized schemes, bribe taking, money laundering, and the offshoring of national wealth are not enough to explain e­ very logic at work in the po­liti­cal realm and how state–­society interactions are ­shaped. Another school sees Putin’s regime as a totalitarian, neo-­Stalinist institution motivated by nationalism, revanchism, and imperial aggression, among other princi­ples. In this view, deeply entrenched ideological convictions explain Rus­sia’s actions on both the international and domestic fronts. Charles Clover’s Black Wind, White Snow: The Rise of Rus­sia’s New Nationalism and Marcel van Herpen’s Putin’s Wars: The Rise of Rus­sia’s New Imperialism are good representatives of this insistence on Rus­ sia’s supposed ideological “­grand design.”2 A third school, to which I belong, advances a more nuanced view that encompasses two levels of analy­sis. First, the regime’s relationship with Rus­sian society is much more than simply patronal and authoritarian: it is based on an implicit social contract with the population that is continuously renegotiated and limits the regime’s options.3 To continue to maintain its societal relevance, the government spends millions of dollars e­ very year tracking the smallest shifts in public opinion and trying to shape it in its ­favor. The regime is on a permanent quest to draw inspiration from and co-­opt grassroots trends, and Western observers often ignore the many bottom-up dynamics. Second, the internal configuration of the regime itself resembles a conglomerate of competing opinions; it is not a uniform, cohesive group. Gleb Pavlovsky, the f­ather of po­liti­cal communication in Rus­sia, may have coined one of the best descriptions of it: “The Kremlin’s politics looks like a jazz group: an uninterrupted improvisation as an attempt to survive the latest crisis.”4 Indeed, as in jazz, ­there is an established common theme or point, but each player is allowed to improvise at w ­ ill. The common theme or point is what we may define as Putinism. In his book The Code of Putinism, Bryan Taylor explains correctly: “Putinism is more like ‘Thatcherism’ or ‘Reaganism’ than like ‘Marxism’—it is not a fully developed, all-­ encompassing ideology, but a system of rule and a guiding mentality, a personality

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and an historical moment.”5 This system of rules is based on a set of habits, beliefs, and emotions: to survive, Rus­sia can only be a strong state, that is, a ­great power abroad, and a quite uncontested regime at home. For that, it needs law and order, unity more than diversity, re­spect from foreign countries and its own citizens, and a renewed sense of honor and dignity. Although Putin prob­ably believes in his own historical mission of reassessing the Rus­sian state so the nation could survive, his decisions are made through a flexible vision of the world, motivated by changing circumstances. The ideological components of this code are plastic, depending on the regime’s needs and its interpretation at a certain time of the world and domestic situations. This ability to improvise new ideological agendas is reinforced by the fact that the Rus­sian regime is a conglomerate of dif­fer­ent vested interest groups, each with its own agenda. Western pundits tend to broadly apply the term Kremlin to all Rus­sia’s decision makers—­the Rus­sian government, the Presidential Administration, and Putin’s inner circles—­contributing to the impression of a “black box” that is impossible to decipher. Even if we know ­little about the internal adjustments of power and how the balancing/competing games are regulated, we can still identify several agencies at play. Deconstructing the notion of an all-­ encompassing Kremlin thus avoids reducing the regime to a handful of labels; it stresses flexibility and diversity within the system. I deconstruct the Kremlin by using the meta­phor of ecosystems. An ecosystem is a living organism: it can evolve, adapt, and dis­appear; it interacts with other ecosystems and can absorb or be absorbed by them. It has its own bound­aries, but they are plastic and moving, with lines of connection to and from other ecosystems. The Kremlin comprises three main ecosystems: the Presidential Administration, the military–­industrial complex, and the Orthodox realm. Each forms a specific realm made of institutions, funders, and patrons, identifiable symbolic references, ideological entrepreneurs, and media platforms in permanent motion, making constant readjustments to maintain their equilibrium. It is obviously challenging to identify who patronizes ideological ecosystems within Putin’s inner circles and the Presidential Administration. Relationships based on personal friendship and ideological loyalty are opaque, which makes them challenging for external observers to scrutinize and prob­ably uncertain for the actors themselves. Yet a close mapping of interactions allows us to identify groups and figures that seem to play a powerbroker role between state institutions and radical right actors. The Presidential Administration is the newest of the three ecosystems. Its personnel are the youn­gest, and its cultural and ideological references are inspired by a wide range of domains: Western po­liti­cal campaigning and marketing; late Soviet perestroika cultures, including dissident or at least under­ground realms;

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postmodernist theories and U.S. neoconservatism; consumerism; globalization narratives; China’s transformations; and so on. It is also the most eclectic of t­ hese ecosystems, and Vladislav Surkov (b. 1964), its first deputy chief from 1999 to 2011, perfectly encapsulated this catchall dynamic in his ideational borrowings.6 It is also the least ideologically rigid and the most adaptable of the three ecosystems, as evidenced by the appointment of the more liberal Sergey Kiriyenko as its first deputy chief of staff in 2016 ­after four years of ideological hardening and the wave of rally-­around-­the-­flag nationalism that followed the annexation of Crimea and the war with Ukraine. Since then, the Presidential Administration has been curtailing any type of ideological inflation and has ­adopted a low profile, focusing on much more pragmatic and Realpolitik agendas at home and abroad. For two de­cades, the Presidential Administration conducted a hesitant and cautious pursuit of ideational policy that can be defined in three main dimensions. First, it developed a myriad of new products and symbolic meanings as a way to reconnect with the society and calm down the po­liti­cal passions that had been tearing the nation apart during the Yeltsinian de­cade. Second, although overproductive in the ideational field, it tolerated a large ideological diversity, recognizing that this field followed the rules of a competitive—­and privatized—­market. The regime ­limited its interference into the society and did not force its ideational products on the mindset of Rus­sian citizens, letting individuals manage their lives with their own set of values—­the sociologist Boris Dubin formulated it as the “nonintrusive state” (gosudarstvo kotoroe ne dostaet).7 Third, while spending time, money, and h ­ uman resources in producing meanings, the Presidential Administration declared that it stood against any kind of official, written-­in-­stone narrative, and the Rus­sian constitution still explic­itly forbade any “state ideology.” Except for calling for Rus­sia’s stabilization and revival and for citizens to be more patriotic, Putin had long cast himself as a-­ideological, claiming to be working solely in line with technocratic objectives.8 Once he came back to power ­after the mass Bolotnaya protests of the winter of 2011–2012, the regime’s relationship to ideology evolved on three levels. First, it took a more structured content-­ related turn, with a stronger emphasis on Rus­sia’s anti-­Western and antiliberal stance, on the country’s greatness, and on the Rus­sian/Soviet state leaders’ infallibility at all times.9 The equilibrium between diversity and unity was partly disrupted: the unified statement of faith in the mono­poly of the state to represent the nation’s interests became dominant. Second, the authorities became more repressive against ­those who ­were advancing a competing agenda from the liberal side; some prominent oppositionist figures ­were commonly harassed, persecuted, and prosecuted, and some academics and “opinion leaders” ­were pressured to leave their jobs or the country. Third, the government developed a tool kit of new

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laws and decrees—­yet applied very selectively—­giving state organs more coercive powers to suppress patterns of be­hav­ior deemed inappropriate. Even in such a context, the Presidential Administration’s promotion of ideological products appears indeed quite eclectic and evolutionary. It offers a broad palette, aiming at a “pick and choose” policy that ­will allow it to achieve a broad consensus. The core of this ideological palette is patriotism, revived through state programs since 2001 and pre­sent at e­ very level of public discourse: no one can have public and po­liti­cal legitimacy without insisting on his or her patriotic feelings.10 This is the only tool necessary to disqualify liberals: economic liberalism can be defended, but po­liti­cal liberalism, especially when it supposes “submission” to Western geopo­liti­cal interests, is rejected on the grounds of being unpatriotic. Once liberalism has been excluded, the kaleidoscope is broad and plural. The Presidential Administration itself does not foster any clearly formulated overarching doctrine. The state-­backed ideology remains vague, comprising primarily anti-­Western and antiliberal attitudes, Soviet nostalgia, and a classic, state-­centric vision of Rus­sia. Beyond ­these three points, fuzziness prevails. Anti-­Americanism is revived during periods of international crisis with the United States and the West more globally; the idea of Rus­sia as a globalized country creating a multipolar world with its BRICS (Brazil, Rus­sia, India, China, and South Africa) allies alternates with the notion of Rus­sia as a besieged fortress in need of protection and isolation.11 The narratives of Rus­sia as the protector of Rus­sian ethnic minorities abroad and of its Orthodox b ­ rothers, including Eastern Christians in the ­Middle East, and of Rus­sia as leading a Eurasian world connected to Central Asia and open to the Asia–­Pacific operate in parallel. Postmodern narratives combining public relations-­and marketing-­inspired vocabulary go hand in hand with stress put on conservative Christian values. In this mosaic, references to Rus­sia as the “other” Eu­rope, the “au­then­tic” one, rooted in Byzantium and the Slavophile tradition, seem to dominate, yet pluralism remains the guiding princi­ple.12 The Rus­sian regime defines itself as conservative. Conservatism always has more interpretative elasticity than many other -­isms: it is broadly defined as a rejection of the ideology of pro­gress, but the range of interpretation is broad, ­going from a plain denial of any pro­gress to the idea that pro­gress is acceptable if the pace of change is slow and gradual.13 The main conceptual issue of conservatism is to be able to define the time considered as a “golden age” that should be preserved. Are we talking about ­going back to the ­Middle Ages, or the eigh­teenth or nineteenth c­ entury, in terms of values and po­liti­cal order? In that case the idea of ­going backward to a lost past that has to be re-­created does not belong to conservatism per se, but to reaction. Even if the time to be “conserved” is closer to us, are we talking about the early twentieth c­ entury—­for Rus­sia, before the 1917

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revolutions—or about Stalin’s de­cades, or about late Soviet Union during the Brezhnev de­cades? In the Presidential Administration’s language, conservatism does not clearly refer to a precise time in the past. As long as the 1990s are condemned,14 the se­ lection of a historical period to be celebrated is flexible. Nostalgia for late Soviet times is widespread and cultivated by the regime as the lowest common denominator for Rus­sian citizens that provides a large repertoire from which each person can draw.15 Yet other periods of reference are also allowed, even if they represent a minority point of view, from the nostalgics of Stalinism to t­hose of Nicholas II’s rule. More importantly, the regime does not claim to go back to any time: it remembers the failure of the Brezhnev regime to provide for its citizens and claims a “no-­return” philosophy in the country’s embrace of the market economy. It has integrated the narrative of a Rus­sia in tune with the twenty-­first ­century, rising on the global stage and mastering its technologies, from the Internet and social media to Bitcoin and artificial intelligence.16 On the international scene, the Kremlin’s evasiveness is less pronounced; it asserts more explic­itly the idea that ­today’s Rus­sia should reclaim the ­great power stature it enjoyed during the Brezhnev de­cades, mainly embodied in parity with the United States. Still, ­here too, modernity ­under the slogan of multipolarity and regionalism has entered the state’s po­liti­cal language and does not allow for a pure “go back” policy.17 The present-­day Kremlin’s conservatism is thus not so much about defending a return to a certain time as about countering the current “pro­ gress,” understood as a threat to the society’s unity as well as the Rus­sian po­liti­cal and geopo­liti­cal status quo. Once again, t­ here is more clarity about what has to be rejected than about what has to be ­adopted. While the Presidential Administration has perfectly mastered playing with myriad ideational proj­ects, it never ­favors groups that could, one way or another, be identified as fascist. We know, for instance, that Vladislav Surkov has always hated Soviet imperialists and Eurasianists such as Aleksandr Prokhanov and Aleksandr Dugin and rapidly curtailed the revolutionary “Rus­sian Spring” atmosphere that developed during the first months of the Donbas insurgency in 2014 (see chapter 6). At the governmental level, several figures, while not supporting anything related to fascism per se, endorse policies of cooperation with the Eu­ ro­pean Far Right. This is the case, for instance, with the former prime minister and former Rus­sian ambassador to NATO Dmitrii Rogozin (b. 1963), now the head of the space agency Roskosmos; Sergey Glazyev (b. 1961), the adviser to the president of the Rus­sian Federation on regional economic integration; Sergey Naryshkin (b. 1954), head of the Presidential Administration from 2008 to 2011, Duma chairman from 2011 to 2016, and current director of the SVR, Rus­sia’s external intelligence agency; the former head of the Duma Foreign Affairs

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Committee Aleksei Pushkov (b. 1954); and Konstantin Kostin (b. 1970), deputy chief of the Domestic Politics Department of the Presidential Administration. This group also includes the late Vladimir Kryuchkov (1924–2007), whom the French National Front founding ­father Jean-­Marie Le Pen identified as one of the central figures building connections with the Eu­ro­pean Far Right.18 Kryuchkov served as head of the KGB from 1988 to 1991, participated in the failed August putsch, and then worked as an adviser to Putin during the latter’s term as director of the Federal Security Ser­vice (FSB). He was also rumored to have close ties with Vladimir Zhirinovsky, related to the KGB’s alleged role in creating the Liberal-­Democratic Party of Rus­sia (LDPR).19

The Military–­I ndustrial Complex: In Search of Soviet-­S tyle Indoctrination The second ecosystem, the military–­industrial complex, encompasses all power agencies: the Ministry of Defense; the Ministry of the Interior and its security ser­ vices; the new National Guard (founded in 2016); and the large military industries, both public and semiprivate. This ecosystem shows the most continuity with the Soviet regime, for obvious structural reasons: it defends geopo­liti­cal and industrial interests that have not dramatically evolved, except insofar as they have had to adapt to a market economy and, in some cases, re­adjust their strategic calculus. At the h ­ uman level, its main figures are mostly aging Soviet civil servants and high-­ranking military officials. All the military–­industrial complex’s actors seek to maintain a certain level of ideological control over society. The majority of them believe in a traditional, Soviet-­inspired system that molds individuals as “healthy patriots,” and raises youth with a patriotic-­military education. But a hardcore line exists, which pushes for more radical indoctrination. I call this the August 1991 putsch network ­because its main supporters w ­ ere ­either direct participants in the failed coup or supportive of its goals: General Albert Makashov (b. 1938), regarded at the time as the leader of the so-­called Red Patriots;20 the KGB general Aleksandr Sterligov (b. 1943); General Igor Rodionov (1936–2014); and General Leonid Ivashov (b. 1943). Rodionov, close to the late Security Council secretary Aleksandr Lebed, was briefly minister of defense (1996–1997) ­after heading the Military Acad­emy of the General Staff of the Rus­sian Armed Forces from 1989 to 1996, where he overhauled the syllabus by introducing new disciplines such as geopolitics, taught by Dugin.21 Leonid Ivashov was chief of the Department for General Affairs in the Ministry of Defense during the perestroika era and then played a significant role

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in funding Dugin’s bestseller, Foundations of Geopolitics, and in securing the latter’s teaching post at the Military Acad­emy of the General Staff.22 Since his retirement, Ivashov has remained a shadowy figure in Rus­sia’s nationalist think-­tank world through his Acad­emy of Geopo­liti­cal Issues,23 which serves as an institutional home providing consulting ser­v ices to several military and security institutions. Po­liti­cally, the military–­industrial complex has always worked closely with Gennady Zyuganov’s Communist Party of the Rus­sian Federation (CPRF) and Zhirinovsky’s LDPR, as well as with Dmitrii Rogozin’s Rodina in both of its iterations, first in 2003–2006 and again since its re-­creation in 2012.24 The Communist Party has long been the best-­structured po­liti­cal force advancing an agenda combining nostalgia for Soviet great-­power status and Orthodox references, arguing that the Byzantine tradition of a symphony of powers (sobornost´) should be interpreted as the forerunner to communist collectivism and inherent to the Rus­sian p ­ eople.25 As internationalism is no longer celebrated and allusions to Marxism–­Leninism are passé, the party’s definition of communism has remained imprecise, focusing mostly on the memory of the Soviet welfare system. The CPRF’s ideological structuring has also been s­ haped by the notion of Rus­sia’s unique mission as the guarantor of stability in the Eurasian space. Obviously the CPRF insists on the cornerstone of Rus­sia’s antifascist destiny, but some of its radical trends, nurturing a kind of mystical Stalinism, may echo some doctrinal ele­ments of fascism adapted to a Rus­sian context. The LDPR, which lacks the CPRF’s doctrinal background and coherence, has offered a less structured ideological platform. Zhirinovsky himself is hard to classify; his cultivated eccentricities have made him one of the most famous and caricatured media darlings of post-­Soviet Rus­sia. However, his main work, Last Thrust to the South (Poslednii brosok na iug, 1993), professes what Andreas Umland has defined as fascism, in the sense that Zhirinovsky’s revolutionary expansionism is not an ideology of restoration but a call for a totalitarian revival of the nation.26 References to fascism w ­ ere indeed common for Zhirinovsky at that time: in a 1993 interview published in Izvestiia, he expounded on a positive reading of national socialism and indicated that he would “act like Hitler in 1932” w ­ ere he 27 to become president. Nevertheless, he de­cided in 1994 to pursue ­legal action for slander against Yegor Gaidar, the architect of the controversial shock therapy reforms, ­after Gaidar called him “the most popu­lar fascist leader in Rus­sia.” Zhirinovsky prevailed in the trial: the term fascist was legally recognized as an insult.28 Thereafter, Zhirinovsky continued to hold radical views but eliminated positive references to 1930s Germany, aware that this kind of ideological radicalism had cost him votes. Since then, he has been a vocal supporter of many nationalist figures with imperial agendas and a steady proponent of the rehabilitation of the

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White movement. Some other LDPR deputies, such as Aleksandr Kurianovich (b. 1966) and Aleksei Mitrofanov (b. 1962), have become known for their support for skinhead actions, deeming them ­simple acts of defense by ethnic Rus­sians ­under attack by foreigners. The military–­industrial complex was long fed ideologically by Aleksandr Prokhanov (b. 1938) and Aleksandr Podberezkin (b. 1953). Both backed Zyuganov’s 1996 bid for the presidency, claiming that the CPRF was the only party capable of unifying the patriotic forces and reestablishing a strong state based on the “Rus­sian idea.”29 Yet Podberezkin’s personal trajectory took another direction, far from high politics, whereas Prokhanov has remained in the race, announcing in the early 2000s that he would back Rodina rather than the Communist Party, an alliance that continues to this day.30 Nicknamed the “songbird” of the Soviet General Staff since his writings celebrating the Soviet invasion of Af­ghan­is­ tan in the early 1980s, Prokhanov has been a regular contributor to army media outlets, particularly the newspaper Krasnaia zvezda. His weekly newspaper, Zavtra, heir to the famous Den´ (banned ­after October 1993), is the centerpiece of this all-­ encompassing strategy and to this day provides a forum for testing almost e­ very new nationalist ideological construct. In 2012, at age seventy-­four, Prokhanov found renewed po­liti­cal visibility with the launching of the Izborsky Club, composed of about thirty prominent Rus­ sian nationalists and proponents of conservatism.31 The club works as the ideology-­producing machine for the military–­industrial complex and appears to function on a fairly generous bud­get largely provided by the main military firms.32 It aims to develop a doctrine that would unify Soviet nostalgia and military prowess with Orthodox symbolism and also reconcile the Soviet and tsarist pasts. Prokhanov has proclaimed, “It is necessary to create a state in which, as Putin has said, one can live as a Red commissar or as a White officer.”33 The effort to sanctify the Soviet Union in order to integrate it into the Orthodox tradition was graphically illustrated in May 2015, when the club commissioned a new icon called “The ­Great Power Virgin Mary” (Bogomater´ derzhavnaia) that showed Stalin as a holy figure. The icon was blessed in a small parish and exhibited on a tank for the May 9 military parade, a gesture criticized by the Patriarchate.34 Similarly, Prokhanov’s 2015 article on “Mystical Stalinism” offers a solemn ode to the Soviet leader, who transformed defeat into victory and who, like a phoenix, ­will be reborn in popu­lar memory ­because he has become a bogatyr´ (knight), a traditional and revered figure in Rus­sian fairy tales.35 Some conceptual ele­ments of Prokhanov’s doctrinal landscape are borrowed from the fascist universe. Even if Prokhanov himself does not employ ele­ments that can be identified as belonging to Western fascism, he displays virulent anti-­ Semitism and has always encouraged Dugin’s doctrinal adventures, including his

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rehabilitation of esoteric Nazism and his connections with the Eu­ro­pean New Right (see chapter 6). For its part, the Izborsky Club makes appeals for the creation of an oprichnina—­Ivan the Terrible’s first private militia, which inaugurated the tradition of security services—to supervise a new mobilization proj­ect characterized by a “moral revolution” as well as the patriotic indoctrination of the elites,36 terminology that leaves ­little doubt about the repressive character of the proj­ect. One of the club’s main figures, Maksim Kalashnikov, describes this twenty-­ first ­century oprichnina as an army of fifty thousand young men and w ­ omen not 37 subject to administrative constraints and able to act outside the law. Kalashnikov even draws an explicit parallel to Nazism by explaining the need for a Rus­sian Ahnenerbe (Ancestral Heritage), referring to the SS institution in charge of the Nazi quest, from Scandinavia to Tibet,38 for the original Aryan cradle: Rus­sia would need an institution to produce a new ideology based on the cult of ancestors and to integrate ancient esoteric know-­how into modern science while “avoiding Germany’s errors, which led to its defeat.”39 The club thus borrows doctrines from the harshest communist regimes, ­those of Stalin and Mao, and adds some typically Rus­sian tones—­the Orthodox credo and the oprichnina reference—­but the discreet mention of Nazism confirms that, for some members of this network, the more conventional fascist repertoire may also be a source of inspiration.40 Prokhanov’s connections with the military–­industrial complex are reinforced by his enduring personal friendship with Dmitrii Rogozin, leader of the Rodina party, who held the post of deputy prime minister in charge of the military–­ industrial complex from 2011 to 2018.41 Like Prokhanov, Rogozin has been careful to restrain his ideological arsenal so that it would remain in the world of po­liti­cal correctness, yet Rodina shelters much more radical figures. For instance, Andrei Saveliev (b. 1962), Rogozin’s right-­hand man in the 2000s, and an open nostalgic for monarchy, pushed—­unsuccessfully—­for a Duma vote on a law on “the communities of indigenous ­peoples of Rus­sia,” which would have transformed mi­grants into second-­class citizens while defining ethnic Rus­sians as the indigenous ­people of Rus­sia and thus worthy of greater rights.42 In 2005, Saveliev initiated Rodina’s “Letter of 500,” a petition by public figures and members of Parliament that called for a strug­gle against “world Jewish domination” and an investigation into Rus­sian Jewish associations, accusing them of conducting extremist activities punishable ­under Article 282 of the Penal Code.43 Taking advantage of his membership in the Duma Committee for Constitutional Legislation and State-­Building and the Committee for CIS Affairs and Compatriot Relations, Saveliev played a powerbroker role in trying to connect some of the skinhead leaders and members the raciologist school with Duma MPs (see chapter 6). In the 2010s, some of Rodina’s new rising ideological stars continued to exhibit roots in neo-­Nazi subcultures, for instance, Fiodor Biriukov (b. 1978).

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Known in the 1990s in the musical under­ground world by the stage name Fiodor Volkov,44 Biriukov, a prolific composer, composed many songs dedicated to Hitler, the swastika, and the white race—­songs the authorities banned u ­ nder the anti-­ extremism law.45 In a second phase of his life, Biriukov emerged as an acerbic commentator on Rus­sian politics and became head of the Moscow branch of Rodina’s youth movement. Biriukov sees Prokhanov as one of the masters of con­ temporary Rus­sian lit­er­a­ture.46 The ideological proximity of the two men was confirmed in 2013 when, ­under Prokhanov’s patronage, Biriukov cofounded the Sta­lin­grad Club, which he presented as “the bastion of avant-­garde patriots in the global strug­gle against liberal elites.”47 Biriukov also disseminates a combination of Stalinism and Aryan references on his program on Den-­TV, Stal´noi Efir (Steel Air, an implicit reference to Stalin)48—­a good example of the attempt to blend diverse doctrinal traditions. He has been playing a driving role in building bridges to the Eu­ro­pean Far Right and highlighting the parallels between Rus­sia and a White Eu­rope supposedly u ­ nder threat.

The Or thodox Realm: Tsarism, White Émigrés, and the Black Hundreds The third ecosystem, the Orthodox realm, is less structured than the military–­ industrial complex: it lacks the concrete economic and industrial backbone of the latter, even if the Church can be considered its core ele­ment. It offers a looser network of influences, some institutionalized, ­others relying on personal contacts and individual commitments to defending a certain ideological stance. Its two main components, the Moscow Patriarchate and the groups promoting po­liti­cal Orthodoxy, both insist on Orthodoxy as the spiritual backbone of Rus­sia, yet they should be differentiated from one another. The Church has long-­term goals, chief among them the re-­Christianization of the country and the securing of a privileged status vis-­à-­v is the state, whereas the po­liti­cal Orthodoxy groups interpret Orthodoxy as a po­liti­cal ideology more than a faith and are ready to confront state structures to advance their agenda. This Orthodox realm has roots in the “Rus­sian Party” active in some Soviet structures, such as the Komsomol, and this continuity is sometimes embodied by ­family trajectories. Sergey Mikhalkov (1913–2009), the c­ hildren’s book author who wrote the lyr­ics of both the Soviet and Rus­sian national anthems, was one of the main patrons of the “Rus­sian Party” between the 1960s and 1980s. His son, the famous film director Nikita Mikhalkov (b. 1945), is one of the main representatives of this Orthodox realm t­ oday.49 But this group has also under­gone deep renewal: many of its representatives are so-­called Orthodox businessmen, a new

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generation born from the troubled path to a market economy in the 1990s, and some, like Konstantin Malofeev, are young, in their early forties. This Orthodox realm is also now better connected to émigré circles than it was in the Soviet era. ­Under Patriarch Kirill’s leadership, the Moscow Patriarchate has been particularly involved in the domain of morality, fostering legislation to make it harder to have an abortion, supporting anti-­homosexuality laws, reintroducing into the penal code the notion of “causing offense to religious feelings,” and influencing debates on juvenile justice.50 Within the Rus­sian government, the Church’s agenda can rely on some supporters among the ranks of se­nior officials, such as the head of the Duma Committee on F ­ amily, ­Women, and C ­ hildren’s Affairs, Yelena Mizulina, who established an interdepartmental working group to draft antiabortion legislation. She has become famous for several provocative proposals, such as making Orthodoxy the state religion and forbidding young w ­ omen to attend uni51 versity ­until they procreate. Mizulina is backed by Maxim Obukhov, the f­ ather of the pro-­life movement in Rus­sia and founder and chair of the Church’s antiabortion medical center, Zhizn´, as well as ­Father Dmitrii Smirnov,52 who leads the Patriarchate’s Committee for ­Family Affairs and the Defense of Motherhood and Childhood and has forged close relations with military circles. T ­ hese “­family values” groups do not foster any agenda that can be directly associated with fascism, but they position themselves at the forefront of the effort to connect with Eu­ro­pean and U.S. far-­right movements in the name of fighting for shared Christian values.53 If the Patriarchate’s mainstream position is overtly conservative, some figures are pushing for the Church to take the lead on a more radical agenda of ideological indoctrination. The leading figure of this trend is the metropolitan of Pskov and Porkhovsk, Tikhon Shevkunov (b. 1958), a prominent cleric and best-­selling writer often presented as Putin’s personal confessor, something neither man has confirmed, although it is true that they meet often.54 From 1995 to 2018, Tikhon headed the Sretensky Monastery, the proximity of which to Lubyanka, the headquarters of the former KGB and of t­ oday’s FSB, is often interpreted as confirmation of close personal and ideological proximity between the Church and the security ser­v ices ­because many high-­ranking FSB officers go to confession at the monastery. Tikhon emerged from Orthodox fundamentalist circles: he was one of the initiators of the movement against electronic barcodes before coming around to the Patriarchate’s view.55 He now seeks to promote po­liti­cal Orthodoxy within the Presidential Administration and the po­liti­cal establishment and to make the Church the ideological avant-­garde of the regime. Tikhon also exerts a high level of influence b ­ ecause the Sretensky Monastery hosts one of Rus­sia’s largest publishing ­houses; it produces liturgical texts as well as secular books relating to

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religious culture. The monastery also manages the site Pravoslavie.ru, the Church’s most popu­lar Internet portal, which receives about seven million visitors per month.56 As we ­will see ­later, Tikhon has been at the vanguard of reaching out to Eu­ro­pean far-­right groups and rehabilitating tsarist figures. Tikhon and other politicized Church figures act as power brokers, connecting the Church and state institutions with a rising Orthodox (un)civil society. The latter is represented by a loose network of groups that do not depend on the Patriarchate institutionally but operate in parallel with it.57 They are disinterested in the theological and liturgical side of religion and advance a more po­liti­cal agenda.58 As steady critics of secularism, they want Orthodoxy to acquire the official status of state religion and push the regime ­toward a traditional model of autocracy. One can identity at least three broad groups among ­these critics: the most apocalyptic ones, which refer to figures such as Ivan the Terrible or the medieval autocratic regime; more classically monarchist groups nostalgic for nineteenth-­century Rus­sia and its Romanov emperors; and the modernists who promote a monarchism better adapted to t­ oday’s conditions. The first two groups do not hide their ideological repertoire: some, such as For Faith and Fatherland (Za veru i otechestvo), the Rus­sian Imperial Movement (Russkoe imperskoe dvizhenie), and the Union of the Rus­sian ­People (Soiuz russkogo naroda), celebrate the Black Hundreds. ­Others, such as the Union of ­Bearers of Orthodox Banners (Soiuz pravoslavnykh khorugvenostsev), combine extreme Orthodox ideology and racist theories inspired by the U.S. White Power movement: the movement’s slogan is “Orthodoxy or death!” and its members wear pointed black hats inspired by oprichniki, the infamous militia of Ivan the Terrible.59 Po­liti­cal Orthodoxy is also disseminated by “Orthodox businessmen,” successful private entrepreneurs who gravitate ­toward the Church and offer funds to Orthodox charitable ­causes, w ­ hether to advance their po­liti­cal goals, have the Kremlin look upon them favorably, or launder dirty money. The two best-­known Orthodox businessmen are Vladimir Yakunin (b. 1948) and Konstantin Malofeev (b. 1974). Some researchers consider Yakunin to have been the Kremlin’s quasi-­ official means of communicating with the Patriarchate.60 Malofeev’s network has not penetrated Putin’s inner circle at the same level but remains power­ful via the mediation of Tikhon. Yakunin, who has been close to Putin since the early 1990s as a member of the famous Ozero cooperative,61 was appointed deputy minister of transport when Putin first became president. In 2003, he was named the head of Rus­sian Railways, which he led u ­ ntil he was fired in 2015. Owing to his KGB past and his Orthodox convictions, Yakunin has been dubbed the “Orthodox Chekist.”62 He took a deft stance on the marketplace of po­liti­cal Orthodoxy as early as 2002 by launching the “Dialogue of Civilizations,” an annual forum held in Rhodes that

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gathers numerous world religious leaders.63 ­Under its philanthropic facade, the forum has been an instrument of para-­diplomacy for Moscow: it has paved the way for multiple other uses of the notion of “civilizations” by the Rus­sian state and has built ties with UN bodies, in par­tic­ul­ar with the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organ­ization.64 Yakunin and his wife run the St. Andrew the First-­Called Foundation (or Andrei Protocletos), one of the largest Rus­sian Orthodox foundations. It finances multiple proj­ects, including restorations of churches and monasteries, the return of Orthodox relics to Rus­sian soil, cultural exchange programs with the Churches of the Patriarchate of Jerusalem, cele­brations of the reconciliation between the Patriarchate and the Rus­sian Orthodox Church Abroad, and campaigns to promote traditional ­family values, and monuments dedicated to Rus­sian White émigrés. The center works hand in hand with the Patriarchate and has given a major award “for faith and fidelity” to Patriarch Alexy II, the former Moscow mayor Yury Luzhkov, and Putin himself.65 Malofeev represents a younger generation. A l­awyer by training, he founded Marshall Capital Partners, an investment fund specializing in the telecommunications market.66 He was even elected to the Board of Directors of Svyazinvest, Rus­sia’s largest state-­controlled telecommunications com­pany, before its merger with Rostelecom.67 Malofeev has benefited from close po­liti­cal and personal connections to Igor Shchegolev (b. 1965), who was minister of telecommunications and mass communications when Malofeev served on the board of Svyazinvest. Using funds raised by Marshall Capital, Malofeev founded the Philanthropic Fund of St. Basil the ­Great, which now boasts some thirty programs advocating a broad range of f­ amily values (antiabortion groups, assistance to former convicts and single ­mothers, ­etc.), providing Orthodox religious education, and offering assistance to churches and monasteries.68 Malofeev has also been funding the Donbas insurgency—­even if, officially, he is simply providing humanitarian assistance per an agreement between his fund and the Donetsk People’s Republic.69 Close to Tikhon and proud of his monarchist convictions,70 he has funded several meetings at which the Eu­ro­pean and Rus­sian Far Right have become acquainted with one another and with monarchist circles. This Orthodox realm, with its tsarist nostalgia and fascination with Rus­sian emigration, is not devoid of contacts among the security ser­vices. One of its main liaison figures has been Leonid Reshetnikov, who worked for de­cades for the Foreign Intelligence Ser­v ice (SVR) and was head of the Rus­sian Institute for Strategic Studies (RISI), the SVR think tank, from 2009 to 2017. During his years as the head of RISI, he oriented the think tank ­toward a monarchist stance, which was expressed, for instance, when it sided with the Church on the issue of the remains of Nicholas II’s ­family.71 Fascinated by White emigration even in the

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Soviet era, Reshetnikov published the first biographical article on Ivan Solonevich (1891–1953), a reactionary White thinker, in 1990. Since then, he has been playing a key role in reviving the memory of Rus­sian émigrés in Bulgaria, Serbia, and Greece: his association, Rus­sian Lemnos—the name of a Greek island that hosts a Rus­sian cemetery—has been actively restoring churches, repairing monuments linked to the Rus­sian White émigrés, erecting commemorative plaques and statues, and so on.72 To this po­liti­cal Orthodox realm should be added another impor­tant figure: the world-­renowned film director Nikita Mikhalkov. Since The Barber of Siberia, which won the Rus­sian State Prize, Mikhalkov has produced a growing number of patriotic films.73 A member of the Presidium of the Rus­sian National Council, he has never concealed his monarchist convictions. One of the masterminds ­behind the rehabilitation of Rus­sia’s White past, Mikhalkov was a driving force in the repatriation to Rus­sia and reburial of the White general Anton Denikin (1872–1947) and the reactionary émigré thinker Ivan Ilyin (1883–1954). He played a central role in introducing Ilyin’s thinking to Putin and motivated the president to become personally involved in the reburial pro­cess. Since then, Mikhalkov has regularly invoked Ilyin to bolster the president’s legitimacy, including in his 150-­minute tele­vi­sion documentary celebrating Putin’s fifteen years as Rus­sia’s leader, aired in 2015.74 For ­these White nostalgics, rehabilitating Ivan Ilyin is a significant gesture, as he represents the most conservative and most anti-­Soviet wing of White émigré culture.

A closer look at the Kremlin highlights several competing ecosystems, with dif­ fer­ent ideological combinations, points, and counterpoints. The Presidential Administration does not foster any clearly formulated overarching doctrine, whereas the other two ecosystems elaborate ideological products that are more doctrinally coherent and structured as they try to energize the broad conservative atmosphere with more doctrinal substance. Many features of their content belong to the world of reaction, that is, the notion that society needs to return to a status quo ante, e­ ither tsarist or Stalinist style. However, the identification of the features that belong to fascism remains arduous. Indeed, ­these ele­ments are scattered and do not dominate the narrative of any ecosystem. The military–­industrial complex advances a frame centered mostly on Soviet nostalgia, dreaming of a new Soviet-­style indoctrinated society. Its wordings are conservative and sometimes reactionary, with fascist references remaining peripheral, perceptible among public intellectuals such as Aleksandr Dugin and Mikhail Kalashnikov, or, in Rodina, connected to Fiodor Biriukov. In the Orthodox realm, too, fascist references emerge only at the margins. They can be

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found mostly among ­those who believe in a kind of Black Hundreds revival and desire a revolutionary, pogromic atmosphere with strong anti-­Semitism and all kinds of conspiracy theories, as well as among t­ hose who seek to rehabilitate the Whites who sympathized with fascist regimes or (in the more extreme cases) collaborated with Nazi Germany against the Soviet Union. It is ­these sections of the two ecosystems, and not the “Kremlin” as a ­whole, that act as ideologically binding agents attempting to connect grassroots fascist trends with the po­liti­cal establishment and state structures.

6 RUS­S IA’S FASCIST THINKERS AND DOERS

Rus­sian citizens share the official narrative of their country as the epitome of antifascism, but the country also hosts a vivid far-­right landscape. Rus­sia is in no way unique in having a fringe ele­ment of its society that is inspired by extreme-­ right arguments, with or without references to historical fascism per se. Not only can t­hese groupuscules not enter the l­egal po­liti­cal game, but their so­cio­log­i­cal basis remains difficult to grasp. Compared to the United States, for instance, where such groups can rely on deeply anchored traditions of slavery and segregation and on genuine constituencies supporting such a worldview, this is not the case in Rus­sia. What creates tensions when interpreting their fringe status is thus not so much their ­limited so­cio­log­ic­ al relevance as their ability to interact with some segments of state structures and attempts to penetrate more official levels. ­These grassroots groups can be divided into several categories. The first includes small far-­right movements that try to adapt to the wider Zeitgeist and shift their doctrines from classic fascism to a defense of a Christian and White Rus­sia resistant to mi­grants. A second category groups a broader subculture of paramilitary and extreme combat sport communities that promote vigilantism with some ele­ments of their repertoire identifiable as fascism light, such as a muscular masculinity and the cult of vio­lence. A third category is composed not of “doers,” ­those expressing themselves through street actions, but of “thinkers,” active in the intellectual realm and occupying part of the Rus­sian publishing market, who spread the idea of Rus­sia’s Aryan identity, revamp race theories, or endorse the concept of the Conservative Revolution. Although ­these groups are not a prod-

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uct of the Kremlin, their presence in the public space partly contributes to blurring Rus­sia’s antifascism posture.1

The Rus­s ian Far Right: Always at the Margins As Soviet ideology collapsed, many citizens began trying new ideological experiments, searching out every­thing that was previously unknown or forbidden. Some believed strongly in the legitimacy of fascism as a po­liti­cal solution for what then looked like a desperate Rus­sia; ­others played on the provocative glamorization of every­thing fascist inherited from the Soviet under­ground to boost their countercultural claims. In both cases, t­ hese groups that remix dif­fer­ent ele­ments of the fascist doctrinal stock remain confined to the po­liti­cal and cultural fringes. For three de­cades, all Rus­sian extreme-­right groups have been characterized by a lack of institutional longevity, personal rivalries among leaders, and shaky popu­lar support, and they have been subject to alternating periods of tolerance and repression by the authorities. The foremost rehabilitation of fascism as a po­liti­cal ideology in post-­Soviet Rus­sia took shape with Rus­sian National Unity (Russkoe natsional´noe edinstvo, RNE), Rus­sia’s main “black shirts” paramilitary group in the early 1990s. Led by Aleksandr Barkashov (b. 1953), an electrician by training and a passionate admirer of both karate and history’s ­great conquerors, the RNE became famous for its defense of the White House during the October 1993 confrontation between Yeltsin and the Parliament and for the participation of RNE volunteers in the secessionist conflicts in Transnistria and South Ossetia.2 Even when it dis­appeared as the main driver of the Rus­sian fascist landscape, the RNE kept some of its prestige: in 2014, for instance, the official VKontakte page of Barkashov’s Rus­sian National Unity, Ia russkii, still had about 224,000 subscribers, and his new party, Russkoe Edinstvo, which had been shut down by the authorities, claimed 68,000 members.3 RNE borrowed symbols from classical fascism, particularly from Nazism: the swastika; the Hitler salute; the slogan “One Nation, One ­People, One State”; black paramilitary uniforms for members; and multiple references to the program of the NSDAP, including eugenics and a mixed economy. What set RNE apart from other radical associations was its racist definition of the Rus­sian nation, as illustrated in its handbook, The ABCs of a Rus­sian Nationalist (Azbuka russkogo natsionalista). The party explic­itly defended the “ge­ne­tic purity of the Rus­sian nation” and considered linguistic and religious ele­ments to be less salient than

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blood ties; it declared the interests of the nation superior to ­those of the state, which it believed should be an ethnic entity at the ser­v ice of a titular Rus­sian ­people; and it called for a ban on mixed marriages. The party expressed a belief in an anti-­Russian plot on the part of the world’s cosmopolitans, refused to condemn Chris­tian­ity despite cultivating neopagan innuendos, and tried to demonstrate Christ’s Aryanness and Slavicness.4 Barkashov celebrated fascist Italy and Nazi Germany for having freed themselves from Jewish domination;5 he also praised the Romanian Iron Guard. In an interview for Den´, Barkashov declared his admiration for Nazism, ­going so far as to claim that Hitler was right to consider the Slavs worthy of extermination.6 He ­later had to retract this remark, explaining that Hitler had betrayed the true princi­ples of national socialism by invading the Soviet Union.7 Between 1993 and 1997, RNE was the leading far-­right organ­ization in Rus­ sia, with about 15,000 active members and between 50,000 and 100,000 supporters, as well as the vague backing of approximately 10 ­percent of the population.8 Its internal structure was strictly hierarchical: membership involved several caste-­ like levels that could be attained only ­after intensive training.9 Once this training was successfully completed, the new partisans (soratniki) led small groups of about 10 ­people, which w ­ ere in turn integrated into a larger pyramidal structure. The party offered members the chance to ­either engage in a volunteer militia or work in the private security sector for businessmen sympathetic to the party. Local RNE chapters registered as sporting clubs or centers for military preparedness. The wealthiest groups specialized in paramilitary training (weapons ­handling, martial arts, hand-­to-­hand combat, and parachute jumping) and w ­ ere well-­ equipped with all-­terrain vehicles, trucks, boats, and weapons; they also attended training camps. RNE appeared to have developed close contacts with key ministries, such as ­those of the Interior and Defense.10 It regularly collaborated with regional military units and, with the discreet backing of the authorities, imposed order in the streets, notably in Voronezh, Stavropol, and Krasnodar. The movement also boasted “mobile units” for Moscow and the surrounding region, which could have been used to initiate guerrilla warfare. A significant number of its members worked in the security organs, and it recruited street kids to swell its ranks. Several communist leaders, including Gennady Zyuganov himself, used RNE bodyguards when they traveled.11 Another po­liti­cal group was interested by the fascist reference, but with a totally dif­fer­ent po­liti­cal agenda: the National Bolshevik Party (Natsional-­bolshevitskaia partiia, NBP), led by the poet and best-­selling novelist Eduard Limonov ­(1943–2020).12 In the second half of the 1990s, the NBP lagged ­behind RNE both in terms of its number of activists (prob­ably around five thousand) and its territorial visibility (with local sections in forty of Rus­sia’s then eighty-­nine federal sub-

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jects and in some of the former Soviet republics).13 The party newspaper, Limonka, had a large circulation, which sources place between twelve thousand and fifty thousand copies. Very rapidly, the Natsboly or Limonovtsy (as the National Bolsheviks are known in Rus­sia) developed a unique style of po­liti­cal expression and a culture of violent protest that would shape Rus­sian youth subcultures, especially leftist-­statist and anarchist, for years to come. The NBP’s radical anti-­ Putinism earned it the wrath of the regime, and since 2005, the movement has been deprived of any ­legal status in Rus­sia, and Limonov moved closer to the liberal opposition. The NBP ideological princi­ple is an explicit miscegenation of contradictory doctrines from both the Far Right and the Far Left, based on the idea that in order to challenge the system, paradox should be the new norm.14 Inspired by the concept of the Third Way and the German Conservative Revolution, the NBP asserted that national revolution and social revolution emanate from one and the same princi­ple, and that the extremes of Left and Right should join forces in the name of a “general princi­ple of uprising.”15 Limonov ­adopted the fascist salute and made many positive allusions to Mussolini and Hitler. In the 1990s, the party instituted a new dress code for street actions, inspired by the black shirts of Italian fascists: the Polushkin ­brothers, famous alternative fashion designers, called it fash-­fashion.16 In 1995, Limonka published a series of definitions of fascism: “Fascism is active pessimism; fascism is left nationalism; fascism is social romanticism; . . . ​the futuristic impulse; . . . ​the ­will to die; . . . ​the cele­bration of a heroic style; . . . ​anarchism plus totalitarianism; . . . ​loyalty to the sources and aspiration to the ­future.”17 Yet the NBP blended this exaltation of fascism with a cele­bration of Lenin, Stalin, Beria, the Bolshevik revolution, and Soviet culture. The party flag displayed a hammer and a sickle, and Limonka developed a fascinating visual style inspired by Bolshevik aesthetic of the 1920s and 1930s. It referenced punk culture, anarchism, and both left-­wing and right-­wing terrorist groups from the 1970s (as well as the criminal and cult leader Charles Manson), celebrating vio­lence as positive and war as the peak of ­human existence. By the early 2000s, with the exception of Limonov, the older generation of extreme-­right leaders, including Barkashov and his competitors, had largely dis­ appeared, having been replaced by skinheads (britogolovnye or “shaved heads” in Rus­sian; also skinkhedy). Skinheads deeply transformed the extreme-­right scene by implementing new methods of street action, behaving violently t­oward mi­ grants, recruiting younger members, and moving away from ideological debates ­toward a more instinctive racism. They also helped to shift the ideological backbone of the Rus­sian Far Right from classic fascist or postfascist doctrines to a “White Power” narrative that allows Rus­sia to dialogue with the West. Indeed,

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the Rus­sian skinhead movement drew its inspiration from the U.S. White Power movement, endorsing racism and segregation, with the most radical tendencies supporting exterminationist Nazi theories. They dress in a manner akin to Anglo-­ Saxon skinheads and they sport Celtic crosses, swastikas, the SS lightning bolt insignia, and the Totenkopf (death skull) of the SS combat formations.18 They have built connections with their Western counter­parts, such as the German Vikings (banned in Germany) and U.S. groups close to the Ku Klux Klan. In the 2000s, skinheads played a driving role in fostering antimigrant riots and interethnic skirmishes, fueling conflicts by spreading the word and helping or­ga­ nize localized pogroms such as the infamous 2006 anti-­Caucasian riot in Kondopoga, Karelia.19 Newer groups a­ dopted names with increasingly explicit references to their Rus­sian and white identity: Rus­sian Objective, Rus­sian Attack, Rus­sian Kulak, White Patrol, and White Hunters. Some increasingly prefer to emphasize specifically Rus­sian or Slavic traditions, marching u ­ nder the imperial Rus­sian flag (black-yellow-white) during their street demonstrations. For years, the best-­ organized—­gathering up to five thousand members20—­and most politicized skinhead group was Slavic Union (Slavianskii soiuz), ­later renamed Slavic Strength (Slavianskaia sila), the Rus­sian abbreviation of which was, in both cases, SS. Its leader, Dmitrii Demushkin (b. 1979), a former member of the RNE, has a long arrest rec­ord, including an incident in 2006 when he was suspected of having participated in a bomb attack on an Islamic prayer center in a Moscow suburb. Called Führer by his supporters, Demushkin borrows his ideological precepts from the RNE, and proclaims that only national socialism can save Rus­sia from the Judeo-­Masonic threat and the so-­called Zionist Occupation Government, a classic conspiracy theory also spread in the United States and the ­Middle East.21 Another key institution, the Movement against Illegal Immigration (DPNI) led by Aleksandr Belov (b. 1976), attempted to mediate between Rus­sian politicians and skinhead groups. Launched in 2002, the DPNI rejected any doctrinal engagement in order to avoid ideological schisms and argued that only “migrantophobia” could unify the Rus­sian Far Right. The movement reached its peak of influence in the mid-2000s, taking the lead on the Rus­sian Marches, the main nationalist demonstration or­ga­nized on November 4. ­Under its leadership, the march began featuring some representatives of U.S. White Power sporting cowboy hats, an extremely rare cultural symbol in Rus­sia.22 Belov has been close to David Duke, as well as to the White Power activist Preston Wiginton (b. 1965), who attended several DPNI meetings and Rus­sian Marches and or­ga­nized American hate-­rock bands in Rus­sia.23 In 2008, at the first DPNI congress, Belov announced a shift in strategy, a move away from radicalism in order to transform the DPNI into a “respectable nationalist movement with Eu­ro­pean tendencies.”24 He called for a new nationalism—­

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“not with a beard and enormous boots, but in a suit and tie.”25 Although many members rejected this new strategy, which led to schisms that weakened the movement,26 it nevertheless set the tone and confirmed that certain young far-­right leaders, such as Belov, recognized the potential legitimacy to be gained by presenting themselves as Rus­sian versions of Jean-­Marie Le Pen or Jorg Haider and by developing links with the U.S. Far Right. Concerned about the politicization of the skinhead movement, which was promoting increasingly anti-­Putin slogans, the authorities first tried to divide the extreme-­right scene by promoting more conciliatory groups, such as Rus­sian Image (Russkii obraz). This new movement, launched in 2008, advanced a well-­ elaborated, media-­savvy ideology that combines “European-­style” nationalism—­ references to the Irish Republican movement, for instance—­with an orientation ­toward pan-­Slavic nationalism while discreetly featuring some Nazi symbols, such as skulls, and promoting racist theories about the risk of a national degeneration of Rus­sians.27 However, the movement slowly lost the trust of the authorities and dis­appeared. In 2011, a­fter the ban on the DPNI and Demushkin’s Slavic Strength, a new co­ali­tion emerged: The Rus­sians (Russkie), which aimed to unify the remaining radical structures—­DPNI, SS, Dmitrii Bobrov’s National Socialist Initiative, the Rus­sian Imperial Movement, and Aleksandr Turik’s Union of the Rus­sian ­People.28 The co­ali­tion embraced a broad ideological spectrum, from Demushkin’s evocations of Nazism to movements that confined themselves to denouncing illegal immigration.29 But The Rus­sians was completely upended by the Ukrainian crisis and collapsed, before being banned by the authorities in 2015. At its peak in the mid-2000s, the Rus­sian White Power movement counted about fifty thousand skinheads, spread across about a hundred towns, with around five thousand in the Moscow region and three thousand in the Leningrad region.30 At that time, Rus­sia likely had the largest number of skinheads in the world.31 According to data collected by the SOVA Center, ethnic vio­lence committed by skinheads peaked in 2007–2008.32 Indeed, for years law enforcement was lax b ­ ecause some of the state organs had friendly relations with radical groups, or at least a laissez-­faire policy ­toward them. ­Things began to change around 2008–2010 with the more systematic use of Article 282 of the Penal Code, devoted to preventing the incitement of interethnic hatred, and Article 20.3, which aimed to fight “propaganda and public demonstration of Nazi attributes and symbols.”33 Both skinhead activities and, more globally, antimigrant riots began declining in 2010–2012 ­under pressure from the federal authorities and t­hose municipalities, including Moscow, that have taken serious steps to clamp down on the phenomenon.34 In fact, ­after the participation of far-­right groups in the anti-­Putin protests of winter 2011–2012 and calls to overthrow the regime by a revolutionary “Rus­sian Spring”

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during the first months of the Ukrainian crisis in 2014, the authorities realized that radical nationalism could potentially threaten the status quo and was moving into a plain confrontational posture that had to be eliminated.35 ­Today, the Rus­sian Far Right has been largely dismantled. The Rus­sian Marches of November 4, long seen as the foremost nationalist demonstration, declined in size from 17,000 participants at its peak in 2013 to around 1,500 ­people in 2019, divided into two competitive marches.36 Demushkin spent several years in jail before being freed in early 2019. Vladimir Ratnikov, leader of the national-­socialist Black Block (Chernyi blok), as well as Vladimir Basmanov, Belov’s ­brother and leader of the Nation and Freedom Committee, w ­ ere jailed. Belov was sentenced to seven years in jail for embezzlement, among other trumped-up accusations.37 Several other figures have ­either left the country or ­stopped their activities in order to avoid imprisonment. The Rus­sian Far Right has tried to move its activities from street actions to online platforms, but many of the latter have been closed by the authorities. It pre­sents itself ­today as a co­ali­tion of po­liti­cal opponents to the Putin regime fighting for democracy and freedom of speech, with some attempts to reach out to the liberal opposition—­Garry Kasparov’s Other Rus­sia movement has been one of the liberal structures welcoming nationalists. It is mostly focused on defending the rights of its jailed members, celebrated as po­liti­cal prisoners—­one of the most recent movements, White Suit (Belaia mast´), acts, for instance, as a mutual help association for nationalist prisoners and their f­ amily.38 A generational leadership change further affected the far-­right dynamic. The first generation of leaders, active in the 1990s, was trained during the perestroika years inside Pamyat and was more oriented t­oward ideology than action. It was replaced in the 2000s by less doctrinal skinheads who promoted a more basic form of racism, followed by the emergence of a more “po­liti­cally correct” third generation inspired by Eu­ro­pean populist models that replaced open references to fascist doctrines with antimigrant and pro-­Christian values discourses. The rally-­around-­ the-­flag effect of Crimea annexation also contributed to emptying the Far Right of some of its ideological content in ­favor of the Putin regime, seen as the protector of Rus­sian minorities abroad. Yet that consensus has since been falling apart and could be challenged again in the ­future—in that case, Rus­sian nationalist movements could potentially regain some of their mobilizational potential.

Flirtation with Militia and Vigilante Culture Although the classic Far Right has been largely pulled to pieces, other forms of rightist activism have taken shape that are not seen as confrontational to the re-

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gime but, on the contrary, seem to support some of its goals. This is the case of the rising subculture of militia, which blends initiatives by state structures, po­ liti­cal parties, and the Church with individual motivations, making it an entanglement of grassroots subcultures and top-­down mechanisms. The militia realm and the activities associated with it—­extreme combat sports—­are obviously not automatically correlated with fascism and may exist outside any doctrinal framework. Yet some ideological bridges exist around notions like muscular masculinity, male camaraderie, the sense of sacrifice, and the cult of vio­lence and death. In Weimar Germany, the Freikorps, former war veterans reor­ga­nized as mercenaries, embodied this tradition of right-­wing paramilitary militias,39 which post-­ Soviet Rus­sia has also developed. Many far-­right groups have indeed invested in the militia sector as a profitable business linked to the rise of private security firms and have used extreme combat sport communities as a pool for recruitment. This militia culture indirectly strengthens the notion of vigilantism, that is, civilians who act in an informal law enforcement capacity. Rus­sia does not share the vigilante tradition of the United States—­embodied by pop-­culture heroes such as Batman or Superman—­but the notion that the individual should be personally responsible for “law and order” or “social prophylaxis” in his or her own neighborhood, with the fight against alcoholism being the foremost objective, is viewed positively. In Soviet times, it was common to involve civilians in law enforcement work: the Voluntary Popu­lar Squad (dobrovol´naia narodnaia druzhina) recruited civilians to work with the police to prevent acts of delinquency and steer young ­people away from risky be­hav­iors.40 The squads ­were active across the country in neighborhoods as well as workplaces. This tradition largely dis­ appeared with the radical changes of the 1990s but was revived on a smaller scale in the 2000s. ­Today’s militia activism takes several forms. The most institutionalized of ­these is connected to Cossack traditions, involving the historically self-­governing, semimilitary rural communities that once protected Rus­sia’s southern borders. About three million ­people claim Cossack identity in modern Rus­sia. Their special status has been recognized by the state since 1996–1997. In 2005, a federal law, “On State Ser­vice of the Rus­sian Cossacks,” enabled them to work for the Interior Ministry (especially as border guards), the Ministry of Emergency Situations, and the Ministry of Defense. Their activities include ­handling forest conservation; providing assistance during natu­ral disasters, accidents, and other emergencies; fighting fires; educating c­ hildren and young p ­ eople on patriotic values; and preparing youth for military ser­v ice. In southern cities such as Krasnodar, Cossack guard formations serve not only as border guards but also as municipal police, insisting on their role as guardians of the city’s “law and order.” They have been regularly accused of perpetrating interethnic vio­lence against mi­grants from the

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North Caucasus but enjoy tacit immunity from the local authorities, who employ them against liberal protests or LGBT+ groups.41 Cossacks thus constitute a unique case in which a paramilitary structure is granted official functions on the basis of its historical legitimacy. Some sources calculate that about 38,000 of them work in paid government ser­v ice and 70,000 participate in the “defense of public order” as voluntary brigades accompanying the regular police.42 Another source estimates that 122,000 Cossacks are registered in some form of state ser­v ice.43 Some Cossacks have also been involved in Rus­sia’s post-­Soviet conflicts, including both wars in Chechnya, the 2008 Georgian–­Russian conflict in South Ossetia and Abkhazia, and the Donbas insurgency. Another form of militia has developed more recently, on a smaller scale, out of the Rus­sian Orthodox Church. In 2013, the Patriarchate took a step ­toward institutionalizing an Orthodox militia with the Sorok Sorokov movement. Claiming ten thousand members, Sorok Sorokov calls for Rus­sia’s second Christianization (vtoroe kreshchenie) and supports the proj­ect “Programma 200,” which aims to construct two hundred new churches in Moscow and organizes prayer vigils at the proposed sites. Born as a response to the Pussy Riot incident, in which a feminist per­for­mance group staged an anti-­Putin “punk prayer” in the Moscow Cathedral of Christ the Savior in 2012,44 it uses the neologism churchophobia (khramofobiia) to denounce the supposed lack of popu­lar re­spect for religious symbols and it aims to defend Orthodox churches against desecration and reconnect society to the Church’s values. Initially, the movement concentrated on fighting homo­sexuality and LGBT+ rights; it regularly disrupted gay pride parades.45 The movement has since developed side proj­ects such as humanitarian aid programs in Donbas, religious tourism, and diverse charitable activities. Based on an old Rus­sian saying that Moscow has “forty times forty” churches,46 the movement’s name is abbreviated in Rus­sian as SS, which is likely not a coincidence. The Communist Party and liberals, the movement’s main targets, have accused Sorok Sorokov of being a neo-­Nazi organ­ization.47 All of its members wear red T-­shirts bearing the movement’s symbol, a traditional Rus­sian knight brandishing a sword, with Orthodox churches in the background and the slogan “Fight for Life” (bitva za zhizn´). The movement’s website and social media combine icons and paintings of a folkloric tsarist Rus­sia with pictures of muscled and tattooed athletes, some with swastikas or symbols borrowed from the Ku Klux Klan.48 Sorok Sorokov is well-­connected. It is supported by the Moscow municipality—­ closely linked to the Church since the era of Mayor Yury Luzhkov—­and seems to have been fostered by ­Father Tikhon himself. Members meet regularly with Archpriest Dmitrii Smirnov, and they have direct access to Patriarch Kirill.49 The latter personally received the movement’s leader, the composer Andrei Kormukhin

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(b. 1970), on his forty-­fifth birthday and alluded to the group when he mentioned the “voluntary brigades” that accompany him during his travels.50 Another feature of the movement is the use of champion athletes, such as the boxing champions Vladimir Nosov and David Arustamian, the powerlifting champion Yuri Vartabedian, and the world karate champion Sergey Fedotkin, to advocate for Orthodoxy.51 Over time, it also began to recruit soccer fans, including some heroes of soccer fan culture and violent supporters of the Moscow-­based Spartak club, including Vasilii Stepanov, nicknamed “the killer,” and Ivan Katanaiev, one of the found­ers of the Pan-­Russian Union of Soccer Fan Clubs, who now directs soccer fans to Sorok Sorokov.52 The broader context of this rise of militia culture relies on a less ideologically clear-­cut but more deeply embedded social trend—­the popularity of a Rus­sian version of martial arts, sambo (self-­defense without weapons). Sambo has been progressively instituted as the quin­tes­sen­tial Rus­sian martial art, able to compete with its Asian counter­parts and imbued with the same spiritual values—­self-­ awareness, endurance, self-­control, re­spect for the ­enemy, and patriotism. Many sambo athletes pair martial arts techniques with Orthodox values, in much the same way that Asian martial arts are infused with Taoism or Confucianism. The Church itself has been involved in promoting sambo. As early as 2002, the Patriarchate’s Department of External Relations recognized that wrestling had a positive effect on the ­human body and mind.53 The famous sambo trainer Anatolii Khopetskii declared, “Our mission, jointly with the Rus­sian Orthodox Church, is to work and develop a shared ideology of sambo.”54 The Moscow Patriarchate has since invested in this sports landscape by developing a w ­ hole set of patriotic clubs working ­under the umbrella of Church institutions or of some individual parishes that combine martial sports training with lessons in morality, military history, and Orthodoxy. The first sambo national championship was or­ga­nized in 2001 ­under Putin’s personal leadership, and the following year the State Committee for Sport introduced the new discipline of “military sambo.” Putin also led the launch of the Sambo Wrestling Presidential Cup in 2006. As honorary president of the International Sambo Federation (FIAS), he personally lobbied the International Olympic Committee to recognize sambo as an Olympic sport.55 So far, Rus­sian efforts have succeeded in getting sambo included in several major international competitions, including the Eu­ro­pean and Asian Games, the Universiade, and the World Combat Games.56 Sambo has also become one of the core components of Rus­sian mixed martial arts (MMA), a full-­contact combat sport that is more violent than traditional martial arts. ­Because of the high rate of injuries and lack of established rules, mixed martial arts have been excluded from major international and national

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competitions.57 In 2012, thanks to Putin’s personal involvement, MMA was designated a “national sport” in Rus­sia. The heavyweight boxing icon Fyodor Emelyanenko (b. 1976) was appointed to the role of Rus­sian MMA Union president. Held up as a paragon of Rus­sia’s “healthy patriotism,” and close to Putin, Emelyanenko entered politics and was elected to the Belgorod Regional Duma in 2010 ­under the patronage of United Rus­sia. More than any other extreme sport, MMA clubs are particularly attractive to far-­right groups and the cultivation of a “white” brand. This is the case, for example, in regard to several MMA clothing lines, such as Beloyar and White Rex. ­These brands insist on their “Slavic style,” signified by the swastika, Orthodox crosses, and Aryan/Celtic symbols and modeled by heavi­ly muscled and tattooed men.58 Another ecosystem close to the vigilante realm is the infamous Night Wolves (nochnye volki), celebrated as Putin’s personal biker club. The first official motorcycle club in the Soviet Union, it was born of under­ground subcultures in 1989. The club’s founder and leader, Aleksandr Zaldostanov (b. 1963), nicknamed “the surgeon” (khirurg) ­because he is a former facial reconstructive surgeon, discovered Western biker culture while working as a bouncer in West Berlin in the mid1980s.59 The Night Wolves rapidly became a successful brand that runs multiple rock clubs, several tattoo parlors (they ­were one of the found­ers of the annual International Moscow Tattoo Convention), some motorcycle repair and custom shops, and its own clothing line, Wolf Wear. Members usually ­ride Harley-­ Davidsons—­Putin himself has appeared riding one at their rallies—­but the club has also developed its own line in cooperation with the manufacturer IMZ-­Ural. The Night Wolves club, which claims about five thousand members, has succeeded in blending Western biker culture and ele­ments from its original counterculture—­such as references to Mad Max, which inspired apocalyptic displays at club rallies—­with Kremlin ideology. The generously funded club advances the Kremlin’s main po­liti­cal stance: it portrays the West as Rus­sia’s ­enemy, denounces its de­cadent culture and homophilia, and organizes motorcycle pilgrimages to Rus­sian Orthodox holy sites several times a year. Zaldostanov has received honors from Putin himself; he was one of the official torchbearers for the 2014 Winter Olympics in Sochi and was awarded the Order of Honor for his role in the patriotic upbringing of youth. In return, he made the Chechen leader Ramzan Kadyrov honorary chief of the Night Wolves for Chechnya.60 The 2014 Ukrainian crisis brought the Night Wolves added visibility, as they actively facilitated the annexation of Crimea by patrolling the streets of Sevastopol, blockading the main routes into the city, and participating in attacks on the Strikolkove natu­ral gas fa­cil­i­ty and naval headquarters. Some of its members l­ ater joined the Donbas insurgency. In August 2014, they or­ga­nized a grandiose musical show in Sevastopol, attended by an estimated one hundred thousand ­people

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and broadcast on Rus­sian state tele­v i­sion, that celebrated the return of Crimea to Rus­sia and the fight against the “fascist junta” in Kyiv.61 The club also offers biker tours to Berlin on Victory Day but, so far, has been regularly ­stopped at the borders of Poland and Lithuania,62 although they continue to try to infiltrate Central Eu­ro­pean extreme sport clubs.63 They also collaborated with Sorok Sorokov to disrupt the protests against a new statue of Prince Vladimir that was erected in Moscow in late 2016. With the help of several other politicians and public figures, Zaldostanov formed the anti-­Maidan movement that called for a “witch hunt” against liberals and pro-­Western values.64 Yet, although the Night Wolves may claim Putin’s personal support, their relationship to the Presidential Administration remains complex: in 2017, they ­were denied presidential grant monies,65 which they had consistently secured since 2012, thus confirming the fleeting nature of these ideological honeymoons. Last but not least, the Donbas insurgency contributed to the romanticization of militia among some segments of Rus­sian nationalist-­minded youth. All extreme-­right youth groups—­the Eurasianist Union of Youth, ­those claiming links to Barkashov’s old RNE, the Rus­sian Imperial Movement, skinhead groups like Russkie or Restrukt, and so on66—­sent volunteer fighters to participate in the insurgency. They presented the insurrection as a “Rus­sian Spring” (russkaia vesna), a totalitarian revolution that would not only transform society, overthrow current regimes, and start over from a tabula rasa, but also allow them to practice their urban warfare culture in a real war theater. They promoted vio­lence, filling the Rus­sian Internet and social media with images of volunteers in khaki uniforms, proudly displaying their weapons, and posing in macho ways near tanks or destroyed military equipment. The narrative and nationalist hard rock ­music that accompany ­these images promote vio­lence, sacrifice, and death in the name of the greater national cause. Many of the Donbas fighter brigades exhibit the classic traits shared by almost all fascist movements: a leftist-­style discourse that denounces cap­i­tal­ist corporations and Jewish oligarchs, obsessive storytelling about the dangers threatening the survival of the nation, and neo-­Nazi symbols that offer all pos­si­ble variations of the swastika.67 The militia realm in Rus­sia has thus benefited from several overlapping po­ liti­cal and cultural trends: extreme-­right groups preparing for urban warfare and using the Donbas insurgency as a training launchpad; the growing involvement of the Church in the paramilitary sector; and the rugged masculine fashion expressed through Russified martial arts. ­These diverging ecosystems may overlap—­ many former military men, for instance, manage paramilitary youth clubs and practice martial arts in their Rus­sian or Asian iterations—­but they also remain distinct. The majority of martial arts clubs have no agenda other than to care for Rus­sian youth physically and mentally; they typically do not advance any

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ideological program that could be linked to the fascist repertoire. Yet their body aesthetic aspires to give some moral gravitas to the flesh. They offer a body language reflective of traditional masculinity, celebrating trust in male camaraderie and collective action in the name of the nation. In that regard, they are part of a worldwide phenomenon of regenerated masculinity as embodied in the tattooed and muscular figures seen in the Rocky film series already in the 1980s.68 This militia subculture calls above all for ser­vice to the state and sacrifice to the nation. In some of its expressions, however, it may also tend ­toward more aggressive vigilantism: Sorok Sorokov confirms, for instance, the link between youth paramilitary training and brown vigilantism.

Rehabilitating Fascism as a Doctrine Like many other countries around the world, Rus­sia has also been facing a series of attempts to rehabilitate fascism as a doctrine among small intellectual circles. One can identify two main groups advancing it: t­ hose favoring a reading of Rus­ sians as “whites” and the promotion of Rus­sia’s supposed Aryanness and its religious corollary, neo-­paganism; and a more sophisticated attempt, embodied by Aleksandr Dugin, to refurbish fascist po­liti­cal doctrines and insist on their geopo­ liti­cal implications. In the early 1990s, the theme of Rus­sians’ Aryan origin invaded the publishing market, with dozens of works on Slavic Vedic knowledge, an eclectic combination of tales, legends, popu­lar songs, and fake manuscripts through which the alleged pantheon of pre-­Christian Rus­sian gods was reconstructed. In this alternative historiography, Slavs are presented as the first p ­ eople of humanity, who have existed for several thousand years, if not tens of thousands.69 Sumerians, Hittites, Etruscans, and Egyptians are retrospectively considered to be Slavs; the Rus­sians supposedly played a critical but unknown role in the development of the ancient civilizations of the Mediterranean Basin.70 Some ideologists state that the original Aryan homeland lies in the steppes of southern Rus­sia, seeing in the Scythian world the primordial ele­ment of their identity.71 ­Others are more directly inspired by German theories of a Nordic origin: the Aryan homeland would have been located in ancient Atlantis or in the bygone Arctic country of Hyperborea, the inhabitants of which migrated to Siberia.72 The proponents of the Nordic Aryan cradle are more radical in their racial conceptions than ­those promoting a Central Asian and Ira­nian cradle: they believe in the superiority of an original white race, of which the Rus­sians would be the purest representatives. A famous Aryanist theoretician, Vladimir Danilov, stated, for instance,

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that Rus­sia is destined to create a Fourth Reich, a new Aryan empire of global dimensions.73 Far-­right groups stepped into the Aryan breach early in the perestroika years, promoting both an Aryan credo and the neopagan theme of Rus­sia’s pre-­Christian faith. The most famous of ­these was prob­ably the Rus­sian Party of Rus­sia (Russkaia partiia Rossii). It was founded by the cult figure Viktor Korchagin (b. 1940), who is known for his numerous publications, including his famous Catechism of a Jew in the USSR (Katekhizis evreia v SSSR), which presented Chris­tian­ity as one of the ele­ments of Jewish world domination.74 In the early 1990s, Hitler was an iconic figure for several of ­these Aryan groups, including the Church of Nav, an openly neo-­Nazi, neopagan organ­ization led by Ilia Lazarenko (b. 1973).75 Since then, however, the Church of Nav has gradually replaced the Nazi leader, whose image provokes deep aversion among the Rus­sian public, with Stalin, a much more palatable figure for a local audience. In the early 2000s, Bezverkhii’s Union of the Veneds likewise exchanged Hitler for Stalin as the greatest hero of the Aryan cause, thus moving closer to the ideas of Zyuganov’s Communist Party. The Union of Slavic Communities, the Congress of Pagan Communities, and the Movement for Rus­sian Liberation, too, proposed merging neo-­paganism and Stalinism. The most systematic group, one more interested in race theories than in Aryanism, was structured around the so-­called school of raciology (rasologiia).76 It became vis­i­ble on the website White World (Belyi mir), which hosted other websites for so-­called white and Slavic audiences, and participated in Slavophile literary circles, such as the Writers’ Union of Rus­sia. It first published in the newspaper Nasledie predkov (The Heritage of Ancestors), a name that evoked Heinrich Himmler’s Ahnenerbe,77 before launching its own brand, the “Library of Racial Thought” (Biblioteka rasovoi mysli). This book series has since published tens of volumes claiming that the study of phenotype (craniology, phrenology, odontology, and serology) allows individuals to be classified based on race, and that race determines the cultural and intellectual potential of each nation, an assumed ideological genealogy that echoes the Nazi Rassenkunde.78 In 2005, the collection was u ­ nder investigation by Moscow’s Office of the Procurator, but its publisher managed to convince a judge of its scientific character, which allowed its editors to avoid a criminal investigation despite their repeated calls for pogroms.79 The doctrine of Rus­sia’s Aryanness or “whiteness” has been gaining supporters, both in its core version of racialism and in its milder interpretation, in which Rus­sians are part of a white Eu­rope that has to protect itself against mi­grants. The ­limited discussion of the ideological foundations of the Nazi regime and the Holocaust in Rus­sian educational institutions results in the lack of general public

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awareness of the doctrinal roots of references to Aryanness. Moreover, the interest in Slavic prehistory and the trend ­toward alternative history and conspiracy theories create an intellectual atmosphere favorable to the search for the “essence” of ­peoples, thereby contributing to a revival of old forms of racism.80 Yet it remains challenging to determine how much of the population supports a narrative of Rus­sia’s whiteness in one way or another. Vladimir Shcherbakov’s All about Atlantida, published in several editions in the 1990s, has sold about two hundred thousand copies; his other books, as well as ­those of other Aryanist authors such as Aleksandr Asov and Valerii Diomin, have had smaller print runs of between five thousand and twenty thousand copies.81 Yet ­these numbers do not tell us ­whether readers consider them to be works of fiction or “documentation” of a supposed objective Aryanness. In a 2014 online survey via the social network VKontakte, 43 ­percent of the 360,000 participants agreed with the sentence “Our race displays many qualities superior to other races,” and more than 50 ­percent supported the idea that “mi­grants degrade the gene pool [migratsiia portit genofond].”82 But this says nothing about mass support for far-­right ideologies, with or without explicit references to fascism. The second and most systematic attempt to revamp fascism has come from Aleksandr Dugin (b. 1962), the most renowned Rus­sian geopo­liti­cal and far-­right theoretician.83 Since the mid-1990s, Dugin has been the best marketed of all Rus­ sian ideologists, both in Rus­sia and in the West. His prolific character and his ability to publish in very diverse media outlets and speak to diverse audiences, combined with the West’s obsession with him, have kept him in the media spotlight. He rightfully positions himself as the main introducer, translator, mediator, and aggregator of fascist theories in post-­Soviet Rus­sia; in the three de­cades since perestroika, he has been able to translate, both literally—he can read the main Eu­ro­pean languages and speaks excellent French and good German and English—­and intellectually a broad se­lection of fascist-­inspired lit­er­a­ture and adapt it to the Rus­sian context. Dugin is a complex doctrinaire. He is a chameleon thinker: he can adapt his discourse to dif­fer­ent groups, speaking as a convinced proponent of Rus­sian statehood and ­great power before an audience of civil servants or se­nior military officials while calling for unlimited vio­lence against the current po­liti­cal order when he communicates with countercultural groups. He is very much a bricoleur, creatively using the fash­ion­able themes of the day to elaborate a philosophical meta-­ narrative on Rus­sia. Well-­read in mainstream philosophy and the humanities, Dugin is also an impressive aggregator of ideologies. He brings together doctrines from diverse origins and masters several levels of discourse: academically respectable texts with references to Max Weber and Michel Foucault, geopo­liti­cal expertise for broad news outlets, and hate pamphlets for radical websites and blogs.

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Influenced by Antonio Gramsci, Dugin believes that the only way to change politics is to first conquer the intellectual field and set its agenda. He does not conceal his ultimate goal: “a meta-­ideology, common to all the enemies of the open society.”84 This meta-­ideology may be unique in its syncretism, even eclecticism, but it is also distinctive in its lack of originality: Dugin compiles more than he fundamentally renews the doctrinal stock of “the enemies of the open society.” His doctrinal production can be visualized as concentric circles, with fascism as the backbone of his worldview, articulated around four traditions: Nazi occultism (Aryanism, Hyperborea, Thule, conspiracy theories); Traditionalism or Perennialism, inspired by Julius Evola (1898–1974) and his theory of spiritual races; the German Conservative Revolution of the 1920s and 1930s; and the Eu­ro­pean New Right, a reframing of far-­right theories ­under the influence of some leftist doctrines, which incorporates anticapitalist rhe­toric as well as regionalist and ecological stances.85 In the second concentric circle of Dugin’s Weltanschauung, one can find references to Rus­sian intellectual history: classical Eurasianism from the interwar period, National Bolshevism, and Lev Gumilev’s theories on Eurasia and ethnos,86 as well as ideas from some nineteenth-­century conservative Rus­sian thinkers such as Konstantin Leontiev (1831–1891), Nikolay Danilevsky (1822– 1885), or Fyodor Dostoevsky (1821–1881). ­These Russia-­centric references are peripheral for Dugin, with one exception—­Orthodoxy (in par­tic­ul­ ar, the Old Believer Church, of which he is a member).87 A third category of works includes more academic publications on geopolitics, sociology, and international relations: Dugin has been investing in the textbook market as a way to generate revenue. As Anton Shekhovtsov judiciously points out, the relationship between geopolitics and fascism is central to an analy­sis of Dugin’s intellectual construction.88 Dugin’s personal contribution to the philosophy of fascism is the assertion that the regeneration of the Rus­sian nation ­w ill be realized by the total—­and totalitarian—­transformation of the Rus­sian state on the international stage. The birth of a new mankind is therefore intimately linked not to a biological and cultural entity (the nation) but to a state, Rus­sia, and a civilization, Eurasia. This explains why radically revisionist transformational geopolitics remains at the core of Dugin’s worldview as an integral part of its philosophical arsenal: his new geopolitics of Eurasia is seen as the concrete implementation of a fascist solution for post-­Soviet Rus­sia. Despite encountering several hard times in his ­career, Dugin has remained faithful to the convictions he formed in the early 1980s, when he promoted esoteric Nazism and a carnivalesque SS Black Order as a member of the Yuzhinsky Circle. In a 2006 interview, he recalled his intellectual formation as part of the circle and concluded: “In 1981–1982, I was already a full-­fledged phi­los­o­pher with my own intellectual agenda, my own metaphysics and ideology. . . . ​I did not

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mature any more [bol´she ia ne vzroslel].”89 Indeed, Dugin continues ­today to promote the same group of authors that he praised in the late 1980s. Yet his attempts to refurbish fascism and adapt it to Rus­sia’s context have evolved. In the early 1990s, Dugin de­cided to openly confront the hegemonic interpretation of fascism as the historical e­ nemy of Rus­sia and advance an agenda of straightforward rehabilitation. He first celebrated the Russophile tradition of national socialism by identifying three main pro-­Russian forces in Nazi Germany, which he labels a “Eurasian order”: the leftist Nazis, personified by the head of the SA, Ernst Röhm (1887–1934), whose anticapitalist orientation made the group sensitive to the Soviet experience and discourse; the SS institution of Ahnenerbe, presented by Dugin as an “intellectual oasis in the national socialist regime”; and, last but not least, Reinhard Heydrich (1904–1942)—­Himmler’s deputy, SS Obergruppenführer, and architect of the Final Solution—in whom Dugin saw “a convinced Eurasianist.”90 Dugin interpreted the Molotov–­Ribbentrop Pact as a critical historical moment that allowed the two continental powers, Germany and Rus­ sia, to unite against the Atlanticist countries. This explains his support for the pact, which he defined as “the peak of the strategic success of Eurasianists,” and his regret that history had to “bifurcate” in 1941, resulting in a bloody confrontation between the two natu­ral allies.91 Faced with heavy criticism and unable to openly rehabilitate fascist ideology in Rus­sia, Dugin turned to a less direct promotion of doctrines that borrow some ele­ments of fascism, focusing mostly on revalorizing the tradition of the German Conservative Revolution.92 Only that approach could facilitate fascism’s reintegration into the realm of the “po­liti­cally correct” by presenting some of its main figures as having no responsibility whatsoever for the Second World War. Dugin thus emphasized tensions between Conservative Revolution theoreticians and Hitlerism, reminding his readers of their opposite worldviews: Hitlerism was farther to the Right, whereas the Conservative Revolution was distinctly more leftist; Hitler was a Russophobe but representatives of the Conservative Revolution ­were Russophiles; the former was a racist, but the latter w ­ ere nonxenophobic nationalists. Dugin also created an intellectual lineage for the Conservative Revolution that nativizes it in the Rus­sian context by linking it to the famous notion of a specific Rus­sian Sonderweg.93 He asserts, “The concept of the Third Way was almost always correlated to the concept of the Rus­sian Way.”94 Yet Dugin could not refrain from integrating many more classically fascist regimes, including the first years of Mussolini’s regime, José Antonio Primo de Rivera’s Phalange movement in Spain, the Iron Guard in Romania, and even the Ira­nian Shia revolution, into the prestigious genealogy of the Conservative Revolution.95 Dugin renewed his commitment to the Conservative Revolution in 2009 with the publication of The Fourth Po­liti­cal Theory, a manifesto that rejected the three

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main po­liti­cal philosophies that had existed so far (liberalism, communism, and fascism) while recognizing that the Conservative Revolution was already in fact “hidden” inside the Nazi doctrine.96 To this day, Dugin continues to refer regularly to the Eu­ro­pean fascist repertoire. For Victory Day in 2008, his online channel Evrazia-­TV broadcast a concert by a rock group called Ahnenerbe.97 In 2011, he launched the short-­lived Florian Geyer Club, named for the Third Reich’s Eighth SS Cavalry Division, which was deployed to the Eastern Front in 1943– 1944.98 In 2014, during one of his last lectures at Moscow State University, Dugin joked that his neo-­Eurasianist youth movement should avoid calling itself Hitlerjugend and instead adopt a Rus­sian name like oprichnina to make itself more acceptable in the Rus­sian context.99 What accentuates Dugin’s difficulties in elaborating a renewed fascist doctrine that would convincingly move away from the national socialist past is his constant reiteration of several ideological ele­ments directly inspired by the Nazi tradition: he believes in the existence of spiritual races and promotes Rus­sia’s Aryanness; he advocates for iconic phi­los­o­phers and intellectuals such as Martin Heidegger (1889–1976), Carl Schmitt (1888–1985), and Mircea Eliade (1907– 1986), all of whom displayed support for Nazi or fascist regimes; he asserts that totalitarian vio­lence ­will give birth to a new mankind; and his youth movement, the Eurasian Union of Youth, has been organ­izing paramilitary training for young ­people, nurturing discourses on the regenerative aspect of vio­lence. Dugin has thus played a critical role in trying to rehabilitate the fascist universe of doctrines and symbols in Rus­sia. He remains the most famous Rus­sian thinker quoted and referred to abroad by t­ hose sharing his worldviews, but his success at home has been ­limited. Dugin indeed contributed to the promotion of Eurasia as a synonym for Rus­sia and of a geopo­liti­cal vision of Rus­sia’s ­great power status. Two de­cades ago, he was able to reach a broad audience with his book Foundations of Geopolitics: The Geopo­liti­cal ­Future of Rus­sia.100 Commissioned by then-­minister of defense General Igor Rodionov, the book had been reissued four times by 2000 and enjoyed a large readership in academic and po­liti­cal circles. Foundations of Geopolitics became Dugin’s calling card when reaching out to military circles and the establishment more broadly.101 For years his book was also included in many university curricula. Yet many other thinkers have since emerged and have secured much more direct entrance into policymaking circles. Even the term Eurasia that Dugin contributed to popularizing was never credited to him. On the contrary, he was deprived of this paternity, which was appropriated by other Eurasia proponents such as the adviser to the president of the Rus­sian Federation on regional economic integration, Sergey Glazyev, a much more mainstream figure who offered a less esoteric and more pragmatic reading of the term.102

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Dugin’s fascist doctrines have thus remained largely untouched by his Eurasianist success and have not gained broader visibility, influencing only a small group of ­people in countercultural circles. Moreover, contrary to the belief of Western pundits, who view him as “Putin’s guru,” Dugin has ­little direct access to the highest echelons of the Presidential Administration. He is not part of any Kremlin institutions, nor is he a member of the Civic Chamber, Rus­sia’s consultative chamber—­although one of his protégés, Valerii Korovin, was elected to it in 2014.103 In the early 1990s, Dugin inspired several of Zyuganov’s books and Vladimir Zhirinovsky’s early statements, but he has since been kept quite far away from the two politicians. He still benefits from support among military circles close to General Leonid Ivashov and among Church figures such as the late archpriest Vsevolod Chaplin, who was in charge of the synod department for church–­ society interactions ­until 2015,104 and archpriest Dmitrii Smirnov. However, it is his personal connection with Konstantin Malofeev that secures him both status and revenue t­ oday: since the Ukrainian crisis, Dugin has been working for the Tsargrad TV internet channel and the Katekhon website, both funded by Malofeev. Available public sources do not document direct contact between Dugin and the Presidential Administration. At the end of the 2000s, Dugin liked to pre­sent himself as Putin’s unacknowledged adviser,105 and regarded the Rus­sian president as a genuinely patriotic figure, but t­ here is no evidence of any direct influence or meetings between the two men, and Putin has never mentioned him. Charles Clover states in his book that the two men met a few months ­after Putin’s accession to power in 2000, but t­ here is no documentary evidence of this meeting.106 Dugin was also reportedly part of the entourage that accompanied the Rus­sian president on his visit to Mount Athos in Greece in May 2016.107 Yet we have no detailed information on Dugin’s personal connections with the Kremlin’s gray cardinals and president or vice president of the Presidential Administration, including figures such as Aleksandr Voloshin, Vladislav Surkov, and Viacheslav Volodin. On the contrary, Surkov is particularly well-­known for his personal hatred of Dugin’s esoteric imperialism. Over the past thirty years, Dugin has had only two periods of success. The first came in the second half of the 1990s, when his influence among military circles reached its peak thanks both to his decision to move away from the countercultural National Bolshevik Party and to his connection with Aleksandr Prokhanov, the military, and the security ser­vices. Dugin was thus able to teach at the Acad­emy of the General Staff and work as a con­sul­tant for vari­ous Duma committees. His greatest achievement was prob­ably his appointment as Duma speaker Gennadi Seleznev’s adviser in 1998; this was his only experience in a­ ctual policy circles.108 But his success was short-­lived: in the 2000s, Dugin found himself in deep opposition to Putin, whom he perceived as an excessively liberal and pro-­Western

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statesman, and felt himself sidelined by the groundswell of support for the new president and the latter’s ability to recapture patriotic feelings and the nationalist narrative. Dugin retreated into relative obscurity following the disappointing per­ for­mance of his small Eurasian Party, which failed to mesh with Rodina, and then the l­imited success of the International Eurasianist Movement (IEM). Launched in 2003, the IEM was quite effective at bringing together Eurasianist figures abroad, especially in Turkey and in some post-­Soviet republics such as Kazakhstan, and at attracting Rus­sia’s Muslim leaders.109 However, it failed to unite the Rus­sian po­liti­cal establishment; it appealed only to lower-­level figures, mostly retired ambassadors and mid-­level civil servants, which attests to Dugin’s inability to secure official support within mainstream state structures. Fi­nally, in 2008, Dugin succeeded in penetrating a respectable institution, namely, Moscow State University (MSU). Yet this engagement was still conditional: he was never a tenured professor, only a docent or adjunct, and his Conservative Research Center was only associated with the Sociology Department and never a fully institutional part of it.110 Dugin was more successful in 2013 and early 2014, when the Kremlin permitted conservative ideologues to appear more visibly in state-­controlled media in order to drown out the liberal opposition and saturate the ideological market. This time, Dugin’s success was even briefer: his statements about the need for the “Rus­sian Spring” to reach Moscow and his calls for national revolution in Rus­sia itself ­were considered too radical, which caused him to lose both his access to mainstream media and his status at MSU. His call to “kill, kill, kill Ukrainians,”111 which he ­later said was a meta­phor, was the official reason that he lost his adjunct status at MSU in late 2014.112 Since then, Dugin has had no institutional home. He finds himself again wandering in the desert in search of the promised land, with Konstantin Malofeev as his main source of financial and institutional support. Dugin may have been a fash­ion­able author in the second half of the 1990s, but he has progressively lost his popu­lar appeal. With only 39,000 followers on Twitter, 27,000 on VKontakte, and 5,000 on Facebook in late 2019, he remains underfollowed for a figure who pretends to be one of Rus­sia’s key ideological agenda-­setters. His role as the “spin doctor” of fascism in Rus­sia is not a secure one. Dugin w ­ ill prob­ably continue to experience the simultaneous in and out status of a lonely ideological figure who is too radical, esoteric, and apocalyptic to be co-­opted but still strives for the ac­ cep­tance of the highest echelons of the regime.

Over the past thirty years, narrow segments of Rus­sian public opinion have undertaken multiple ideological experiments that pertain to fascism. The ­limited success of the Far Right in Rus­sia is due to the stable reaction of Rus­sian society:

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the direct embrace of historical fascism or national socialism provokes immediate rejection from the public and therefore marginalizes t­ hose who claim it. Only Russia-­centric references, to the Black Hundreds, National Bolshevism, mystical Stalinism, or Eurasianism, can increase the popularity of far-­right ideologies. The doctrinal pool on which ­these groups can draw is thus not infinite, and leads to the repetition of some central themes. The bifurcation between a tsarist-­oriented nostalgia and a more pro-­Soviet stance still remains a critical line of divide, though it has been progressively circumvented by the introduction of a new doctrinal repertoire, that of the whiteness of Rus­sians, which reconciles both camps. This whiteness can take several forms: it can be directly inspired by neo-­Nazi narratives about racial purity and the need for segregation; it can be referenced in a more cultural way through statements about Rus­sia’s Aryanness and the rehabilitation of the country’s pre-­Christian faith; or it can take a more nativist tone through antimigrant and xenophobic narratives. If the first two directions are inspired in one way or another by national socialism, specifically, its genocidal policy or its esoteric dimension, the third is more complex: xenophobia is a widespread feature of many socie­ties over time and space that cannot be associated with a narrow doctrinal tradition. Rus­sia’s relatively high level of xenophobia—­ throughout the 2000s, around two-­thirds of the population displayed a negative attitude t­ oward ­labor mi­grants, a number that collapsed to 30–40 ­percent ­after the 2014 Ukrainian crisis,113 and has then regained power since 2018—­does not automatically imply support for far-­right vio­lence and its doctrinal agenda. The evolution of the Rus­sian Far Right, from references to classic fascism to the structuring of a softer agenda composed of nativist claims and a call for conservative values, follows a pattern similar to Eu­ro­pean far-­right transformations. Dugin’s laborious attempts to develop doctrinal references inspired by Eu­ro­pean far-­right theories highlight the key ambivalence of Rus­sia’s posture ­toward fascism: it is acceptable only through culturally Russified references expressed as part of a broader continuum of conservative and/or nationalist frames. The same ambivalences can be seen in Rus­sia’s backing of the Eu­ro­pean Far Right.

7 RUS­S IA’S HONEYMOON WITH THE EU­R O­P EAN FAR RIGHT

At the same time that the Kremlin has successfully managed and maintained control over grassroots fascist tendencies at home, it has developed a policy of reaching out globally to Western far-­right and populist parties. By shifting the pendulum of the Soviet tradition of leftist fronts to far-­right groups, ­today’s Rus­sia plays a multifaceted game of consolidating its soft power on the Eu­ro­pean stage. The alliance with the Far Right constitutes only one component of a rich tool kit that also comprises strengthening economic ties, especially energy partnerships; networking with big Eu­ro­pean businesses that are able to lobby their respective governments; and relaunching an offensive public diplomacy. Although the Eu­ro­pean Far Right has always been decidedly anticommunist, some of its groups have not hidden their Russophile tendencies, admiring prerevolutionary Rus­sia, w ­ hether for its autocratic regime or for the prominent role 1 given to Orthodoxy. The fall of the Soviet Union, it believed, would result in the rebirth of an “eternal” Rus­sia whose ideology would ally with its worldviews. As early as the late 1970s, figures such as Jean Parvulesco (1929–2010), a Romanian-­born émigré close to the French New Right, claimed, for instance, that the Soviet Union’s destiny was to save the white race.2 However, direct contacts between Rus­sians and Eu­ro­pean far-­right groups ­were almost non­ex­is­tent during the Soviet period, and it was not u ­ ntil the collapse of the Iron Curtain and the opening of borders that Rus­sian far-­right activists began visiting Western Eu­rope to meet their counter­parts face-­to-­face.3 ­These mutual encounters took shape in three main phases: they w ­ ere first pioneered by precursor figures in the 1990s, followed by the Rus­sian Orthodox Church and the 121

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Rodina party in the early 2000s, before the relationship reached a peak when Moscow de­cided to position itself as the herald of a new moralist International during Putin’s third presidential mandate.

Rus­s ia’s Pro-­E uropean Avant-­G arde Aleksandr Dugin was the first Rus­sian ideologue to build personal contacts with the Eu­ro­pean Far Right, mostly the New Right. In 1989–1990, as a young, largely unknown thinker, he was received by the main representatives of the Eu­ro­pean New Right, prob­ably at the urging of famous émigré figures such as Yuri Mamleev and Eduard Limonov. ­Because he was one of the first to develop such contacts, and thanks to his incredible ability to “digest” and parrot new doctrines, within a few years Dugin had, as Eduard Limonov ­later wrote in his autobiography, “unwarrantedly usurped the contacts of the patriotic opposition with the Western right wing.”4 Dugin made several trips to France, Italy, and Spain between 1989–1990 and 1994,5 meeting with the leader of the French New Right, Alain de Benoist,6 and with the Belgian Robert Steuckers, who introduced him to the notion of National Bolshevism, the tradition of German Geopolitik, as well as conspiracy theories about U.S. world domination. Dugin also drew inspiration from his meeting with Jean Thiriart, a fervent supporter of a unified Euro-­Soviet space who led a small Eu­ro­pean communitarian party at that time.7 Dugin established connections with circles that ­were more openly nostalgic for Nazism, such as the Thule group in Spain, whose theories of esoteric Nazism, especially the Hyperborea theme, inspired Dugin’s first publication, Giperboreia.8 In Italy, Dugin became acquainted with Claudio Mutti, the direct intellectual heir of Julius Evola and his princi­ple of spiritual races, a theory that deeply ­shaped Dugin’s perception of the world. Although Dugin, unlike Mutti, has not converted to Islam and has remained loyal to the Old Believer branch of the Orthodox Church, he has developed a relatively similar pro-­Islamic ideology.9 Dugin may have been the Rus­sian Far Right’s most vis­ib ­ le ambassador to Eu­ rope, but he was not the only one reaching out. Rus­sian groups espousing white nationalism ­were likewise establishing contact with their Western counter­parts, especially the U.S. white supremacy movement. Searching for renewed inspiration, the latter interpreted the Soviet collapse and the rebirth of Rus­sia as a sign of the vitality of the “white race,” which had been able to defeat communism. As early as 1992, the Den´ journalist Vladimir Bondarenko interviewed the then Ku Klux Klan ­grand wizard, Holocaust denier, and former Republican Louisiana state representative David Duke (b. 1950) in New Orleans. In the interview, Duke af-

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firmed: “In my opinion, the destruction of white Rus­sia would be a ­great explosion for all of Eu­rope. It would be the end of the Eu­ro­pean blood heritage. If Rus­sia is destroyed, all of us—­including Americans—­will be destroyed.”10 Duke made Rus­sia his new darling and visited the country at least three times between 1999 and 2001 to promote the Rus­sian translation of his book My Awakening: A Path to Racial Understanding.11 In it, he claimed: “Rus­sia is a white nation! . . . ​In my opinion, Rus­sia and other Eastern countries have the greatest chance of having racially aware parties achiev[e] po­liti­cal power.”12 Duke’s book was reportedly available at the State Duma bookstore at a very affordable price, and the first printing of five thousand copies quickly sold out.13 In 2004, he reiterated his belief that “Rus­sia has a greater sense of racial understanding among its population than does any other predominantly White nation.”14 He developed relationships with some skinhead groups, including Aleksandr Kasimovskii’s Rus­ sian Action movement, as well as with more official figures such as General Albert Makashov. The raciology school, too, managed to weave an international network of solidarity with parts of the New Right in France and Germany. In 1994, on behalf of their journal, Nasledie predkov, Aleksandr Ivanov-­Sukharevskii, Pavel Tulaev, and Vladimir Avdeev invited Gilbert Sincyr, the cofounder (along with Robert Steuckers) of the small Eu­ro­pean Synergies movement, to give a lecture in Moscow. Steuckers has called for the unification of the p ­ eoples of Eu­rope in the name of a European–­Russian geopo­liti­cal axis and a neopagan religious synthesis. Rus­sian raciologists also got in touch with Guillaume Faye (1949–2019), the ­father of ­today’s Identitarians. He had professed his faith in the revival of a Euro-­Siberian civilization spanning from Dublin to Vladivostok, that is, “the destiny space of Eu­ro­pean p ­ eoples eventually regrouped from the Atlantic to the Pacific, sealing the historical alliance of peninsular Eu­rope, Central Eu­rope, and Rus­sia.”15 This white Eurosiberia excludes the non-­Slavic regions of Rus­sia and the former Soviet Union and heavi­ly criticizes the United States and its supposedly pro-­Muslim policy. The peak of raciology’s international visibility was the 2006 conference “The ­Future of the White World,” held in Moscow and sponsored by Pavel Tulaev’s Atenei journal and the Rus­sian branch of Eu­ro­pean Synergies.16 The conference defined a new Euro-­Russia as “a ­union of the white ­peoples of the world and a sanctuary for the cultivation and protection of the white race.”17 However, the group’s ideology was too radical to capture a wider audience or to be co-­opted by more mainstream trends. In Moscow in 2008, the Movement against Illegal Immigration, Dmitrii Demushkin’s Slavic Union, and the U.S. white supremacist Preston Wiginton convened a new international forum of white nationalist organ­izations opposed to illegal immigration.18 The participants included the

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Greek Golden Dawn and the German National Demo­cratic Party and its publishing com­pany, Deutsche Stimme, but h ­ ere, too, the movement remains obscure and marginal. Last but not least, in the early 1990s, more mainstream politicians such as Vladimir Zhirinovsky and Sergey Glazyev ­were also looking for new allies in an attempt to parlay their newly acquired domestic legitimacy into international credibility and to secure external financial support. Among Rus­sian politicians, members of the Duma, and individuals in official capacities, Zhirinovsky is prob­ably the primary, and undoubtedly the first, figure to have developed a network in Eu­rope. In the early 1990s, he attracted not only media attention but also the interest of his Eu­ro­pean counter­parts, all of whom ­were envious of his notable electoral results. As early as 1991 Zhirinovsky visited France, where, thanks to Glazyev’s contacts and his then assistant Eduard Limonov’s networks, he was able to meet with Jean-­Marie Le Pen. As he traveled across Eu­rope, Zhirinovsky promoted the unification of Eu­ro­ pean far-­right movements into a new International called Patrintern,19 a proposal that appealed to a Eu­ro­pean Far Right that was disoriented by the disappearance of the communist ­enemy and in search of ideological renewal. He hoped to receive the backing of Le Pen who, at that time, was trying to launch the EuroNat (Eu­ro­pean Nationalists) platform u ­ nder the slogan “Nationalists of all countries, unite!” But Le Pen was suspicious of Zhirinovsky’s radicalism and downplayed their partnership.20 In 1996, the Patrintern movement held a forum attended by far-­right leaders from Greece, Austria, Belarus, Germany, Hungary, Serbia, and Ukraine. That same year, Zhirinovsky invited Le Pen and his wife to his wedding anniversary cele­bration, but the ideological cooperation did not deepen u ­ ntil it was taken over by more official figures. Dugin’s network was mostly French-­and Italian-­speaking, but Zhirinovsky also developed contacts in Germany. As early as 1992, he invited Gerhard Frey, the leader of the far-­right Deutsche Volksunion, to the LDPR congress. They met several more times, and the two parties signed a friendship accord in 1994.21 In exchange for Frey’s financial support, Zhirinovsky allegedly promised to return Kaliningrad to Germany should he come to power.22 He also contacted Bela Ewald Althans, a German friend of the neo-­Nazi publisher Ernst Zündel (1939–2017), known for his Holocaust denial publications.23 In 1997, Umberto Bossi, the leader of the secessionist far-­right Italian Lega Nord movement, secured Zhirinovsky’s support for the creation of an in­de­pen­dent state of Padania, a Russophile posture that opened the doors to ­future high-­level contacts between the Italian Far Right and the Rus­sian government. Sergey Glazyev, a former member of the liberal Gaidar government who subsequently drew closer to the nationalist and communist opposition, developed

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his own set of contacts with Western far-­right groups. Glazyev was the first to reach out to the United States. He sympathized with Lyndon LaRouche (1922– 2019), the founder of a conservative and eponymous movement that denounces the “world oligarchy” that allegedly controls state decisions and promotes neoliberal values in order to destroy world cultures. During the Cold War, the LaRouchites ­were highly critical of the Soviet Union, but they quickly rallied ­behind the new Rus­sia, seeing it as the bulwark of an anti-­American multilateral order. In 1992, LaRouche and his wife, Helga Zepp-­LaRouche, established a Moscow branch of their Schiller Institute for Science and Culture, which started publishing Rus­sian translations of LaRouche’s essays.24 They met Glazyev in 1994 and began promoting his economic theories in their weekly Executive Intelligence Review. They also translated Glazyev’s book Genocide (Genotsida, 1999), which denounced the supposed world oligarchy’s policy of destroying Rus­sia. The Glazyev–­LaRouche friendship was an enduring one: u ­ ntil LaRouche’s death, Glazyev’s championing of the Eurasian Union and LaRouche’s dreams of a new, transcontinental “Eurasian land-­bridge” complemented one another.25 This wave of contacts established in the early 1990s became foundational to the Kremlin’s policy of reaching out to the Eu­ro­pean Far Right a de­cade ­later. Dugin’s circle of acquaintances from the New Right has been expanded by Konstantin Malofeev; Le Pen’s first encounters with Zhirinovsky led to his introduction to ­Father Tikhon in 2003; Zhirinovsky’s proj­ect of a Eu­ro­pean far-­right International found new expressions in attempts to build a far-­right faction in the Eu­ro­ pean Parliament; and LaRouche continued to strenuously promote Glazyev’s theories ­until his death. Zhirinovsky and Glazyev did not relaunch their Western networks once the Rus­sian authorities began to advocate for outreach to Eu­rope, but Dugin did, presenting himself as an éminence grise and suggesting that ­those looking for the Kremlin’s backing needed to stay in his good graces. Throughout the 2000s, Dugin consolidated his network among members of the French New Right but he has never been considered a reliable partner by the National Front/Rally itself.26 He has been more successful in Italy: the country’s International Eurasianist Movement collaborated with Mutti’s team and inspired the foundation of the journal Geopolitica and the Center for Rus­sian Studies at Sapienza University in Rome. Based on Dugin’s ideology and building on the rise of a new, post-­Berlusconi Far Right, two small far-­right groups, Millennium and Stato & Potenza, emerged. They worked as a smokescreen, thus allowing more mainstream populist parties such as Lega Nord to capture official support from Rus­sia.27 Dugin has developed new networks in Hungary, too. He has been sympathetic to the far-­right party Jobbik and its Turanian ideology, partly inspired by Eurasianism.28 In 2008, Jobbik MP Béla Kovács, cochair of the Russia–­EU Inter-­Parliamentary Working Group and since accused of spying for Rus­sia,29

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arranged the party president Gábor Vona’s first trip to Moscow. Vona has since returned to Rus­sia several times, and he spoke at Dugin’s Conservative Research Center in 2013. In Greece, Dugin has established ties with members of the Syriza government and with the neo-­Nazi Golden Dawn, drawing from the same doctrinal combination of Orthodoxy and esoteric Nazism. Surprisingly, Dugin has had very ­limited networks in Germany, compared to his deep interactions with the Francophone and Mediterranean worlds. Although he has read and cited Armin Mohler (1920–2003), a disciple of Ernst Jünger and supporter of the notion of Conservative Revolution that Dugin cherishes so much, the two men do not appear to have met. Dugin’s German acquaintances have been cultivated only very recently with the 2010 launch of the journal Zuerst! as the successor to the neo-­ Nazi publication Nation and Europa. The Zuerst! journalist Manuel Ochsenreiter, who is associated with the New Re­sis­tance movement and the website Open Revolt, has interviewed Dugin several times.30 Thanks to ­these carefully cultivated international contacts, Dugin has become the best-­positioned Rus­sian figure in international far-­right circles, which combine conventional rightist themes (race, nation, and hierarchy) with leftist assertions (revolutionary and anticorporate discourse). However, his networks and international visibility should not be the tree obscuring the forest. Se­nior Rus­ sian officials and more reputable institutions have progressively captured links with the Eu­ro­pean Far Right. Moreover, in many cases, Dugin did not initiate the contacts but just jumped on the bandwagon.

The 2000s Turn: Rodina and the Moscow Patriarchate In the 2000s, a second wave of contact with the Eu­ro­pean Far Right took shape, driven by two new institutions: the Rodina party, which claimed that Rus­sia was a Eu­ro­pean (read: white) country that must protect itself against mi­grants, and the Moscow Patriarchate, which took the lead in branding Rus­sia as the bastion of Christian values. This second wave changed the scale of Russian–­European far-­ right dialogue, which had previously been ­limited to individuals at the margins of the po­liti­cal spectrum and did not have solid means of penetrating the establishment. It also nudged the Kremlin ­toward an innovative strategy of outreach to new allies in Eu­rope. During its short existence (2003–2006), Rodina was the first mainstream party in Rus­sia to have developed a nativist agenda that moved beyond the traditional anti-­Western narrative of Rus­sian politics and sought Eu­ro­pean allies that shared

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the same ­will to defend a white Eu­ro­pean continent against the arrival of mi­grants. Rodina’s doctrine was founded on the notion that not only had post-­Soviet borders divided the Rus­sian nation, but the country’s current demographic situation had also made Rus­sians an “endangered” ­people who could become a minority in their own homeland.31 In response, the party called for the massive repatriation of ethnic Rus­sians from other republics u ­ nder the slogan “Return rather than immigration, compatriots rather than Gastarbeiter.”32 Rodina built its po­liti­cal platform on xenophobia that denounced North Caucasians and Central Asians who would come to “invade” Rus­sia. Dmitrii Rogozin stated, for instance, that “illegal migration is to blame for Rus­sia’s woes and the corrupt nature of state power. The most vested in t­ hese illegal migrations . . . ​are large corporations, commercial mafias . . . ​and drug traffickers.”33 As its peak of influence, during the Moscow city council elections in fall 2005, Rodina took advantage of the antimigrant wave in the capital, fueled by the media’s interpretation of riots in the French suburbs as a systematic rebellion of “Arabs” and “Muslims” against the French population.34 Rodina’s main, widely broadcast tele­vi­sion advertisement depicted identifiably Caucasian youths throwing watermelon rinds u ­ nder the wheels of a baby carriage pushed by a young, blonde ­woman with Slavic features, accompanied by the slogan, “Rid the city of garbage.” Ironically, the LDPR, directly challenged by Rodina’s successes, filed a complaint against the party for inciting ethnic hatred, which led the court to disqualify Rodina’s candidates. Although Rodina was soon absorbed into the more official Fair Rus­sia and marginalized by the Kremlin, it attained its goal: its slogans dominated the 2005 campaign, and its leaders, perceived as victims of the Kremlin, gained credibility in the nationalist camp and w ­ ere heralded as defenders of a Rus­sian ­people ­under attack.35 To promote its agenda, Rodina initiated a trend that would ­later become mainstream in Russia—­specifically, looking at Eu­rope as both a model and a warning. The party denounced Eu­rope’s “­mistake” of being too generous and liberal with mi­grants: one of its po­liti­cal slogans was “­Don’t repeat Eu­rope’s ­mistake. Stop illegal immigration.”36 At the same time, it saw the Eu­ro­pean far-­right parties that criticized Eu­rope’s loss of identity as a model to follow. Rodina thus opened a new path for Rus­sia that identified with Eu­rope and the continent’s alleged identity strug­gle against mi­grants. For the first time, the cele­bration of Rus­sia as part of Eu­rope was championed not by marginal neo-­Nazi groups in black shirts, but by respectable establishment figures. Even if Rodina was galvanized by a nativist and xenophobic narrative imported from Western Eu­rope, however, its leaders had not yet developed personal connections with Eu­ro­pean far-­right groups. Only Sergey Baburin, the leader of the small ­People’s W ­ ill party, tried to take direct advantage of Jean-­Marie Le Pen’s

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success in reaching the second round of the 2002 French presidential elections. Baburin invited Le Pen to attend a ­People’s ­Will’s congress in 2003, attended the National Front convention in Nice, and l­ ater invited Le Pen and his deputy, Bruno Gollnisch, to a Duma session.37 This lack of personal connections with the Eu­ro­ pean Far Right changed dramatically with the rebirth of Rodina in 2012 and the Kremlin’s new outreach policy. The Rus­sian Orthodox Church has been the other driving force ­behind this second wave of contacts between Rus­sia and the Eu­ro­pean Far Right. The Moscow Patriarchate has always presented itself as the symbol of Rus­sia’s cultural and spiritual permanency as well as the embodiment of its territorial unity across divided borders.38 If this spatial feature, ­under the credo of canonic territory, targets mostly the “near abroad,” it also has connections with the “far abroad.” Indeed, the Patriarchate has been working hard to reconcile with the Rus­sian Orthodox Church Outside Rus­sia (ROCOR). As a symbol of Rus­sia’s commitment to closing the Soviet “parenthesis,” Putin himself became personally involved in the reconciliation pro­cess, apparently u ­ nder Tikhon’s influence.39 In 2003, while in New York, he met with ROCOR representatives, and one year l­ ater he received Patriarch Alexy II alongside the ROCOR First Hierarch, Metropolitan Laurus. In May 2007, the two Churches signed an act of canonical communion, ending an eight-­decade-­long schism. Yet many disagreements still divide the institutions— in par­tic­u­lar the Moscow Patriarchate’s refusal to condemn the Soviet period—­ and some ROCOR parishes remain outside its jurisdiction.40 Nevertheless, this canonical communion allowed the Patriarchate and, indirectly, the Rus­sian state to develop contacts with the Rus­sian diaspora abroad—­ ROCOR has around 400 parishes worldwide and an estimated membership of over 400,000 ­people—­and to use them as a conduit for networking in Eu­rope and the United States.41 It also positioned the Church at the forefront of Rus­sia’s new posture as defender of the traditional f­amily, which became part of Rus­sia’s international branding a few years ­later, during Putin’s third term.42 Since becoming better rooted in Eu­rope thanks to its absorption of ROCOR, the Moscow Patriarchate has developed a well-­structured policy of reaching out to Eu­ro­pean conservative audiences. Catholic churches have responded warmly to t­ hese efforts, and the Patriarchate’s ecumenical strategies t­ oward the Holy See now directly serve Rus­sia’s international branding. Preparing for Putin’s first audience with Pope Francis in 2013, Patriarch Kirill declared, for instance, that “the issue of preserving a Christian Europe—­preserving the origins of the Christian civilization—is our common goal,”43 adding that the Patriarchate welcomes the Vatican’s position on many such issues. Hilarion Alfeev, the metropolitan of Volokolamsk and chairman of the Church Department of External Relations, met with Pope Francis during a trip to Rome for a Catholic–­Orthodox conference on ­family

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values in 2013 and again in 2016.44 The Moscow Patriarchate also integrated pan-­ European structures such as the Council of Eu­rope and the Committee Representatives of Orthodox Churches to the Eu­ro­pean Union, working closely with other Orthodox Patriarchates, such as t­ hose covering the Balkans, to get their voices heard in Eu­ro­pean structures. The mismanaged ecclesiastical schism with the Ukrainian Orthodox Church in late 2018 has weakened the Moscow Patriarchate’s status and accentuated the competition with Constantinople,45 but the Rus­sian Orthodox Church still remains deeply involved in Eu­ro­pean religious diplomacy.46 The Moscow Patriarchate also opened a new line of communication with the U.S. Christian Right, which had historically been vocally anti-­Soviet, as it conflated secularism and socialism. With Rus­sia’s repositioning as a beacon of Christian values, room for cooperation dramatically increased, especially in light of changes in the U.S. domestic context, namely, the Obama administration’s push for LGBT+ rights. Metropolitan Hilarion, for example, met with representatives of U.S. evangelical groups during his trip to Washington, DC, in 2013, and addressed thousands of members of the Highland Park Presbyterian Church in Dallas, putting forth the idea of “a strategic alliance of Orthodox Christians, Catholics, and traditional Protestants, of all t­ hose who defend true Christian values.”47 He also had an hour-­long meeting with the former president George W. Bush.48 In 2015, Franklin Graham, the current president and chief executive officer of the Billy Graham Evangelistic Association and Samaritan’s Purse, met with Patriarch Kirill while on a visit to Rus­sia.49 The Rus­sian agenda of conservative values more broadly cemented a Russophile narrative in some U.S. conservative circles. The former presidential candidate and paleoconservative pundit Pat Buchanan and the religious rights activist Bob Vander Plaats, as well as spokespeople for associations such as Concerned ­Women for Amer­i­ca, the American F ­ amily Association, Vision Amer­i­ca, and Liberty Counsel, have loudly praised Putin for his stance on f­ amily values and have called on the United States to follow his example.50 The American ­Family Association’s Bryan Fischer calls Putin a “Lion of Chris­tian­ity,”51 and Brian Brown, the president of the National Organ­ization for Marriage, went to Moscow to build support for antigay legislation before the Rus­sian parliament.52 ­These efforts are obviously not enough to reconcile Republicans with Rus­sia, especially following the Ukrainian and Syrian crises and Rus­sian interference in the 2016 presidential elections, but the Kremlin is betting on the long-­term character of the religious ­angle: it guarantees that pro-­Russian voices w ­ ill remain pre­sent in U.S. politics, the strategic value of which was confirmed, for instance, by Rus­sian lobbyism at the National Prayer Breakfast and by Donald Trump’s election.53 The Patriarchate found another new ally in the World Congress of Families (WCF). Founded in the United States in 1997 by Allan Carlson, a religious-­right

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activist and former Reagan National Commission on ­Children appointee, the WCF pre­sents itself as a multifaith, multinational co­ali­tion that endorses the militant defense of the “natu­ral f­amily,” fights against laws that would normalize same-­sex marriage, and supports governments with antigay agendas.54 The WCF and the Patriarchate have worked closely to create circles of influence in Moscow around antiabortion campaigners. T ­ hese include se­nior officials such as the ultraconservative Yelena Mizulina, head of the Duma Committee on ­Family, ­Women, and C ­ hildren’s Affairs, who established an interdepartmental working group to draft antichoice legislation.55 The WCF representative for Rus­sia, Aleksei Komov, works for Malofeev as a foreign proj­ects man­ag­er at the St. Basil the ­Great Charitable Foundation and as a member of the board of the League for a Safe Internet. He has worked in the Church’s Department of External Relations ­under Metropolitan Hilarion, and, according to a WCF newsletter, “his responsibilities include Church relations with institutions in foreign countries.”56 The WCF claims that its 2011 Moscow Demographic Summit “helped pass the first Rus­sian laws to restrict abortion in modern history.”57 The association had planned to or­ga­nize a world congress in Moscow in the fall of 2014 but had to cancel a­ fter the Ukrainian crisis. The WCF sees its Rus­sian partners as providing entrée into Eu­rope, and in 2013 it appointed the FamilyPolicy.ru staffer Pavel Parfentiev as its “ambassador” to Eu­ro­pean institutions. Both Vladimir Yakunin’s and Malofeev’s foundations play a critical role in connecting with the Eu­ro­pean Far Right, especially with Rus­sian monarchist circles in Eu­rope. The board of directors of Malofeev’s foundation, for instance, includes Count Serge de Pahlen, the son of the White Rus­sian émigré Serge S. von der Pahlen (1915–1991), who fought alongside the Nazis on the Eastern Front before relocating to Paris. Serge de Pahlen is a founder of the Orthodox Parishes of Rus­ sian Tradition in Western Eu­rope, a group that fosters reconciliation between the Patriarchate of Moscow, the Patriarchate of Constantinople, and the Rus­sian Church Abroad.58 He coleads the Union of Rus­sian Descendants from Gallipoli, an association of the descendants of the White Army officers, many of whom collaborated with Nazi Germany during the Second World War. Malofeev’s Foundation Committee also includes Zurab Chavchavadze, one of the vice presidents of Marshall Capital, who hails from a Georgian aristocratic f­ amily that fought alongside the Whites and collaborated with Nazi Germany. Zurab’s social life is entirely oriented around aristocratic diaspora networks. Both foundations have worked as intermediaries in the tricky French–­Russian negotiations to erect Eu­rope’s largest Orthodox cathedral in the heart of Paris, ­ ehind dedicated in 2016.59 They also put many efforts into rallying émigré circles b the Putin regime. In 2010, for instance, Vladimir Yakunin or­ga­nized a cruise for

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descendants of the Rus­sian aristocracy in the hope of winning them over to the regime. The cruise set out from the Mediterranean and headed to the Black Sea, reversing the journey of their ancestors’ exile ­after the Bolshevik revolution. ­Those who ­were most loyal to the Romanov monarchy refused to participate, and instead demanded the restitution of their property and the removal of Lenin from the Red Square Mausoleum, but many o ­ thers supported this symbolic rapprochement with the Kremlin. This was the case, for instance, for Prince Dmitrii Shakhovskoy, close to Malofeev, who launched the 2014 “Rus­sian bridge” (russkii most) initiative, a petition of solidarity with Rus­sia that gathered more than a hundred names of descendants of the Rus­sian aristocracy, including the Tolstoys, the Pushkins, and the Sheremetevs.60

Third Wave: The Kremlin’s Search for New Eu­r o­p ean Allies During a third wave of contacts, coinciding with Putin’s third presidential mandate (2012–2018), the Presidential Administration and the Rus­sian government ­adopted a more overt strategy of reaching out to the Eu­ro­pean Far Right. Figures such as the Duma president Sergey Naryshkin, the head of the Duma Committee on Foreign Affairs Aleksei Pushkov, and Deputy Prime Minister Dmitrii Rogozin led this new effort. This policy targeting Western and Central Eu­ro­pean countries recorded both successes and failures, depending on the local context. Official cooperation between the Rus­sian government and the presidential party United Rus­sia on one hand, and Matteo Salvini’s government in Italy as well as Heinz-­Christian Strache’s Freedom Party of Austria on the other, have so far been Rus­sia’s most resounding successes, even if both government co­ali­tions collapsed in 2019.61 Contacts with Marine Le Pen’s National Front/National Rally also remain dense, but her failure to enter any co­ali­tion and access higher echelons of power has been disappointing for Moscow.62 In Germany, Rus­sia has become close to the Alliance for Deutschland and has penetrated the movement through the rallying of a large part of the German Rus­sian minority.63 Among Visegrád countries, Hungary stands out for its enthusiastic pro-­Russia (and pro-­ Chinese) policy, but Moscow also nurtures contacts with Czech, Slovakian, Bulgarian, Serbian, and Greek conservative and far-­right parties.64 The Hungarian think tank Po­liti­cal Capital Institute accurately notes that the only extreme-­right parties hostile to Moscow are situated in countries that border Rus­sia and have a long history of conflict with their much-­larger neighbor: Finland, the Baltic states, Ukraine, Poland, and Romania.65 In other countries, the local Far Right can embrace Rus­sia without infringing on its own agenda and national narrative.

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Rus­sia’s leverage over the U.S. Far Right has been minimal compared to its leverage over Eu­rope’s. Many alt-­right figures are big fans of Vladimir Putin, whom they see as a beacon of the white world eschewing de­cadent U.S. liberalism and multiculturalism, fighting hard against Islamic radicalism, standing for Christian values, criticizing Western po­liti­cal correctness, and supporting the idea that global elites conspire against ordinary ­people.66 Steve Bannon, for instance, declared in 2014, “We, the Judeo-­Christian West, ­really have to look at what [Putin] is talking about as far as traditionalism goes, particularly the sense of where it supports the under­pinnings of nationalism.”67 Yet mutual admiration and shared worldviews do not entail any kind of concrete interaction, much less any Rus­sian influence over U.S. public opinion. Indeed, when one looks in detail at the documented connections between the alt-­right movement and Rus­sia, ­these have remained marginal and have not influenced the mainstream Republican Party.68 The interactions are l­imited to a handful of far-­right figures—­Duke and Wiginton in the United States and Dugin and Belov in Russia—­who have met with one another regularly over the years. Apparently Duke does not travel to Rus­sia anymore, and Dugin is now on the list of Rus­sian citizens sanctioned by the Trea­sury Department and banned from the United States.69 Jared Taylor and Matthew Heimbach, as well as the Ku Klux Klan attorney Sam Dickson, seem to have visited Rus­sia only once or twice—at least once for the 2015 International Conservative Forum. Some minor personalities such as Jack Hanick, a former Fox News journalist now working for Malofeev’s Internet channel Tsargrad, are based in Rus­sia. Richard Spencer, one of the leading figures of the alt-­right, has published for Malofeev’s websites but “does not have any par­tic­u­lar interest in Rus­sia beyond this general knowledge base,” as his ex-­wife, Nina Kouprianova, has asserted.70 This friendship with far-­right groups has become an intrinsic part of Moscow’s strategies in Eu­rope. Institutions representing Rus­sia’s public diplomacy, such as Rossotrudnichestvo (the state agency for international cooperation) and the Rus­ sian World Foundation, as well as Natalia Narochnitskaia’s Paris-­based Institute for Democracy and Cooperation and the Berlin-­based Dialogue of Civilizations Research Institute funded by Yakunin, play a crucial intermediary role in this pro­cess, channeling pro-­Russian far-­right activists into official state structures.71 By offering to cosponsor events or­ga­nized by ­these groups or invite their leaders, ­these institutions allow Rus­sian state structures and se­nior officials to participate in far-­right-­ backed activities u ­ nder the positive-­sounding label of bilateral cooperation. Moscow further promotes Russophile voices using its media tools. The tele­v i­ sion channel Rus­sia ­Today and the website Sputnik regularly feature representatives of the Eu­ro­pean Far Right, often hiding their true po­liti­cal colors and presenting them as “mainstream” politicians or recognized “experts.” However,

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this network is not infinite: the hacktivist group Anonymous International leaked a document supposedly prepared by Dugin in 2013 for Konstantin Malofeev that listed sixty Eu­ro­pean personalities with whom Dugin claimed to have met personally and who could be the nucleus of a pro-­Russian organ­ization in vari­ous Eu­ro­pean countries.72 The list included his old friends, such as Mutti, de Benoist, and Faye, and more recent acquaintances such as Ochsenreiter and Mateusz Piskorski, as well as po­liti­cal figures such as Salvini in Italy, Aymeric Chauprade in France, and Jobbik’s Vona and Bela Kovács in Hungary. Yet, as Anton Shekhovtsov explains, “­there is no evidence that Dugin’s list has influenced the interviewing policies of state-­controlled media in Rus­sia.”73 Indeed, many of the names listed ­were already part of Rus­sia’s established networks in Eu­rope. In return for receiving a media spotlight from Rus­sia, the Eu­ro­pean Far Right has advanced new strategies to support the Putin regime and its allies in the post-­ Soviet space. Moscow relies on the growing lobbying force of far-­right parties and Eurosceptic movements within Eu­ro­pean institutions themselves, particularly the Eu­ro­pean Parliament, as the main concrete benefit of this marriage of con­ve­ nience. As noted by Péter Krekó, the far-­right parties represented in the Parliament have been consistently pro-­Russia in their voting and have tried to recuse or at least slow down critical statements about and sanctions against Moscow.74 Another concrete by-­product of this alliance was the launch of election monitoring groups in order to push back against Organ­ization for Security and Co-­ operation in Eu­rope criticisms of fraud in post-­Soviet elections. The Brussels-­based Eurasian Observatory for Democracy and Elections, led by the Belgian far-­right activist Luc Michel, and the Polish Eu­ro­pean Center for Geopo­liti­cal Analy­sis, led and staffed by right-­wing extremists, w ­ ere the two main institutions involved in this endeavor.75 This strategy reached its zenith during the Ukrainian crisis. The list of Eu­ro­pean in­de­pen­dent observers sent to validate the Crimean in­de­pen­dence referendum of March 16, 2014, reads like a who’s who of the Eu­ro­pean Far Right.76 Several figures, including Márton Gyöngyösi, the secretary of Jobbik’s Foreign Affairs Cabinet and vice-­chair of the Hungarian Parliament’s Foreign Affairs Committee, also monitored the elections in the self-­proclaimed Donetsk ­People’s Republic.77 This mutually beneficial partnership has been reinforced by multiple invitations that create the impression of structured networks across Eu­rope. Rus­sian institutions regularly shower their coveted Eu­ro­pean partners with invitations to lavish events. For example, in October 2014, Jobbik and Golden Dawn met in St. Petersburg for a forum on developing “a new national doctrine for Rus­sia and Eu­rope” or­ga­nized by the Intelligent Design Bureau, which is close to the Rodina party.78 In June of the same year, Konstantin Malofeev or­ga­nized another impor­tant meeting, this time in Vienna.79 This supposedly secret conclave, which

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celebrated the two hundredth anniversary of Metternich’s Holy Alliance, brought together the A-­list of the Eu­ro­pean Far Right in the hope of developing a pan-­ European strategy that would bring together monarchists, far-­right parties, and Catholic and Orthodox groups.80 This program of international conferences and platforms has branched out to include Rus­sia’s allies from the M ­ iddle East and to revive old Soviet times networks in the “developing world.” For example, the World Congress of Patriotic Parties, inspired by Zhirinovsky’s Patrintern, regularly invites representatives from about forty countries.81 In 2015, a new, similarly minded “Dialogue of Nations” was or­ga­ nized by the so-­called Antiglobalist Movement of Rus­sia, which is linked to Rodina. Bashar al-­Assad and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad are honorary members, and its main contacts ­were with Libya, Syria, Iraq, Iran, Palestine, Sudan, Venezuela, North ­Korea, and Serbia.82 The movement’s conference displayed as honored guests representatives of “oppressed p ­ eoples” in the United States—­African Americans, Hawaiians, and Puerto Ricans, all of whom denounced Washington’s imperialism—as well as representatives of the Donetsk and Lugansk secessionist republics.83 However, this outreach strategy has also produced some resounding failures. In March 2015, Rodina or­ga­nized a Rus­sian International Conservative Forum in St. Petersburg, with representatives from eleven Eu­ro­pean countries. Its stated objective was to showcase the unity of Eu­ro­pean conservatives and their gratitude for Rus­sia. But the result did not meet expectations. The major figures from Eu­ rope’s populist parties such as Marine Le Pen ­were absent, afraid of delegitimizing their deradicalization strategies. Only the most radical groups and individuals attended: delegates from Greece’s Golden Dawn; Italy’s Forza Nuova and its leader, Roberto Fiore; the German National-­Democratic Party; the British National Party and its former leader, Nick Griffin; the Party of Swedes; the Party of Dats; the Lega Lombarda; the National Party of Finland; the Bulgarian Ataka; the Spanish National Demo­cratic Party; and even Nathan Smith, representing the Texas in­de­ pen­dence movement. Faced with attacks by the Rus­sian and international press, which saw the event as a new Brown International, the main or­ga­nizer, Fiodor Biriukov, argued, “We have not brought together fascists, but the friends of Rus­ sia, who support Putin.”84 The forum also fell short in the sense that no high-­ ranking Rus­sian officials came.85 If anything, the forum had a counterproductive effect: it prompted some members of the Rus­sian establishment, shocked by the arrival in Rus­sia of openly fascist figures, to withdraw their support for such outreach efforts.86 The forum was ultimately discontinued.

A Brown (or Black) International, dreamed of by pan-­European radical nationalists and white supremacists since the end of the Second World War, has not taken

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shape. T ­ here are indeed international connections between leaders and organ­ izations; translations of works; exchanges of ideas, notions, techniques, and fashions; and mutual borrowings and interactions. However, it is difficult to speak of a well-­organized, structured movement with a specific hierarchy and central headquarters. On the contrary, one sees mostly a web of personal contacts, sometimes based as much on friendship between leaders as on shared ideological princi­ples. This web is decentralized, and relationships are flexible. The Eu­ro­pean Far Right tries to coordinate its efforts in order to promote its agenda from within Eu­ro­pean institutions, but divisions, schisms, and mutual excommunications have undermined this unification. The relationship with Moscow sometimes accentuates existing divisions, especially for ­those small segments of the Far Right that de­cided to defend Ukraine against Rus­sia in 2014. The same can be said about the United States’ influence on the Eu­ro­pean Far Right—­from Steve Bannon’s attempts to build a unified movement to funds spent by the U.S. radical Christian Right to support their counter­parts in Europe—­which was also received with mixed feelings by some Eu­ro­pean far-­right actors, unhappy with U.S. interference.87 On the Rus­sian side, one has to notice the lack of a centralizing force that would coordinate all outreach efforts. Moreover, some Rus­sian po­liti­cal elites have rising doubts about the long-­term legitimacy of this strategy, and several voices have criticized the current policy of befriending the Eu­ro­pean Far Right.88 The early contacts of both Zhirinovsky and Glazyev seem to have failed or remained confined to some personal acquaintances, but Dugin’s connections, renewed in the 2000s, did expand to new countries. However, it would be a m ­ istake to think that Dugin is directly feeding far-­right contacts to the Kremlin simply ­because his Eu­ro­pean liaisons predate t­ hose of the Presidential Administration. Many other better-­connected and more mainstream figures—­for example, Natalia Narochnitskaia in Paris; Dmitrii Rogozin, Rus­sia’s former ambassador to NATO, former deputy prime minister, and Rodina leader; Konstantin Malofeev and Vladimir Yakunin, with their Orthodox and monarchist networks—­are much more influential. In addition, Dugin’s and the Kremlin’s networks may seem similar, but they in fact differ. Dugin’s networks are t­hose of the Eu­ro­pean New Right, rooted in barely concealed fascist traditions, with some assumed intellectual affiliations with Nazi ideology and post-­Nazi hesitant transformations. In contrast, the Kremlin and its mediators have developed partnerships with more mainstream populist parties on the basis of more consensual topics such as “conservative values” or a “Eu­rope of nations.”89 ­These Russian–­European connections are both a marriage of con­ve­nience and a reflection of deeper long-­term ideological alliances. They are marriages of con­ ve­nience ­because the Kremlin has no interest in associating with groups that are

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too radical in their ideology or too marginalized in their own society, logically preferring to target mainstream parties that may one day become part of the government. Its hope has always been to recruit from classical conservative circles: the Christian Demo­cratic Union/Christian Social Union in Germany, the Union for a Popu­lar Movement/Les Républicains in France, and the Conservative Party in the United Kingdom. Germany has been one of its most resounding failures: the so-­called Putin-­Versteher (Putin sympathizers)—­mostly chief executive officers ­doing business with Rus­sia or personalities such as the former chancellor Gerhard Schroeder, who chairs the board of Gazprom-­Nord Stream—­have not helped shore up support for the Kremlin as its status in Eu­rope weakens, particularly in the aftermath of the Ukrainian crisis.90 Given Rus­sia’s difficulties in finding enough allies in mainstream conservative Eu­ro­pean circles, it had no choice but to consolidate ties with the only groups that ­were ready for a tactical alliance: far–­right groups. But as soon as the Kremlin can secure support from mainstream parties, it drops its far-­right friends, as we saw during the 2017 French presidential elections: when François Fillon, with his Catholic and pro-­Russian agenda, emerged as the Les Républicains candidate, the Rus­sian media and institutions shifted their attention away from Marine Le Pen ­toward Fillon.91 Still, t­hese alliances are too fundamental to be purely tactical. They also rely on deep, shared ideological foundations. Both Rus­sia and the Eu­ro­pean Far Right endorse what we might define as a po­liti­cal philosophy of “sovereignism.” Po­liti­ cally, they prioritize the nation-­state and strong leaders over the Eu­ro­pean construction; geopo­liti­cally, they display negative attitudes t­oward multilateral and transatlantic institutions and defend a “Eu­rope of nations”; eco­nom­ically, they ­favor protectionism over globalization; and culturally, they reject immigration and call for the defense of old-­fashioned national identity and so-­called traditional values. Both Rus­sia and the Eu­ro­pean Far Right seek allies against the mainstream and identify themselves as outsiders challenging “the system.” Their enemies are clearly identified: the world liberal order, parliamentary democracy, the EU supranational construction, and what they call cultural Marxism—­that is, individualism and the promotion of feminism and minority rights. In a m ­ atter of years, Moscow has thus succeeded in framing Russophilia and Euroscepticism as two sides of the same coin, thereby positioning Rus­sia as the opposite of both Brussels and Washington. Reflecting Eu­rope’s weaknesses and internal contradictions, Rus­sia has thus become a noticeable exporter of illiberal doctrines to the West. The ongoing reshaping of the Rus­sian conservative realm, which moves away from discourse on the country’s Sonderweg to foster a more inclusive vision of a Rus­sia connected to the illiberal West, offers new ave­nues for dialogue.92

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At a time when the Western media tends to hype Rus­sia’s influence on the American and Eu­ro­pean domestic landscapes, it is worth arguing that, if the rise of far-­right and illiberal narratives and parties in Eu­rope and the United States is undisputable, the reasons are deeply domestic and embedded in their respective social fabrics. Rus­sia plays an external role: it takes advantage of ­these new voices, consorts with them, and tries to amplify them, but it did not give rise to this homegrown dynamic and has no realistic influence over it. Rus­sia acts not as a societal transformer, but rather as an echo chamber of Eu­ro­pean and American socie­ties’ own doubts and transformations. All ­these ele­ments make Rus­sia a key actor in the rise of illiberalism in ­today’s world, but without any direct relationship to fascism.

8 WHY THE RUS­S IAN REGIME IS NOT FASCIST

Almost all of the arguments that are advanced to label Rus­sia as fascist can be deconstructed. They con­ve­niently overlook the many other concepts used by social sciences to comprehend Rus­sia’s po­liti­cal and cultural features that make fascism an irrelevant analytical category. One can, for instance, disentangle overly simplistic historical analogies that draw parallels between Rus­sia t­oday and the Stalinist Soviet Union of 1939; question the typology of totalitarianism that is applied to ­today’s regime; demonstrate the lack of any utopian or revolutionary content in Rus­sia’s official ideology; challenge the concept of imperialism as an explanation for Rus­sia’s attitude t­oward its “near abroad” and prefer the prism of postcolonialism; and show that the relationship between far-­right groups and state authorities does not belong to a ­simple co-­optation/infiltration pattern. This does not mean that the Rus­sian regime does not display any features of a scholarly definition of fascism. I identify one, and only one, of t­ hese features: the militia subculture.

Deconstructing Historical Analogies Timothy Snyder’s argument should be separated from the assertions of other scholars who accuse Rus­sia of being or becoming a fascist country, as he bases his claim on historical analogies rather than on the advancement of a typology of fascism that would fit the current Rus­sian regime.

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In a December 2016 lecture at Yale University, Snyder spelled out how history must be po­liti­cal, in the sense that knowledge of what happened before helps the development of po­liti­cal imagination and therefore heightens awareness.1 One can question any approach that looks for “lessons from history” to illuminate po­liti­ cal developments and offer meaningful interpretations of them. Readers may welcome the reminder that “American exceptionalism” is a myth and that fascism, seen as a product of Eu­ro­pean culture, also has deep roots in U.S. culture. Yet this does not justify the abuse of historical parallels, the use of simplistic labeling techniques, and the deployment of reductive explanatory frameworks to denounce the Putin regime. Historical analogies may offer some in­ter­est­ing ave­nues for discussion, but they do not stand up to the rigors of social science-­based analy­sis, they lack any predictive power, and have ­limited validity for helping us understand current trends. Snyder advances four arguments to support his thesis on Rus­sia’s fascism. First, he states that ­today’s Rus­sia should be compared to the Soviet Union in August 1939, just ­after the conclusion of the Molotov–­Ribbentrop Pact, insofar as the Putin regime and the Stalinist Soviet Union shared the goal of destroying the Eu­ro­pean world order. He contends that Putin has changed his mind about the pact and has begun to rehabilitate it. As I argued in chapter 4, contrary to Snyder’s claim, the state’s g­ rand narrative about the pact has not genuinely changed. Rus­sian officials have pursued their vision of equating the pact with the Munich Agreement, have continued to refuse to see the Soviet Union as solely responsible for Eu­rope’s total war, and have silenced discussion of Soviet vio­lence in occupied/liberated territories. This latter stance may be criticized, of course, but it does not reveal an ­actual evolution in thinking. Second, Snyder suggests that the Kremlin’s support for the Eu­ro­pean Far Right is a continuation of Stalin’s alliance with Hitler, the goal of which was to destroy the Eu­ro­pean world order. This attempted historical parallel does not hold for several reasons. Seeing ­today’s Far Right as the direct heir of Nazism is a shortcut that is disqualified by all scholars working on far-­right renewal. Furthermore, although the leaders of Eu­ro­pean populist movements do not hide their admiration for Putin, their constituents do not necessarily display any specific pro-­Russian stance.2 Moreover, waves of illiberalism in Hungary and Poland, two countries whose populations have historically been s­ haped by an anti-­Russian stance, demonstrate that Moscow cannot be blamed for the growing skepticism of Eu­ro­pean public opinion—­this is a homegrown, deeply rooted phenomenon that is much more complex than a mere import from Rus­sia. As Andrey Makarychev notes, although Rus­sian and Central Eu­ro­pean discourses conflict on numerous memory issues, they are nevertheless united in

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their criticism of prevailing visions of Eu­rope as a liberal, cosmopolitan, and supranational proj­ect; instead they seek to advance the narrative of “another Eu­ rope” that is more conservative and nation-­centric.3 Last but not least, the Kremlin’s Eu­ro­pean policy does not solely target far-­right groups, but also far-­ left and, more impor­tant, mainstream conservative parties and big businesses: it is a Realpolitik policy of finding any point of influence in the Eu­ro­pean theater, not just an ideological marriage with the far right. A third set of arguments advanced by Snyder relates to Ivan Ilyin’s alleged role in Putin’s ideology. Yet, Ilyin cannot be qualified simply as a “fascist thinker.” Like many of his contemporaries, he was indeed a virulent anti-­Semitic figure, attracted to fascism and even early national socialism, which he saw as spiritually close to White ideology, with a “common and united e­ nemy, patriotism, sense of honor, voluntary-­sacrificial ser­vice, an attraction to dictatorial discipline, to spiritual renewal and the revival of their country, and the search for a new social justice.”4 Yet he refused to collaborate with the Nazi regime and fled Germany, but remained faithful to Francisco Franco in Spain and António de Oliveira Salazar in Portugal.5 Ilyin’s intellectual legacy does not just comprise mere praise for southern Eu­ ro­pean fascist regimes. He also developed a vision of Rus­sia based on three pillars: the country’s unique destiny, its statehood (gosudarstvennost´), and ­legal consciousness (pravosoznanie). As a professor of law close to the Kadet party, Ilyin belonged to the Rus­sian tradition of philosophy of law that cannot be subsumed within a pure embrace of fascism, much less Nazism.6 A more refined and intellectual perspective would place him in the same category as some of the German Conservative Revolution thinkers. Furthermore, although Ilyin has been held up as the ideological inspiration for the pro-­Orthodox, pro-­emigration, and pro-­Romanov factions in Rus­sia, it would be a ­mistake to claim that he has been Putin’s main doctrinal reference. The Rus­ sian president did not show him special deference by visiting his grave in 2009: he was also visiting ­those of the White general Anton Denikin and the Nobel laureate Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. Putin has quoted Ilyin on five occasions (in 2005, 2006, 2012, 2013, and 2014) but this cannot be taken as proof of influence: he has quoted the Eurasianist thinker Lev Gumilev six times and regularly refers to many other Rus­sian thinkers and historians, from Nikolay Karamzin to Nikolay Berdyaev. Moreover, the selected quotations insist on the state as the embodiment of law, on the soldier representing the nation, on Rus­sia’s statehood, and, in 2014, “the one who loves Rus­sia should wish it freedom.”7 All ­these quotations mirror the conventional framing of Rus­sia, its culture, and the role of the state; none are related to Ilyin’s most controversial statements on Nazi Germany and fascist Italy. When Ilyin’s writings are brought into the Kremlin’s pantheon, it is thus in

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support of mainstream declarations about Rus­sia that could have been stated by many other Rus­sian thinkers. Additionally, Snyder has obscured the many occasions on which Ilyin’s positions are in fundamental opposition to Putin’s. The émigré thinker was, for instance, a proponent of lustration against all communist elites, something Rus­sian elites have always refused to even consider. His hatred for the Bolsheviks led him to argue that a real patriot would fight on the side of the United States in the event of a war between the country and the Soviet Union—­another statement that makes no sense for the Kremlin.8 ­These facts explain why Ilyin can be quoted but not be elevated to the rank of an official thinker: rehabilitating his writing as a ­whole would mean embracing too many ideological components with which the Kremlin cannot agree.9 Snyder’s fourth argument is to accuse Putin of having justified the annexation of Crimea by reference to Germany’s “changing borders” doctrine, implying that Putin openly compared his actions to t­hose of Nazi Germany: “It is with such historical references (seizing Austria and part of Czecho­slo­va­kia) in mind that we must understand Putin’s suggestion in the speech that Germany should sympathize with the doctrine of changing borders.”10 This is a gross and unfair accusation. Putin’s speech very clearly refers to German reunification in 1990, not the Anschluss or the annexation of the Sudetenland: “Let me remind you that in the course of po­liti­ cal consultations on the unification of East and West Germany, at the expert, though very high level, some nations that ­were then and are now Germany’s allies did not support the idea of unification. Our nation, however, unequivocally supported the sincere, unstoppable desire of the Germans for national unity.”11 This does not, of course, justify the annexation of Crimea, but it does demonstrate that Putin’s reference was to German reunification—an impor­tant event in his own personal ­career as a KGB agent based in East Germany—­not to the actions of Nazi Germany. Moscow’s standard of normalcy is the Cold War, not the Molotov–­Ribbentrop era. The Kremlin does not live in an ideological world inspired by Nazi Germany, but rather a world in which the perestroika years, the collapse of the Yalta order, and the breakup of the Soviet Union still constitute the main historical referents and traumas. Exaggerating the alleged meaning of historical analogies with Nazi Germany only confuses the issue, instrumentalizing a “usable past” to sling mud at Rus­sia and restricting the use of other analytical tools. It does not help illuminate the motivations of the Rus­sian leadership’s self-­positioning in the Eu­ro­pean scene.

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Regime Theory and the Neo-­Totalitarianism Fallacy Another aspect of the debate to be debunked is related to the use of the concept of totalitarianism.12 The totalitarianism theory, established by Hannah Arendt in her 1951 book—­even if the term was largely used before her by scholars describing Italian Fascism and by writers such as George Orwell—­states that totalitarianism is a novel form of government that cannot be considered a higher degree of authoritarianism but is instead one of a kind.13 Yet many scholars of fascism explain that if the concept of totalitarianism works for Nazi Germany—­and for the Stalinist Soviet Union—­and was aspirational for Mussolini’s Italy, it does not apply to more “moderate” fascist regimes such as t­ hose that existed in Spain, Portugal, or Latin Amer­i­ca, which combined a more traditional authoritarian regime with a military junta in power, nor to the late Soviet Union.14 With the exception of Nazi Germany, the majority of fascist regimes ­were not totalitarian in practice—­they did not exercise full control of e­ very aspect of individual life, and instead showed some “loopholes” in their totalitarian aspirations. In all cases, Nazi-­style totalitarianism, southern European-­and Latin American-­ style military authoritarianism, and Stalinism, t­ hese parallels fail to work for Putin’s Rus­sia. Totalitarianism uses a system of terror to subjugate mass populations and seeks to dominate ­every aspect of life as a prelude to world domination. ­Today’s Rus­sia offers no indications that would qualify it as a totalitarian state: no system of terror is in place, no mandatory indoctrination exists to subjugate the masses, and no mobilization mechanisms are pre­sent. Definitions of ­today’s Rus­sian regime as totalitarian thus do not rely on scholarly analy­sis but belong to media hype, such as, for instance, Masha Gessen’s The F ­ uture Is History: How 15 Totalitarianism Reclaimed Rus­sia, or to the politicized labeling of Rus­sia as fascist, such as that advanced by Snyder or Alexander Motyl. This label is based on a fallacious logical triangle: if Nazism and Communism are equally totalitarian and if the Putin regime is neo-­Stalinist, then Putin’s Rus­sia equals Nazism through its revamped Stalinism. The Putin regime focuses on outlawing liberal opposition and invites citizens to be busy with their private lives and individual well-­being, permitting as many ­free spaces as pos­si­ble for nonpo­liti­cal expression in order to avoid resentment, which could become a driver of antiregime mobilization. ­These features are classic for authoritarian regimes, which limit themselves to gaining and then keeping po­liti­cal power, requiring the observance of certain rules, and allowing ­limited liberties as long as they do not challenge po­liti­cal domination. One can thus question ­whether Putin is, as Motyl asserts, “a dictator.” Motyl supports his claims of Rus­sia’s alleged dictatorship by relying on Freedom House scores, a choice that

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hardly makes his allegations incontrovertible—­the advocacy institution divides the world into just three categories (­free, partly ­free, and not ­free), a classification that is too restrictive to be meaningful.16 The Polity IV proj­ect offers a much more granular ranking for capturing the nature of the Rus­sian po­liti­cal regime by “examining concomitant qualities of demo­cratic and autocratic authority in governing institutions, rather than discreet and mutually exclusive forms of governance.” The proj­ect description continues: “This perspective envisions a spectrum of governing authority that spans from fully institutionalized autocracies through mixed, or incoherent, authority regimes (termed ‘anocracies’) to fully institutionalized democracies.”17 On this spectrum, Rus­sia has been placed in the category of anocracies, closer to demo­cratic than autocratic regimes—it has been graded +4 since 2007 over a scale of –10 for full autocracies to +10 for full democracies.18 Even the qualification of authoritarianism should thus be deployed with nuance in the Rus­sian case. Obviously, public freedoms have been curbed over the past de­cade, the electoral options offered by po­liti­cal parties are ­limited, opponents are hampered in their expression, and the media are increasingly controlled. Yet ideological diversity is still available to ­those who look for it: liberal protests regularly shake Moscow and the country’s big cities; until his poisoning in summer 2020, the opposition leader Alexei Navalny was often arrested for short durations but was still able to investigate the corruption of high-­level officials and consolidate a network of oppositional grassroots movements; and urban activism and municipal politics have shown new spaces for civil society to express itself.19 According to the Memorial ­Human Rights Center, only about 54 ­people are considered po­liti­cal prisoners (to that can be added 254 p ­ eople imprisoned for “religious extremism,” which is a dubious category),20 a number that pales in comparison to regimes such as China, with about one million Uyghurs currently in so-­called reeducation camps, and Erdoğan’s Turkey, with between 50,000 and 80,000 ­people arrested ­after the 2016 coup.21 Even a comparison with southern European-­or Latin American-­style military authoritarianism does not work. Rus­ sia thus cannot be labeled totalitarian, nor is it dictatorial; it is even less fascist. This regime typology issue paves the way for a discussion that none of the scholars who accuse the Putin regime of fascism have thus far been able to tackle: What if fascism is not automatically a feature of an authoritarian/dictatorial regime, but something that can appear in a pluralistic, even demo­cratic, system? Can fascist features coexist with nonfascist features and be just one cluster in a set of diverse po­liti­cal ideas and practices? In the case of Rus­sia, the link between accusing the Putin regime of being fascist and its supposed totalitarian or authoritarian essence is irrelevant: Rus­sia need not be portrayed as a totalitarian heir of Stalinism or Nazism (as Snyder has tried to do) or as a dictatorial regime (as Motyl

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has attempted) in order to engage in a discussion of the presence of some fascist features in t­ oday’s Rus­sia, as t­ hese attributes can be expressed in an environment that is quite pluralistic. Commenting on the application of the term fascism to Putin’s Rus­sia, Roger Griffin nicely summarizes: From the perspective of comparative fascist studies Rus­sia is not fascist. By this, I mean it is not officially or even practically a single party state using mass organ­izations to create a New Rus­sian man, and it does not use state power to engineer an alternative form of modernity on the basis of a revolutionary ideology of racist ultranationalism. Putin is a pragmatist, a master of Realpolitik without a utopian vision of a new type of modern state. He shows no interest in using the power he has accumulated to erect a modernist totalitarian state devoted to carry­ing out an anthropological and temporal revolution. Hence, Putin is not technically a fascist. T ­ here are many ways ­human rights and democracy can be undermined and assaulted, not just by fascism. So can we just leave fascism out of the discussion and concentrate on the uniqueness of the con­temporary Rus­sian state’s corruption of democracy and the dangers it poses to world peace with its expansionism and alliances?22

Lacking a Doctrinal Utopian Content The Putin regime also misses another core ele­ment of fascism: mass indoctrination and mobilization. The regime is not grounded in a state-­validated doctrine; nothing similar to Marxism–­Leninism, with its mandatory readings, quotations, and exams required for pursuing any high-­level ­career, has been rebuilt. ­There is no text, like La dottrina del fascism (1932) written by Giovanni Gentile (1875– 1944) and Benito Mussolini, or Hitler’s Mein Kampf (1925), that is identifiable as the foundational doctrine of Putinism. Even the proj­ect of creating a unified textbook for Rus­sia’s twentieth-­century history failed, thus reflecting the many divergences in interpreting the Soviet past and the inability of state structures to forcibly impose something that the teaching and academic communities did not welcome. Despite this—or perhaps ­because of it—­several Western observers have been searching for Putin’s hy­po­thet­i­cal ideological guru since the early 2000s. This role has traditionally been allotted to Aleksandr Dugin, whom Western experts mistakenly credited as “Putin’s brain” b ­ ecause of his role in popularizing Eurasianist terminology.23 However, as we saw previously, Dugin has failed to acquire any

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institutional status within state structures, and his theories are too esoteric to compete with the producers of more “usable” and less radical ideologies. The success of the notion of Eurasia has totally escaped his control and did not bring him any institutional reward; and his more radical theories have never obtained any official recognition by state organs. More recently, Ivan Ilyin has been identified as Putin’s ideological inspiration, first by Anton Barbashin and Hannah Thoburn and then by Timothy Snyder.24 ­Here, too, their arguments are based on a very segmented and biased interpretation of the regime’s ideological fundamentals and an erroneous interpretation of ­those who are in fact solitary thinkers. The Putin regime not only fails to advance any official coherent doctrine but also lacks what most scholars consider to be the lowest common denominator of fascism: a utopian proj­ect of transformation that operates by mobilizing the masses around a promotion of vio­lence. Indeed, the core ele­ments that differentiate fascism from other reactionary ideologies based on anti-­Enlightenment are the myth of regeneration and the cult of vio­lence. Fascism does not aim to preserve or restore the past but instead seeks to create a radically new society. Yet Putin’s regime does not exhibit any utopian features that require a total transformation of the current world order nor the aim of building a New Man. None of the official discourses appeal for a new mankind to be built. On the contrary, since the mid-2000s, and even more so since Putin’s third presidential term, the Kremlin’s enthusiastic embrace of conservatism confirms its fear of anything that could be associated with revolutionary changes. It calls for the preservation of the existing order in the hope of achieving a laconic and cynical ac­cep­tance of the world as it is. Furthermore, orga­nizational ele­ments associated with fascist utopianism are absent from con­temporary Rus­sia. The presidential party United Rus­sia has never emerged as a structure able to enlist and indoctrinate the masses. On the contrary, it remains a party for bureaucrats and all ­those who wish to secure their ­careers, making it more akin to the Communist Party of the Soviet Union than to the Nazi or Italian fascist parties. Only twice in two de­cades has the Kremlin tried to cultivate an atmosphere of mobilization in the country. The first attempt occurred between 2005 and 2008, when it mobilized youth movements—­embodied by the Nashi—in the hope of both preempting a color revolution and structuring a vanguard that would inspire the rest of society to engage in active defense of the regime’s values.25 The second attempt took place at the peak of the Ukrainian crisis in spring 2014, when the Kremlin-­sponsored nationalist mobilization allowed for an atmosphere of hysteria at home and for volunteer fighters to join the Donbas insurgency. The dynamic created by the Ukrainian crisis demonstrated both the success and the failure of the Kremlin’s attempts to channel the energies of Rus­sian nationalist

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groups: it takes advantage of their grassroots mobilizational capacity but rapidly finds itself obliged to rein them in. Once some of t­ hese radical groups began calling for a “Rus­sian Spring” to take over not only Kyiv but even the Kremlin itself, the authorities became fearful of fueling revolution at home and retook control over the insurgents and the volunteer fighters. Putin’s regime has thus been walking a tightrope between mobilizing and demobilizing the Rus­sian population. The mobilized vanguard can be celebrated and touted as a positive, uplifting ele­ment of what other­wise looks like a cynical, detached society. Yet it is a risky strategy: demobilization appears to be the better way to maintain the status quo, based on the implicit contract of letting elites manage politics while the population lead their own private lives without (too much) state intervention. This social contract still functions t­ oday. Levada Center surveys indicate a widespread belief of the Rus­sian public opinion that politics is a corrupt world best avoided: in 2018, among the 74 ­percent who answer that they are not interested at all or partly in participating in po­liti­cal life, 31 ­percent mention that it is not for average citizens and 21 ­percent that it is a dirty business.26 Thus far, the Kremlin has succeeded in consolidating a passive patriotism—­passive support for the regime and marginalization of ­those forces that would contest its authority—­but not an active one. This observation indicates that the mobilization and indoctrination typical of fascist regimes are missing from ­today’s Rus­sia.

Not Ethnonationalist or Imperialistic, but Postcolonial Another feature considered core to any fascist regime is imperialism, often interpreted as a form of ultranationalism. This feature is particularly noticeable among the main Rus­sian fascist groups, which often call for an expansionist strategy in the name of the defense of compatriots abroad, of Rus­sian imperial destiny more broadly, or, in an ethnonationalist version, of the right to protect the ethnic nation against all kinds of foreign and domestic enemies. Yet, at the level of state authorities, one cannot speak of an official nationalist doctrine. First, n ­ eedless to say, the Putin regime cannot be equated with Nazism, the core plan of which was to eliminate all races defined as inferior. The Kremlin has never promoted racial destruction or genocide. On the contrary, the state’s narrative is embedded in a Herderian perception of the world, according to which each “civilization” or “culture” represents the diversity of humanity and should be celebrated for its uniqueness—­hence the active role played by Moscow in any international proj­ect based on the notion of a “dialogue of civilizations.”27

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Second, the Rus­sian state does not even advance a doctrine of Rus­sian ethnic superiority. The Duma has never validated the many bills submitted by nationalist MPs asking for the recognition of ethnic Rus­sians as having rights superior to ­those of citizens belonging to ethnic minorities.28 For example, tensions may exist around the decreased rights given to minority languages, particularly in Tatarstan,29 but this trend belongs more to the institutional and legislative recentralization of the regime than to an ethnonationalist repertoire that would aim to ethnically Russify the entire Federation. On the contrary, Putin, as well as the main government figures, heavi­ly insist on Rus­sia’s multinational and multiconfessional character. The Rus­sian president has on several occasions denounced nationalism as a danger to the country: putting one nationality above another “was the formula used by ­those who paved the way to the collapse of the Soviet Union.”30 The only time Putin referred positively to the term was when he presented himself as “the most proper and true nationalist” (samyi pravil´nyi, samyi nastoiashchii natsionalist) at the 2018 Valdai summit. Even if the sentence also mentions the interests of the Rus­sian ­people, the president used the expression as a synonym for sovereignist and antiglobalist, as a way to stay his patriotism against a Western liberal order that would ­favor interference in domestic affairs.31 The use of the term russkii (Rus­sian) by Vladimir Putin in his March 2014 speech about the annexation of Crimea has been interpreted by many Western observers as a sign of the regime’s growing nationalism,32 which would endanger the country’s traditional multinational character.33 This, however, is too narrow a view. Conventionally, russkii is interpreted as a linguistic and ethnic definition of Rus­sians, whereas the adjective rossiiskii (Rossian) is used to refer to the Rus­ sian state and its citizens. Yet the term russkii has two meanings: it not only identifies as ethnic Rus­sians all t­ hose who do not consider themselves to belong to a national minority group but also designates the unity of Eastern Slavs, which is the much older meaning of the term. Putin’s use of the term in his 2014 speech belongs to this second repertoire—­that is, to an ancient historical theme that stipulates that Eastern Slavs in their three modern national manifestations (Rus­ sians, Ukrainians, and Belarusians) come from the same cradle, Kievan Rus´.34 Historically speaking, Kyiv is indeed a russkii land, whereby russkii is understood in the original sense of Eastern Slavs, not the modern Rus­sian state. Putin’s message was thus directly aimed at the revival of this imperial longue durée in the hope that Ukraine would not leave Rus­sia’s sphere of influence and become “absorbed” into the Eu­ro­pean world; he was not wishing for Rus­sia to become an ethnically Rus­sian state. This explains why the authorities can insist increasingly on russkii while continuing to claim the princi­ple of Rus­sia’s multinational character: russkii is not the opposite of rossiiskii. If fascism is defined as a form of

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ultranationalism that stresses the superiority of an ethnic group over ­others, then ­today’s Rus­sia can definitively not be considered as such. Together with ultranationalism, imperialism is considered another key component of a fascist regime. Umberto Eco’s definition of Ur-­Fascism mentions, for instance, a cult of war or a “cult of actions for action’s sake.”35 Robert Paxton, too, sees fascism as exalting “the beauty of vio­lence and of ­will, when they are devoted to the group’s success in a Darwinian strug­gle.”36 Nonetheless, it is difficult to identify any call for vio­lence as a regenerative mechanism in Rus­sia’s official position. The state’s massive reinvestment in the army, the military–­industrial complex, and nuclear deterrence mechanisms cannot be interpreted as a sign of warmongering pushing for a total war with the West. Much more pragmatically, it signals both the legitimate right of a country that considers itself a ­great power to remain influential at the military level and the failure of the post–­Cold War “reset” or “détente” that has resulted in the return to an international order based on deterrence and balance. Being in an adversarial relationship with the West, especially with the United States, does not indicate a desire for conflict. As Keith Darden convincingly demonstrates, both U.S. and Rus­sian nuclear doctrines “are status quo oriented and primarily defensive. They are designed to deter potential aggressors—­not to ‘roll back’ rivals, overturn governments through military conquest, or to expand influence. Both are consistent with the achievement of a certain ‘strategic stability’ or a stable mutual deterrence.”37 Imperialism is prob­ably one of the most debatable issues related to Rus­sia ­today. But h ­ ere, too, the terminology is ambiguous: Is Rus­sia an imperialist or a postcolonial power? Imperialism implies an explicit policy of extending a country’s rule over foreign countries. Postcolonialism suggests something more subtle, that is, that decolonization still affects the relationship between colonizer and colonized in a more passive way: both actors have to manage a cumbersome legacy.38 In the Rus­sian case, it seems more relevant to address geopo­liti­cal tensions and irredentism as part of a postcolonial situation and the lasting trauma of the collapse of the Soviet Union. Moving from an empire to a nation-­state is a long pro­cess: coming to terms with a colonial past takes several de­cades, during which the relationship to the former colonized is still ambivalent.39 From the Rus­sian perspective, Moscow’s actions in the “near abroad” are not expansionist but rather protectionist. The new regional world order that followed the collapse of the Soviet Union has been accepted as état de fait on the condition that Rus­sia ­will not be further challenged in what remains of its sphere of influence. Moscow does not hope to rebuild the Soviet Union but instead wishes to maintain a post-­Soviet état de fait in which the Baltic states have rejoined both the EU and NATO and the rest of the former Soviet countries remain part of

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Rus­sia’s “near abroad.” The latter are not asked to welcome Rus­sian influence with open arms—­Turkmenistan or Uzbekistan remains for instance cautious t­ oward Moscow—­but neither are they allowed to join any new Western institutions. Both the 2008 war with Georgia and the 2014 war with Ukraine should thus be viewed as Moscow’s reaction to what it interprets to be the West’s willingness to change this post-­Soviet order by incorporating Georgia or Ukraine into its structures.40 It would also be a m ­ istake to analyze Rus­sia’s “spheres of influence” as something unique to the country, with no other models for comparison. Many power­ ful states—­from the United States to China and Eu­ro­pean countries with colonial pasts, such as the United Kingdom and France—­have or had a sphere of influence and one cannot reasonably describe them as fascist on the basis of this single feature. A comparison with Françafrique, for example, highlights the lack of Rus­sian exceptionalism: the Françafrique relied on opaque postcolonial policies to defend French commercial interests, patronage and clientelist mechanisms, and military interventions to protect local dictators—­actions similar to ­those of Rus­ sia in its former empire.41 Marcel Van Herpen’s description of Rus­sia’s spheres of influence as a “hidden Lebensraum” advances an inaccurate parallel with Nazism, unequivocal in its goal of demographically conquering and destroying populations living in targeted territories. By contrast, nothing in Rus­sia’s notion of spheres of influence relates to killing local populations or sending ethnic Rus­sians to colonize ­these territories. Rus­sia instead emphasizes control of its neighbors’ strategic orientation in order to prevent their membership in Western institutions such as NATO or the Eu­ro­ pean Union. Moreover, since the 2006 launch of its compatriots policy,42 Moscow has been more interested in the return of Rus­sians from the “near abroad” as a usable workforce for the country itself than in consolidating their demographic presence abroad—­the Lebensraum analogy thus collapses immediately. The supposed historical parallel between Rus­sia and Nazi Germany around irredentism does not hold, e­ ither: irredentist narratives are pre­sent in many countries and po­liti­cal cultures without any mechanical link to the fascist repertoire. More meaningful comparisons can be made with the experiences of the Ottoman/ Turkish Empire, China, or Eu­rope: the claim that Crimea is part of Rus­sia, for instance, could be compared with France’s claim regarding the loss of Alsace-­ Lorraine during the early Third Republic. Furthermore, the Rus­sian state remains careful in its relationship to irredentism: the idea of a “Rus­sian World” cultivates fuzziness in regard to the l­egal relationship between Rus­sians outside of Rus­sia and the Rus­sian state itself. This repertoire is mostly one of soft power or public diplomacy, centered more on the promotion of Rus­sian culture and history abroad than on systematic ­legal protection.43 Support for genuine irredentist claims t­ oward Rus­sian minorities in

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Ukraine, Latvia, Estonia, or Kazakhstan—in the sense of changing borders to account for ethnic minority presence—is absent from official state policy. The Kremlin endorses its coethnics abroad only in countries that are resistant to its own strategic domination as a tool to coerce and weaken local regimes; it does not care about the fate of Rus­sian minorities abroad except as an instrument for strategic pressure.44 In Rus­sia’s almost thirty years as an in­de­pen­dent state, Crimea is the only example of concrete irredentism, a so far unique case that can be explained as the Kremlin’s reaction to its loss of domination over Ukraine and its fear of losing access to Sevastopol, its main gate to the Black Sea. ­Here, too, Moscow’s actions have been reactive: the Kremlin intervened once it understood that it could not stop the Euromaidan revolution and Ukraine’s subsequent geopo­liti­cal re­ orientation. Without Euromaidan, Crimea would still be part of Ukraine. In the cases of South Ossetia and Abkhazia, Rus­sia’s strategy has been dif­fer­ent. Rather than openly annexing ­these territories, Moscow has promoted a creeping annexation.45 Yet this strategy is not accompanied by any irredentist claim ­toward the local population, which is not ethnically Rus­sian or even Slavic: its main goal remains purely strategic—­that is, to weaken Georgia and hamper it from moving closer to the West.46 Rus­sia’s aggressive reactions to changes that affect its geopo­liti­cal influence in the “near abroad” are an insufficient basis for boldly accusing the country of imperialism. Current tensions relate mostly to the unsuccessful management of the post–­Cold War environment in the neighborhood shared by Rus­sia and Eu­rope. To this should be added Rus­sia’s deeply rooted legacy of a colonial past, all the more challenging to deal with in that it relies on territorial contiguity, which was not the case for Eu­ro­pean colonial powers. ­These features have nothing to do with the notion of fascism.

Gaps and Overlaps between State Structures and the Radical Right Another argument used to claim that Rus­sia is fascist is the presence of fascist groups. Yet, as we have discussed, the existence of such fringes is common in the majority of Western countries—­and much more developed, for instance, in the United States. The Rus­sian authorities have by turns repressed, marginalized, ­adopted a laissez-­faire policy ­toward, and co-­opted ­these grassroots radical-­right initiatives. They have created a kind of “transfilling” pattern: when the liberal opposition takes the floor, the Kremlin gives more space to the nationalist or far-­

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right spectrum; when the liberal opposition is s­ ilent, but the ultraconservative movement gets wind in its sails, the Kremlin tends to repress or at least silence the latter. Yet that interplay is in fact much more complex ­because the Rus­sian state is composed of a plurality of actors and spaces. Some grassroots groups have secured patrons in dif­fer­ent state spaces, ­whether ­these are security ser­vices, the military world, or regional and municipal institutions. This umbrella gives them at least partial protection from repression by other sectors of the state, as well as advantages during competition with rivals. The state actors interested in curating ­these grassroots movements may do so for a wide array of reasons: personal friendships with activist leaders; faith in the legitimacy of popu­lar “patriotic” self-­ defense; a dream of the rise of private paramilitary groups; or a means of influencing other competitors or opponents in the Kremlin’s main ecosystems. ­These articulations are multilayered and exist in several realms. First, they exist in time: a detailed chronological study shows moments when the Kremlin is more active in co-­opting t­ hese groups against its main ­enemy, the liberals, as well as moments when it is at best disinterested, or openly repressive. The best example of such an evolution occurred during the first months of the war in Ukraine, when the Kremlin let all radical groups defend the notion of Novorossiya, a win­ dow of opportunity that it closed as early as July 2014, when it retook control of the Donbas war. Since then, the state policy ­toward the Far Right has been repression. Second, space is impor­tant to consider: Rus­sia is a huge country, and location ­matters. Local contexts play a critical role in the everyday relationship between the Rus­sian state at the regional and municipal levels, on the one hand, and grassroots movements, on the other. Three regions seem to dominate in terms of deep interactions between far-­right groups and local authorities: Moscow and the Moscow region ­under Mayor Yury Luzhkov, at least u ­ ntil 2007–2008; St. Petersburg; and southern cities such as Krasnodar, Stavropol, and Rostov-­on-­Don, known for their conservative atmosphere and their Cossack traditions. In many other regions, local authorities display greater opposition to radical groups—­ regularly canceling the Rus­sian Marches, for instance.47 Third, and most impor­tant, the Rus­sian state is a plural conglomerate comprising several ruling groups. A close network mapping of the Kremlin “black box” allows us to discern approximately a dozen high-­level po­liti­cal figures who, in one way or another, play power-­broker roles by trying to promote, support, protect, or link far-­right figures to state authorities. We have already mentioned Dmitrii Rogozin, Sergey Glazyev, and Sergey Naryshkin. Some MPs at the Duma and the Council Federation have also been known to play such a role for years,

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sometimes since the early 1990s. T ­ hese figures include Sergey Baburin, Natalia Narochnitskaia, Aleksei Mitrofanov, Aleksandr Kurianovich, Yevgeny Fiodorov, and so on. They are representatives of the Liberal Demo­cratic Party of Rus­sia, the Communist Party, Rodina, or small parties; in­de­pen­dent candidates; or even members of United Rus­sia. In addition, one can identify some media figures close to the authorities, such as Mikhail Leontyev and Ivan Demidov. Two other groups—­the segments of the Church ­under Bishop Tikhon’s leadership and several clusters of se­nior military figures connected e­ ither to the Defense Ministry or to the security services—­round out this pa­norama. This list gives the impression of being long, yet it has remained ­limited to the same names for two de­cades and represents only a minimal portion of Rus­sian po­liti­cal elites as a w ­ hole. That figures such as Dugin can express themselves without being repressed is a proverbial exception. The fascist tree constitutes a very small percentage of Rus­sia’s ideological forest, and an excessive focus on peripheral characteristics obscures other ideologies that are available for consumption and that celebrate Rus­sia’s uniqueness in more traditional ways by emphasizing national history and culture, Orthodoxy, or some form of Soviet nostalgia. Moreover, in ­these attempts at mutual instrumentalization between state authorities and the Far Right, the Kremlin has always maintained control over its own use of ­these grassroots movements, succeeding in implementing a carrot-­ and-­stick policy. This policy shows, above all, how skilled the Kremlin is at co-­ opting movements and ideas that might compete with its own legitimacy. It considers every­thing related to Rus­sian nationalism as a potential rival and therefore as something that it should bring u ­ nder its control. This “control” does not mean plain repression and coercion—­far from it. It means giving movements some space for expression, allowing them to tend to the needs of some segments of the population and to defuse pos­si­ble co­ali­tions of the unsatisfied. The existence of a radical right in Rus­sia should therefore not be interpreted as representing a risk of the fascization of society or the regime; it can continue to coexist as a minority group in a pluralistic context.

Where Is Fascism Located in Rus­s ia? Out of the array of core components that qualify a regime as fascist, Rus­sia displays only one: a constituted paramilitary culture directly supported by state institutions. All scholars of fascism studies agree on paramilitarism as a key feature of a fascist regime—it encapsulates the idea of the nation-­in-­arms that acts both as

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the regime’s ideological avant-­garde and a potential orga­nizational power to be recruited. Michael Mann’s Fascists, which delves into historical paramilitary groups in Germany, Austria, Hungary, and Spain, defines fascism specifically as “the pursuit of a transcendent and cleansing nation-­statism through paramilitarism.”48 Looking at Rus­sia’s supposed fascism, Vladislav Inozemtsev has been the only scholar to mention the gradual militarization of the Rus­sian state—or, more exactly, its “law-­ enforcement-­ization”—as a criterion for the country’s fascization. Institutionalizing the security ser­v ices as the backbone of the Rus­sian administration and curators of the country’s main public and private institutions can be explained pragmatically by the Putin regime’s need to micromanage the country and therefore benefit from reliable transmission b ­ elts motivated by personal loyalty.49 The new National Guard serves as a potential regime-­based army ready to secure the po­liti­cal status quo. The revival of youth patriotic paramilitary training sponsored by the Ministry of Defense, especially the Youth Army (Yunarmiia50) movement, launched in 2015, also belongs to the same category of pragmatic solutions. It shows the bureaucratic inertia of the Rus­sian administration, repeating old Soviet mechanisms of bringing up youth (in the hope of countering “deviant” be­hav­iors) and relying on an existing social fabric of obshchestvenniki—­ Soviet professionals of youth upbringing. As Anna Sanina has shown in the context of the renewal of a patriotic upbringing in schools, the state’s strategy has meshed well with the values and expectations already prevalent in some professional communities and ready to reproduce Soviet-­era mechanisms of social embeddedness.51 The rise of security ser­v ices and the revival of youth military training nurture the re-­creation of a traditional form of masculinity that is s­ haped by bodily training, male camaraderie, a sense of sacrifice for the nation, the ability to accept pain, and, in some cases, the idea of regeneration through vio­lence. In this environment, playing with weapons is an ersatz phallic exercise. On this auspicious soil, paramilitary groups, whose ideological language finds itself at ease with the fascist imaginary and body-­language aesthetics, can prosper. This paramilitary world combines references both to military and security ser­ vices and to the criminal world. Born out of the zona realm—­the penitentiary system, from the GULAG to classic prisons—­gang culture has indeed innervated late Soviet and post-­Soviet culture, especially in cinematography: criminal slang has become a new lingua franca, vio­lence has long been seen as a path to success, and brotherhood and illicit codes of justice are valued. This gang culture has penetrated the law enforcement and security ser­v ice agencies,52 and has thus become part of mainstream culture ­under Putin, who proudly pre­sents himself as having been something of a “bad boy” during his teen years.53

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The glamorous and very macho image of the president cultivated by the public relations machine has indeed contributed to the consolidation of a traditional manliness on the basis of three notions: physical bravery (Putin tranquilizing a Siberian tiger, hunting and fishing in the wilderness, and practicing extreme sports), technological mastery (Putin playing the role of fireman during the 2010 Moscow forest fires, riding a Harley-­Davidson motorcycle, driving military trucks, and pi­loting military jets), and machismo (Putin pin-up calendars, “Putin girls” who pre­sent themselves as the president’s virtual lovers and sing phrases such as “I want a man like Putin”).54 Putin’s personal image-­making has thus contributed to the widespread ac­cep­tance of gendered clichés pertaining to male values and the need for men to defend society as an extended ­family.55 The advancement of Rus­sian and Asian martial arts—­resulting in what some call a “judocracy,” as the president has patronized many figures who once studied martial arts alongside him—­has been one of Putin’s most enduring pet proj­ects.56 The half-­public, half-­underground world of sambo and mixed martial arts often exhibits an aesthetic inspired by fascism, and is active as a recruitment pool for young ­people to join paramilitary structures. A sociology of this militia subculture has yet to be written. Composed of several hundred thousand activists, it is far from marginal. The Rus­sian private security industry, for instance, comprises around 23,000 registered firms (certified by the Rus­sian National Guard), employing about 700,000 p ­ eople and securing 57 900,000 locations. The Cossack troops working ­under the state umbrella represent about 100,000 ­people. About 400,000 youth participated in one way or another in the Youth Army movement, and several hundred thousand in a large network of sport clubs. To this should be added numerically smaller movements such as the Orthodox brigades, politicized biker clubs such as the Night Wolves, and a broader net of war veteran associations that are very active in the humanitarian domain and extracurricular activities. The difficulty of reinvesting masculinity in a post-­Soviet context thus constitutes a still underexplored field that is essential to understanding the attraction to some aspects of fascist ideology and its body aesthetic in ­today’s Rus­sia. This militia subculture exists in a symbiotic relationship with the authorities and plays a multilayered role: at a minimum, it fosters social consensus around the regime and its values, especially for the blue-­collar parts of the society, but it also enables the power ministries to secure access to several hundred thousand patriotically minded and trained citizens potentially ready to be recruited. Paramilitary groups could increasingly be used as an outsourced tool for repressing po­liti­cal opposition and performing “hybrid” duties abroad,58 as well as a coercive force serving the power ministries against civilian authorities in the case of conflicting interests. A relatively similar combination of statism, the Orthodox

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Church, and paramilitary groups constituted the core ideology of Slobodan Milošević’s regime,59 but with a level of coherence that the Putin regime has not been able to match.

As we have seen, the concept of fascism does not offer a probing comprehension of ­today’s Rus­sia, with the exception of the militia subculture. Many other concepts advance more useful heuristic approaches. This brings us back to the point that I alluded to ­earlier when discussing Eco’s Ur-­Fascism. How many features of fascism does a regime need to qualify as fascist? If Rus­sia exhibits only one, this conclusion undoubtedly means that the Putin regime cannot be adequately described as fascist—­the lit­er­a­ture of hybrid regimes, patronalism, and illiberalism proposes, for instance, a much more comprehensive frame. Moreover, the lack of comparative approaches reduces our ability to understand the regime outside of a supposed Rus­sian exceptionalism. A comparison of the Putin regime, or Putinism (if we wish to use the term), to other, nonfascist -­isms appears to be a necessary exercise. Van Herpen’s comparison with Bonapartism ­under Napoleon III (1848–1870) is particularly instructive.60 His parallel with Berlusconism, too, offers in­ter­est­ing tools for exploring the ethos of personal enrichment, the embrace of globalization, relationships with mafia circles, and what he calls “Botox politics.” I add to this analy­sis a comparison with Gaullism.61 Putin and De Gaulle both built their legitimacy on a double victory. De Gaulle represented the France that resisted Nazi Germany and refused to collaborate with the occupying authorities. De Gaulle also pacified French public opinion, which was on the brink of civil war, by accepting the 1962 Evian Accords that put an end to the bloody decolonization war in Algeria. Putin is similarly credited with stopping the pro­cess of internal disintegration of the early 1990s, when Rus­sia was perceived to be on the path to its own dismemberment, and with reconnecting ­today’s Rus­sia with its Soviet-­time grandeur. Both De Gaulle and Putin succeeded in rebuilding fragile national consensuses and avoiding social and internal fractures. The parallel between Algeria and Chechnya in shaping French and Rus­sian public opinion, respectively—­and, ­later, giving rise to xenophobia—is striking. Both France and Rus­sia had to come to terms with their colonial pasts and build new forms of identity and interactions with former colonies or the “near abroad.” In both cases, the two leaders w ­ ere reluctant to expose the dark pages of national history: De Gaulle insisted on re­ sis­tance and was unwilling to see collaboration discussed publicly; Putin continues to focus on Rus­sia’s victory in 1945 and has put aside the issue of the occupation of Eastern Eu­rope a­ fter the Ribbentrop–­Molotov Pact.

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But the comparison goes further. Both men established relatively authoritarian and censorial regimes in which po­liti­cal opposition (leftist in Gaullist France, liberal in Putin’s Rus­sia) was legally allowed but marginalized, and red-­tape practices in the management of po­liti­cal affairs ­were endemic. They both promoted a national consensus based on their respective countries’ alleged need for law and order and on conservative values focused on the “traditional f­ amily” and “respectable mores,” with an assumed willingness to prevent changes in ­family patterns and the continued liberalization of social norms. Both regimes also advanced an ideology of national grandeur. De Gaulle was a fierce nationalist who was convinced of the uniqueness of the French cultural and po­liti­cal message to the rest of the world. He promoted the notion of Francophonie, in many ways similar to the current idea of a “Rus­sian World.” De Gaulle was starkly anti-­American, distrustful t­ oward ­Great Britain, convinced that “Atlanticism,” that is, the Anglo-­Saxon vision of global affairs, was too confrontational ­toward the rest of the world. He pulled France out of NATO-­integrated structures and called for a Eu­rope of nations that was relatively friendly ­toward the Soviet Union, in which he saw a kind of eternal Rus­sia. The parallel with the Rus­sian state vision of the world t­ oday is striking, particularly with re­spect to the insistence on a Eu­rope of nations that would interact closely with Rus­sia and distance itself from the Anglo-­Saxon world. Obviously, ­there are differences between Putinism and Gaullism, between the two po­liti­cal regimes, and between the two men and two socie­ties—­including half a ­century. But the comparison is telling and helps us look at the Rus­sian state t­ oday in a more “normalizing” light. Putin is a classic example of a patriarchal leader who emerged to consolidate a post-­trauma society and provide social peace based on a consensual cele­bration of national grandeur and conservative values. Both de Gaulle and Putin provided a few de­cades of safe interregnum during which the society was able to mourn and heal. As de Gaulle found himself, in 1968–1969, bypassed by a French society ready for reforms, Putin may well face the same destiny in the near ­future.

  C onclusion

RUS­S IA’S MEMORY AND THE ­F UTURE OF EU­R OPE

Classical fascism in the sense of references to historical Eu­ro­pean fascism or white supremacism remains despised in Rus­sian public opinion and largely repressed by Rus­sian state organs. This does not mean that groups supporting t­hese ideologies cannot exist in the interstices allowed by the system, but they do not represent a bigger risk than that in any other Western society, and they certainly cannot rely on solid constituencies as in the United States. What I called parafascism, that is, culturally Russified doctrines that may share some conceptual features related to fascism—­belief in a meta-­ideology and an enlightened elite, calls for mass indoctrination and state vio­lence, and a utopia of the nation’s regeneration through war—­can develop more easily. They are given the right to exist as radical ends of a wider spectrum of acceptable doctrines considered as part of the classic stock of Rus­sian nationalism or Rus­sian conservatism: Black Hundreds as the radical end of the continuum of rehabilitation of tsarism, Eurasianism as the radical end of the continuum of belief in Rus­sia as the pivot of Eurasia, and mystical Stalinism and National Bolshevism as the radical end of the continuum of nostalgia for the Soviet greatness. ­These doctrines, which have been allowed to exist thanks to some power­ful patrons, are nonetheless outside the mainstream of what the Presidential Administration and the Rus­ sian government promote at the everyday level of governmentality. Rus­sia’s ideational mainstream relies on a much more conventional and consensual base that combines Soviet nostalgia for Brezhnev’s time, critiques of the 1990s, and calls for a new world order that would challenge supposed Western hy­poc­risy and moral de­cadence. At the same time, the official line continues to 157

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refer to Eu­rope as a civilizational cradle epitomizing a superior culture and quality of life, and to claim ac­cep­tance of modernity/modernization/globalization as the “normalcy” of e­ very country in the twenty-­first ­century. Cultivating doctrinal plurality, blurriness, and the implicit, this mainstream thinks of ideologies on a market-­based logic: contradictory ideational products are crafted for each microtargeted audience in order to secure the largest pos­si­ble consensus around the regime. If ­there is an overarching mainstream ideological trend to identify, it is illiberalism in the definition I advanced previously: a denunciation that holds that liberalism is now “obsolete” and has “outlived its purpose,” as Putin declared in 2019,1 and a return to an ideology of sovereignty—­national, economic, and cultural-­moral sovereignty. This illiberal atmosphere is shared by a majority of the population, albeit with nuances, and a large part of the elite, with a cynical approach, as they often enjoy for themselves many aspects of what the West offers them in terms of liberalism, from offshoring money to protection through rule of law. This illiberalism should not be conflated with classical fascism or parafascism. It is not a reactionary ideology calling for a return to the past, but rather a postmodern (and postliberal) conception, attuned to the current worldwide doubts about globalization. It is also not a utopian, revolutionary ideology hoping to bring about a tabula rasa to rebuild a new mankind, which is a key component of fascism. On the contrary, it asserts the need for a more conventional nation-­ state providing welfare ser­v ices and a collective national identity that would be less cosmopolitan and less focused on individual and minority rights.

What the Fascism Label Is Telling and Not Telling Us about Rus­s ia Talking of “Rus­sia’s fascism” cannot withstand scholarly inquiry. Obviously, the Rus­sian regime has no ideology of racial destruction or domination that would allow for a parallel to be drawn with Nazism. Nor does it display an ideological doctrine forcibly inculcated in the population, successful mass mobilization around a new utopian proj­ect of regeneration, a high level of repression, or dictatorial functioning. Not only is Putin neither Hitler nor Mussolini, he is not even Pinochet—­Russia is far from the model of Latin American reactionary regimes that are responsible for po­liti­cal terror and mass repressions of opponents. Talking about “Rus­sia’s fascism” makes sense only to describe a peripheric minority of “fascists in Rus­sia,” but not to stand out as a specific ideological trend that

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would make this Rus­sian fascism unique or would qualify the po­liti­cal regime in itself. We do find in Rus­sia ele­ments that Umberto Eco categorized as Ur-­Fascism, yet t­ hese are not specific to fascist regimes and can also be found in established democracies. Many components of our Western socie­ties indeed borrow from the Ur-­Fascist features: excessive personalization of politics in a context of extreme media saturation, rising anti-­elitism and a conspiratorial mindset,2 obsession with visuality and aesthetics b ­ ecause of our post-­“text” world, potential digital totalitarianism due to massive privacy breaches, and so forth. This observation invites us to recalibrate the tools advanced to typologize regimes, and avoid simplistic binaries such as democracy versus authoritarianism, or liberalism versus fascism. With some exceptions, the concept of fascism tells us as much about regimes of a totally dif­fer­ent nature as about the potential illnesses or deviances from what is seen as po­liti­cal “normalcy,” that is, established liberal democracies. Eschewing simplistic binaries also prevents us from primordializing Rus­sia as the West’s other. The differences between the United States, Eu­rope, and Rus­sia are not a m ­ atter of essence, but of shades along a shared continuum. If some features are so accentuated in Rus­sia that they dissociate the country from the European–­U.S. world, they prob­ably pertain to the lack of an in­de­pen­dent justice system, endemic corruption, capital flight, and brain drain—­none of which are related to fascism. The only component that I identify as relevant to the classical fascism repertoire in ­today’s Rus­sia is the militia subculture. It cultivates the myth of a nation-­in-­arms, celebrating traditional manliness, as well as the ac­cep­ tance of physical pain and sacrifice, posturing itself at the avant-­garde of the nation and its defense, with vigilantism tendencies. It develops in the shadow of the current po­liti­cal regime and is patronized at the highest level of the state, including by Putin himself for some niches such as Rus­sian martial arts, mixed martial arts, and biker culture. Other criteria brought by proponents of “Rus­sia’s fascism” cannot resist scrutiny. Rus­sia’s supposed imperialism is better understood as a classic feature of postcolonialism that can also be found in demo­cratic regimes. It is highly problematic for some of the country’s neighbors, such as Georgia and Ukraine, and worrying for the Baltic states—­yet it does not qualify as fascism. The same lens applies regarding Rus­sia’s support of the Eu­ro­pean Far Right: it is a tactical alliance, based on a shared illiberal ideology, built by the Kremlin while waiting to reengage with mainstream parties. However, the rise of illiberal parties all over the world is neither the return of fascism nor the result of Rus­sian backing. Rus­ sia has benefited from a confluence of interests and visions, not from an a­ ctual

160 Conclusion

influence: it has been moving with the current Zeitgeist to promote its own agenda but does not shape another country’s public opinion by shifting its perceptions and values. What does all this tell us about Rus­sia? First, it says that the Rus­sian regime does not exhibit doctrinal coherence. Why would it? Presupposing that coherence and rationality are necessary for governance is normative: identity, per­for­ mance, and self-­narration are critical for symbolic politics. The Putin regime is thus doctrinally weak by design, not by default: it continues to reinvent itself and cannot afford any doctrinal confinement that would limit its ability to stay in power. In Oliver Stone’s 2017 interviews, the Rus­sian president describes his philosophy of life as a “flexible way” (gipkii put´),3 a notion from martial arts positing that the body should be resilient and adaptable in order to both resist aggression and attack when needed. This allusion to flexibility expresses what I see as the high adaptability of the regime—­a postmodern attitude that encourages ideological syncretism and purposeful ambiguity, embraces a bricolage nature, and has high tolerance for contradictions and transformations. Approaches that try to seize, define, and then typologize the regime’s supposedly rigid doctrinal content thus largely miss the point ­because they stress doctrine over worldview, content over style, and solitary eccentric thinkers over structure, without taking into consideration the tool kit of be­hav­iors, habits, and technologies of governmentality. They also miss the cocreational aspect of this shared meaning-­making pro­cess, as well as the cultural resonance of the Putin regime with the society. Far more impor­tant than debating the status of Aleksandr Dugin or Ivan Ilyin within the establishment is the “resonance” aspect of the regime and its ability to capture popu­lar meanings for its own benefit, in trying to stay in tune with the society by promoting its own cultural hegemony. Second, it says that “Putinism” is not a fixed category. The regime has evolved dramatically since the early 2000s. ­These evolutions are not unique: the West has transformed just as much in the past two de­cades. Yet some core ideological components of the system remain consistent over time. The pivotal ele­ment is the “never again” logic attached to the memory of perestroika and the upheavals of the 1990s. The views expressed by Putin in his Millennium Manifesto of December 1999 continue to resonate ­today: “Be it ­under communist, national-­ patriotic or radical-­liberal slogans, our country and ­people ­will not withstand a new radical breakup. The nation’s endurance and its ability to survive and create are on the verge of exhaustion. Society w ­ ill simply collapse—­economically, po­liti­cally, psychologically, and morally.”4 To understand this “never again” relationship to the 1990s requires understanding the Putin regime’s ideational construction as a return to normalcy: po­ liti­cal as well as geopo­liti­cal, economic, and cultural. This return to normalcy

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implies, first and foremost, achieving a form of emotional security, or securitization, ­after a widespread feeling of having lost social and cultural landmarks.5 The second feature of this return to normalcy is dignity. In the Rus­sian po­liti­cal grammar, the central notion of statehood (gosudartvennost´) goes hand in hand with that of recovered dignity. The repertoire of “traditional values,” promoted boldly since 2012, forms the cornerstone of this emotional and cultural securitization: despite its undefined contents, this narrative supposes the existence of a traditional norm that should be respected or recovered.6 The time is prob­ably approaching when this need for a return to normalcy w ­ ill be considered as achieved and the society is ready to move forward: Rus­sian public opinion and especially the younger generations are slowly nearing the end of the recovery time.

Challenging the West in the Name of Europe For a Putin regime lacking doctrinal coherence, “fascism” seems a useful strategic narrative. An emotional and not an analytical category, it is instrumentalized as an ideological arsenal used to name who is legitimate and who is not. This po­ liti­cal resource is deployed mainly in two realms. The first, ­under the slogan of the victory over fascism, is a power­ful mythmaking tool that shapes Rus­sian society’s memory of the war, forms intergenerational links, and secures cultural and social consensus. The second bears on the current relations with the West: defining who is fascist determines w ­ hether or not Rus­sia has the right to participate in Eu­ro­pean affairs. Both realms are closely articulated: the plot revolves around Rus­ sia’s moral superiority, demonstrated historically by its victory over fascism and ­today by its readiness to strug­gle against a revisionist vision of the Second World War and the new Eu­ro­pean order. Labeling the Putin regime fascist belongs to the same rhetorical category with the opposite strategy: it is a narrative positioning to name the ­enemy, transforming Rus­sia into the West’s constituent other, and turning attention away from the West’s own domestic failures and contradictions. The dialogue between Rus­sia and “the West” has always been a convoluted one, full of hopes, disappointments, and feedback loops.7 To capture it, one needs first to dissociate the West and Eu­rope, which are signifiers with dif­fer­ent meanings. The West includes both the United States and Eu­rope, and it is represented by transatlantic institutions and a certain worldview, namely, the so-­called Western liberal order.8 The notion of Eu­rope is more complex and has at least three conceptual layers: it can be embodied by the Eu­ro­pean Union’s construct alone; by a wider Eu­rope inclusive of non-­EU countries and dialoguing with close neighbors

162 Conclusion

such as Rus­sia, Turkey, and the Mediterranean Basin; or by a cultural heritage and a philosophical background, ­going from Chris­tian­ity to the Enlightenment. Seen from Rus­sia, t­ hese distinctions are crucial, as the country positions itself differently ­toward each. Moscow’s main disapproval is focused on the Western liberal order that ranks Rus­sia at a lower level than what it claims for itself. Criticism of Western liberal values appears as a by-­product of this disapproval, a discursive technique to undermine what Rus­sia sees as a fake consensus—­but the core issue is geopo­liti­cal, not ideological. Rus­sia is also critical of the Eu­ro­pean Union for being too subjugated to the United States and not sufficiently turned ­toward its continental identity. Yet Rus­sia sees itself as part of the broader Eu­rope, in the sense that it wants to integrate into many Eu­ro­pean institutions and fora, and to have its voice heard and listened to t­ here. Last but not least, Rus­sia not only sees itself as part of Eu­rope in terms of its cultural heritage but also considers itself to be at its vanguard: as the West is the e­ nemy of the real Eu­rope, Rus­sia proposes to protect Eu­rope’s authenticity from the degradations coming from inside the West. Rus­sia’s yardstick of normalcy thus remains a Eurocentric one.9 In presenting itself as a bastion of conservative values and defender of Eu­rope’s Christian heritage, Putin’s Rus­sia reactivates an old identity projection spread by the Slavophile school in the nineteenth c­ entury—­the “second Eu­rope,” or the Eu­ rope of Byzantium, in which the original Chris­tian­ity is preserved against the dangerous evolutions of Roman Catholicism and l­ ater of Protestantism.10 The reference to Byzantium acquired unpre­ce­dented scope in the second half of the 2000s,11 thus providing a very useful ideological kaleidoscope by which to refer to Orthodox Chris­tian­ity for the Moscow Patriarchate and its defenders; to the symphony between temporal power and spiritual power for all t­hose who wish for a modernized and presidentialized version of autocracy; and to the notion of historical fortress (katekhon) both against the West (with the historical analogy to Western Crusades) and against terrorism (with the historical analogy to the Islamic conquest of Byzantium).12 Rus­sia’s declared identification with Eu­rope makes it pos­si­ble to articulate three interlinked geopo­liti­cal proj­ects. The first is to insist on the existence of a “true” Eu­rope with conservative values, whose spatial materialization is continentalism: this au­then­tic Eu­rope does not believe in transatlantic values and institutions and, instead, f­ avors friendlier relations with Rus­sia. It would also reduce the supranational and normative agenda of Eu­ro­pean institutions and give priority to a “Eu­rope of nations”—­a Gaullist notion before being recaptured by the illiberal right—­where the diversity of nation-­states would be maintained and their value and norms not exported to the rest of the world. The second geopo­liti­cal proj­ect is to bring Rus­sia closer to the Mediterranean. Over centuries, tensions with the Ottoman Empire, in the Black Sea in the eigh­teenth ­century and in the

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Balkans in the nineteenth, have s­ haped Rus­sia’s geopo­liti­cal outlook. With the annexation of Crimea, engagement in the Syrian war theater, and a renewed influence over the ­whole ­Middle East, Rus­sia has been reanchoring itself in the Eastern Mediterranean world, which is intimately connected to Eu­rope’s Christian heritage. The third proj­ect is to rebalance, at regular intervals, like a pendulum, the Europe–­Asia equilibrium of Rus­sian foreign policy. The relation to Asia and to the rest of Eurasia is ambivalent. The strategic honeymoon with China continues to be celebrated loudly by the Rus­sian government, but hopes for a Rus­sia turned ­toward the Pacific and integrated into the Asian world have not come to fruition. In the post-­Soviet space, the Eurasian Economic Union has not become the power­ ful integration engine Moscow was hoping for. Eurasianism, strictly speaking, has not caught on in a Rus­sian society marked by xenophobia ­toward mi­grants and by a call to close its borders with the southern republics of the former Soviet Union. The Ukrainian crisis and renewed tensions in the Baltic region and the Black Sea confirm that Rus­sia’s geopo­liti­cal heart beats in Eu­rope more than in Asia. It is in Eu­rope, broadly understood to also include the Mediterranean Basin, that Rus­sia feels its g­ reat power status confirmed or denied. Rus­sia is therefore both Eurocentric and anti-­Western: it sees Eu­rope as an aspirational identity to achieve, but denounces the West as a negative benchmark, a source of standards to reject. Contrary to many other countries throughout the world that likewise reject the West as a norm giver and try to offer a competitive discourse, Rus­sia proposes an alternative to the West in the name of Eu­rope.

Fascism as the Driver b ­ ehind Rus­s ia’s Inclusion or Exclusion in Eu­r ope In this context, where both “the West” and Rus­sia compete to define what Eu­ rope means, the strategic narrative on fascism takes form. Through their memory wars, Central and Eastern Eu­ro­pean countries and Rus­sia may be fighting against one another, but they are also sharing: they share the same presentism—­ the actualization of history as a meta­phor of pre­sent tensions—­with traumas selected according to their topical po­liti­cal value. They all have securitized their memory capital, implying not only that politics is now involved in shaping memory, but more broadly that historians are no longer the only ones in charge of memory storytelling. Digital memories have made ­these memory wars more acute and allowed them to extend to a broader part of the population, with “discursive online combats where alternative histories thrive and multifarious memories compete for hegemony.”13

164 Conclusion

Both Central and Eastern Eu­ro­pean countries and Rus­sia strug­gle in reintegrating the contradictory segments of their past: how do they give the floor to both their citizens who chose to collaborate with Nazi Germany and ­those who defended the Soviet regime? How do they build a nationhood in which the shades of the past can be reflected adequately, with room for “collaborationists” (and White émigrés for Rus­sia) as well as for communist “fellow travelers” and antifascist movements? The “memory appropriation,” in Jelena Subotić’s terms, of the Holocaust by Central and Eastern Eu­ro­pean states in in order to memorialize their own suffering u ­ nder communism not only challenges the memory of the Holocaust as established in Western Eu­rope, but it also contributes to the aggravation of already grim relations with Rus­sia by making it the absolute ‘other’ threatening their ontological Eu­ro­pean identity. Beyond historiographical and memorial issues, the politicization of the past carries risks. Relativizing and trivializing the Nazi Holocaust to make Rus­sia appear to be an equal evil is a dangerous po­liti­cal and moral game. It instrumentalizes the anti-­totalitarian philosophy to promote geopo­liti­cal (that is, NATO expansion) and po­liti­cal (neoliberalism) goals. As Primo Levi declared, even Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn did not describe anything akin to Treblinka or Chelmno in his Gulag Archipelago: the Soviet proj­ect was a holistic transformative experience of the society that cannot be ­limited to Stalinist vio­lence. On the other side, Rus­sia’s strug­gle in offering a collective mea culpa for Soviet crimes poses prob­lems, both domestically for the inability of the authorities to apologize for state vio­lence, and internationally in not recognizing the brutalities committed in occupied territories during the war. The Putin regime’s strategy has been to downplay tensions around interpreting this moment of Soviet history and to normalize it. As Maria Mälksoo noted in discussing Henry Rousso and Haral Wydra’s works on France’s “Vichy syndrome” of forgetting about collaboration, “freezing [of the memory] was . . . ​largely self-­imposed. Indeed, it was a conscious choice of forgetting certain traumatic parts of one’s past in order to provide a safe interregnum in which the building of a new identity could begin.”14 The same choice, that of providing an ideologically safe interregnum, has been made by the Putin regime: as Maria Lipman thoroughly captures, the Kremlin chose reconciliation over truth.15 For an external observer or historian, this may seem the wrong choice, but it has been seen as the right calculus for a head of state taking power ­after a de­cade of deep divisions. Moreover, unlike many observers who hastily accuse con­temporary Rus­sia of neo-­Stalinization,16 I see a much more ambivalent current memorial pro­cess. Rus­ sian authorities do not deny the existence of state vio­lence during Stalin’s time, nor do they encourage public amnesia. Putin has visited several memorials to Stalin’s victims, a new law on victims of Soviet po­liti­cal repression was ­adopted in

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2015, and a Wall of Grief monument dedicated to the victims of po­liti­cal repressions was inaugurated in 2017.17 What the state does is to remain actively involved in a balancing act to guarantee that commemorating Stalin’s vio­lence does not result in criticisms that might weaken the regime’s legitimacy. That is why liberals, who had controlled the narrative on Stalinism since the dissident years and transposed this control to a negative assessment of the current regime, ­were dispossessed of it, a trend embodied by judicial harassment against the h ­ uman rights association Memorial. The memory work on Stalinist vio­lence has now been partly transferred to the Rus­sian Orthodox Church, the only institution able to mourn without judging or identifying perpetrators and to redeem the past without affecting the vision of the pre­sent.18 From the perspective of the Rus­sian state, the debate on Stalinism is a domestic one: it is an interplay between dif­fer­ent segments of society and their contradicting memories, between “liberals,” “Whites,” and “Reds.”19 Discussing Stalinism thus does not imply integrating the issue of the Molotov–­Ribbentrop Pact and its consequences in terms of Soviet occupation of the Baltic states, and much less everyday vio­lence in war­time. This component belongs not to the discursive space of “Stalinism,” which is seen as domestic, but rather to that of “fascism,” which is connected to Rus­sia’s international positioning. Locating topics in dif­fer­ent discursive spaces is critical to capturing the misunderstanding between the West and Rus­sia: for the West, the Molotov–­Ribbentrop Pact is intimately linked to debating the nature of Stalinism and its parallel with Nazism, whereas for Rus­sia, Stalinism belongs to another narrative realm announcing the victory over fascism. That stance explains Rus­sia’s plain position on the Molotov–­Ribbentrop Pact and its consequences, as restated in Putin’s June 2020 article: Western Eu­rope abandoned Central Eu­rope to its destiny with the Munich Agreement and then validated the division of the continent into two blocks at Yalta and remained content with it for de­cades. Seen from Rus­sia, it is therefore the West that is now revisionist in having amended its narrative and suddenly questioning a four-­ decades-­old agreement. In this b ­ attle, Moscow positions itself as the conservative power, defending the discursive status quo to “freeze” narratives on the Second World War and their consequences in the face of post–­Cold War revisionists who want to change them. I interpret t­ hese contradictory discourses as evidence of a gulf in situated identities. For Rus­sia, the disruption of the agreed-­upon Eu­ro­pean po­liti­cal order results from EU and NATO expansion into the post-­Soviet space concurrently with a “revisionist” stance on the new Eu­ro­pean order. For the West, Rus­sia is responsible for disrupting the Eu­ro­pean order by annexing Crimea and g­ oing to war with Ukraine in the Donbas, and more globally by no longer accepting the tacit agreements made in the 1990s and letting former Soviet states move away

166 Conclusion

from its sphere of influence.20 Both the West and Rus­sia are therefore impervious to each other’s arguments, as they relate to dif­fer­ent periods of reference. For Rus­ sia, “normalcy” refers to the Cold War de­cades, which gave the country the status of a respected ­great power to be consulted on all major international issues, as well as being deeply influential on the Eu­ro­pean scene and considered the victorious ally of the United States against fascism. For the West, “normalcy” refers to the early 1990s—­a Rus­sia that aligned with the West’s main geopo­liti­cal interests, did not oppose EU expansion, was very critical of its Soviet past, and wanted to follow a Eu­ro­pean path. This inability to refer to the same “normalcy” explains the ambivalent dialogue between the notions of conservatism and fascism. In the Kremlin—­obviously self-­ serving—­vision, ­today’s fascists are ­those who want to destroy Eu­rope: ­those who deny the Yalta order by equating communism with Nazism and ­those who challenge classical Western civilization with postmodern theories such as cosmopolitanism (negating national identities and traditional values), minorities’ rights (negating the preeminence of collective identity), and humanitarian intervention (negating state sovereignty). Conservatives are t­ hose who want to rescue the “real” Eu­rope: ­those who promote Christian values, defend classical Western civilization (both in the sense of antiquity and in the sense of the Westphalian order of state sovereignty), and support the Yalta order and a conventional reading of the Soviet victory in the Second World War. In this Weltanschauung, the Eu­ro­pean far-­right forces that Rus­sia courts find themselves in the conservative camp, not the fascist one, therefore allowing for a strategic alliance with them: what the Rus­ sian media imply when, for instance, they pre­sent Marine Le Pen as the heir of de Gaulle’s worldview, and not as a representative of the Far Right. Mastering the label of “who is fascist” thus decides what the ideal Eu­rope should be. If Rus­sia is fascist—if the Putin regime can be typologized as fascist, or if the Soviet past that the Kremlin does not want to denounce is the equivalent of Nazism—­then Rus­sia is to be excluded from Eu­rope and portrayed as its antithesis, the constituent other of all the values embedded in the notion of Eu­rope: liberalism, democracy, multilateralism, and transatlantic commitment. If, on the contrary, a Moscow declares, Eu­rope is once again becoming fascist—if the ideological status quo over the 1945 victory is contested and Eu­rope’s so-­called traditional values are ­under attack—­then Rus­sia indicates a way for the “real” Eu­rope, meaning Christian, conservative, geopo­liti­cally continental, and nation-­centric, to recover. The current fight to identify who is fascist is thus a strug­gle to define the ­future of Eu­rope, and it is the key question of Rus­sia’s inclusion of exclusion that draws the line of divide.

Notes

INTRODUCTION

1. “Zelenskyy Says USSR to Blame for Start of World War II,” lb.ua, January 27, 2020, https://­en​.­lb​.­ua​/­news​/­2020​/­01​/­27​/­8370​_­zelenskyy​_­says​_­ussr​_­blame​_­start​.­html. 2. “Putin Calls Former Polish Ambassador ‘Anti-­Semitic Pig,’ ” Moscow Times, December 25, 2019, https://­www​.­themoscowtimes​.­com​/­2019​/­12​/­25​/­putin​-­calls​-­former​-­polish​ -­ambassador​-­anti​-­semitic​-­pig​-­a68739. 3. Vladimir Putin, “Victory Parade Discourse,” Kremlin.ru, May 9, 2019, http://­en​ .­kremlin​.­ru​/­events​/­president​/­news​/­60490. 4. Vladimir Putin, “The Real Lessons of the 75th Anniversary of World War II,” National Interest, June 18, 2020, https://nationalinterest.org/feature/vladimir-putin-real-les​ sons-75th​-anniversary-world-war-ii-162982. 5. “Eu­ro­pean Parliament Resolution on the Importance of Eu­ro­pean Remembrance for the F ­ uture of Eu­rope,” Eu­ro­pean Parliament, September 9, 2019, https://­www​.­europarl​ .­europa​.­eu​/­doceo​/­document​/­RC​-­9–2019–0097​_­EN​.­html. 6. “Putin nazval bespardonnoi lozh´iu ‘antisovetskuiu rezoliutsiu Evroparlamenta,” Interfax, December 11, 2019, https://­www​.­interfax​.­ru​/­world​/­687610. 7. “Interv´iu Dmitriia Medvedeva gazete Izvestiia,” Kremlin.ru, May 7, 2010, http://­www​ .­kremlin​.­ru​/­events​/­president​/­news​/­7659. 8. Zbigniew Brzezinski, “Moscow’s Mussolini,” Wall Street Journal, September 20, 2004. 9. “World: James Woolsey, Former CIA Director, Speaks to RFE/RL at Forum 2000,” Radio ­Free Eu­rope / Radio Liberty, October 10, 2005, http://­www​.­rferl​.­org​/­content​/­article​ /­1062001​.­html. 10. Philip Rucker, “Hillary Clinton Says Putin’s Actions Are Like ‘What Hitler Did Back in the ’30s,’ ” Washington Post, March 5, 2014. 11. Aleksei Pushkov, “Kiev ob”iavil Rossii politicheskuiu voinu—­Pushkov,” United Rus­ sia, June 17, 2014, http://­er​.­ru​/­news​/­118324​/­. 12. “Putin—­fashizm tret´ego tysiacheletiia, s kotorym nel´zia zaigryvat´—­Gritsenko,” Nezavisimoe Biuro Novostei, May 21, 2014, http://­nbnews​.­com​.­ua​/­ru​/­news​/­121875​/­. 13. “Hitler’s Germany vs. Putin’s Rus­sia: The Comparison of Two Nazi Countries. VIDEO,” UaPosition, January 19, 2017, http://­uaposition​.­com​/­v ideo​/­hitlers​-­germany​ -­putins​-­russia​-­comparison​-­fascist​-­countries​-­v ideo​/­. 14. Anna Politkovskaya, A Rus­sian Diary: A Journalist’s Final Account of Life, Corruption, and Death in Putin’s Rus­sia (New York: Random House, 2009), 71. 15. Lev Shlosberg, “Ne streliai!” Pskovskaia Guberniia Online, January 28, 2015, http://­ gubernia​.­pskovregion​.­org​/­number​_­725​/­01​.­php. 16. S. Sotnik, “Rossiia nyrnula v fashizm polnost´iu,” Demokratia.ru, March 8, 2016, http://­www​.­democracy​.­ru​/­article​.­php​?­id​=4­ 182. 17. Evgenii Ikhlov, “V osnovom fashizm postroen, ili pochemu prav Kasparov,” e_v​ _ikhlov’s LiveJournal (blog), December 19, 2014, http://­e​-­v​-­ikhlov​.­livejournal​.­com​/­99032​ .­html. See also Evgenii Ikhlov, “Putinizm zanial pustuiushchee 70 let mesto,” Kasparov. ru, last updated March 24, 2015, http://­www​.­kasparov​.­ru​/­material​.­php​?­id​=5­ 511136348F11. 18. Evgenii Ikhlov, “Gospodin F.,” Kasparov.ru, last updated December 19, 2016, http://­ www​.­kasparov​.­ru​/­material​.­php​?­id​=­585783DE6F612. 167

168 NOTES TO PAGES 4–11

19. Garry Kasparov, “Fascism in Our Own Backyard,” February 6, 2013, http://­www​ .­kasparov​.­com​/­fascism​-­in​-­our​-­own​-­backyard​/­. 20. Garry Kasparov, “Trump, Putin, and Real Fascism,” November 12, 2015, http://­www​ .­kasparov​.­com​/­blog​-­post​/­trump​-­putin​-­and​-­real​-­fascism​/­. 21. Garry Kasparov, Winter Is Coming: Why Vladimir Putin and the Enemies of the ­Free World Must Be ­Stopped (New York: Public Affairs, 2016), respectively xxiii, 228 and 245. 22. George Orwell, Politics and the En­glish Language (London: Horizon, 1946), also available online at http://­www​.­orwell​.­ru​/­library​/­essays​/­politics​/­english​/­e​_­polit. 23. Jacques Ellul, Propaganda: The Formation of Men’s Attitudes (New York: Vintage, 1973), 25. See also in Paul Baines, Nicholas O’Shaughnessy and Nancy Snow, eds, The SAGE Handbook of Propaganda (London: SAGE, 2020). 24. Philip Zimbardo, The Lucifer Effect (New York: Random House, 2007). 321; Stanton Wortham, “Interactional Positioning and Narrative Self-­Construction,” Narrative Inquiry 10, no. 1 (2007): 157–184; and Deborah Schiffrin, “Narrative as Self-­Portrait: Sociolinguistic Constructions of Identity,” Language in Society 25, no. 2 (1996): 167–203. 25. Ruth Wodak, Rudolf de Cillia, Martin Reisigl, and Karin Libhart, The Discursive Construction of National Identity, trans. Angelika Hirsch, Richard Mitten, and J. W. Unger (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1999), 3–4. 26. Michael G. W. Bamberg, “Positioning between Structure and Per­for­mance,” Journal of Narrative and Life History 7, no. 1 (1997): 335–342. 27. Jack Snyder, Myths of Empire: Domestic Politics and International Ambition (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1991). On myths, see the seminal Ronald Barthes, Mythologies, trans. Annette Lavers (London: Paladin, 1972). 28. Aleksandr Wendt, Social Theory of International Politics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999). 29. Deborah Welch Larson and Alexei Shevchenko, “Status Seekers: Chinese and Rus­ sian Responses to US Primacy.” International Security 34, no. 4 (2010): 63–95. 30. Ted Hopf, Social Construction of International Politics: Identities and Foreign Policies (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2002). 31. Andrei P. Tsygankov, “Contested Identity and Foreign Policy: Interpreting Rus­sia’s International choices.” International Studies Perspectives 15, no. 1 (2014): 19–35. 32. Alfred Evans, “Ideological Changes u ­ nder Vladimir Putin in the Perspective of Social Identity Theory,” Demokratizatsiya: Journal of Post-­Soviet Democ­ratization 23, no. 4 (2015): 401–426. 1. RUS­S IA’S “FASCISM” OR “ILLIBERALISM”?

1. Kevin Passmore, Fascism: A Very Short Introduction, 3rd ed. (New York: Oxford University Press, 2014). 2. Roger Griffin, “Studying Fascism in a Postfascist Age: From New Consensus to New Wave?” Fascism: Journal of Comparative Fascist Studies 1, no. 1 (2012): 1–17. 3. Ernesto Laclau, Politics and Ideology in Marxist Theory: Capitalism, Fascism, Pop­u­ lism (New York: Verso Trade, 2012). 4. In the Ernest Nolte tradition. Ernest Nolte, Der Faschismus in seiner Epoche (Munich: ­Piper Verlag, 2008). 5. Zeev Sternhell, “Fascism: Reflections on the Fate of Ideas in Twentieth C ­ entury History,” Journal of Po­liti­cal Ideologies 5, no. 2 (2000): 139–162. 6. Stefan Breuer, “­Towards an Ideal Type of Fascism,” Max Weber Studies 8, no. 1 (2008): 11–47. 7. Theodor W. Adorno, The Authoritarian Personality, 1st ed. (New York: Harper, 1950). 8. See Michel Foucault’s preface to Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, Anti-­Oedipus: Capitalism and Schizo­phre­nia (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1972).

NOTES TO PAGES 12–14

169

9. Theodor W. Adorno, “Freudian Theory and the Pattern of Fascist Propaganda,” DERS. (Hrsg.). Gesammelte Schriften Bd 8 (1951): 408–433. 10. Hanna Baranchuk-­Hajiyev, “Narcissistic ‘Beauty’ of Rus­sian Nationalism: The Rhe­ toric of Vladimir Putin and Vladimir Zhirinovsky,” paper presented at the 95th National Communication Association Annual Convention, Chicago, November 11, 2009. 11. Tibor Ivan Berend, An Economic History of Twentieth-­Century Eu­rope (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 93; and Daniel Guérin, Fascism and Big Business (Paris: Éditions Syllepse, 1999), first published 1939 by Pioneer Publishers, 193. 12. Jeffrey T. Schnapp, “Fascinating Fascism,” Journal of Con­temporary History 31, no. 2 (April 1996): 235–244; Susan Sontag, “ ‘Fascinating Fascism,’ Review of The Last of the Nuba, by Leni Riefenstahl and SS Regalia, by Jack Pia,” New York Review of Books 22, no. 1 (February 6, 1975); and Jan Nelis, “Italian Fascism and Culture: Some Notes on Investigation,” Historia A ­ ctual Online 9 (2006): 141–151. 13. Roger Griffin, International Fascism: Theories, ­Causes, and the New Consensus (London: Arnold, 1998), x. 14. Griffin, “Studying Fascism?” 14. 15. Roger Griffin, “Decentering Comparative Fascist Studies,” Fascism: Journal of Comparative Fascist Studies 4, no. 2 (2015): 103–18. 16. Griffin, “Studying Fascism?” 1. 17. Roger Griffin, The Nature of Fascism (Houndmills, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 1991). 18. Aleksandr Galkin, “Fashizm: korni, priznaki, formy proiavleniia,” Politicheskie issledovaniia 2 (1995): 6–15. 19. Umberto Eco, “Ur-­Fascism,” New York Review of Books 42, no. 11 (1995): 12–15. 20. Henry E. Hale, “Eurasian Polities as Hybrid Regimes: The Case of Putin’s Rus­sia,” Journal of Eurasian Studies 1, no. 1 (2010): 33–41; Neil Robinson and Sarah Milne, “Pop­ u­lism and Po­liti­cal Development in Hybrid Regimes: Rus­sia and the Development of Official Pop­u­lism,” International Po­liti­cal Science Review 38, no. 4 (2017): 412–425; Richard Sakwa, The Crisis of Rus­sian Democracy: The Dual State, Factionalism and the Medvedev Succession (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2010); Nikolay Petrov, Maria Lipman, and Henry E. Hale, “Three Dilemmas of Hybrid Regime Governance: Rus­sia from Putin to Putin,” Post-­Soviet Affairs 30, no. 1 (2014): 1–26; Michael McFaul, Nikolay Petrov, and Andrei Ryabov, Between Dictatorship and Democracy: Rus­sian Post-­Communist Po­liti­cal Reform (Washington, DC: Car­ne­gie Endowment for International Peace, 2004). 21. Jan Nederveen Pieterse, “Hybridity . . . ​So What? The Anti-­Hybridity Backlash and the Riddles of Recognition,” Theory, Culture and Society 18, no. 2–3 (2001): 222. 22. On t­ hese respective concepts, see Henry Hale, Patronal Politics: Eurasian Regimes Dynamics in Comparative Perspective (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014); Timothy J. Colton and Michael McFaul, Popu­lar Choice and Managed Democracy: The Rus­sian Elections of 1999 and 2000 (Washington, DC: Brookings Institution Press, 2003); Kirill Privalov, Brigitte Breuillac, Anatoli Vichnevski, Marina Vichnevskaïa, Vladislav L. Inozemtsev, Michel Secinski, Viatcheslav Nikonov, and Galia Ackerman, “Où va la Russie de Poutine?” Le Débat 130 (2004): 44–103; Harley Balzer, “Managed Pluralism: Vladimir Putin’s Emerging Regime,” Post-­Soviet Affairs 19, no. 3 (2003): 189–227; Stephen Levitsky and Lucan A. Way, “The Rise of Competitive Authoritarianism,” Journal of Democracy 13, no. 2 (2002): 51–65; Samuel A. Greene and Graeme B. Robertson, Putin v. the P ­ eople: The Perilous Politics of a Divided Rus­sia (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2019). 23. The Black Hundreds played a critical role in the 1905–1908 pogroms against Jews and Ukrainians. They combined reactionary theories with the promise of restoring a mythical medieval autocracy and a merchant-­style order, and conducted modern popu­lar mobilization u ­ nder nationalist slogans. Along with the workers’ and trade-­unionist movements,

170 NOTES TO PAGES 14–17

it was one of the first cases of mass po­liti­cal militancy in Rus­sia. See Sergei Stepanov, Chernaia sotnia v Rossii, 1905–1914 gg. (Moscow: Rosvuznauka, 1992); and Donald C. Rawson, Rus­sian Rightists and the Revolution of 1905 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1995). More globally on the parallels with late tsarist regime, see J. B. Dunlop, The ­Faces of Con­temporary Rus­sian Nationalism (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 1983); J. B. Dunlop, The New Rus­sian Nationalism (New York: Praeger, 1985); J. B. Dunlop, The New Rus­sian Revolutionaries Belmont (MA: Nordland, 1976); and J. B. Dunlop, The Rise and Fall of the Soviet Union (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 1993). See also Alexander Yanov, The Rus­sian Challenge and the Year 2000 (New York: Basil Blackwell, 1987) and Alexander Yanov, The Rus­sian New Right: Right-­Wing Ideologies in the Con­ temporary USSR (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978). 24. Stephen D. Shenfield, Rus­sian Fascism: Traditions, Tendencies and Movements (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 2001); and Walter Laqueur, Black Hundred: The Rise of the Extreme Right in Rus­sia (New York: HarperCollins, 1993). On the “Nazification of Rus­sia,” see Viacheslav Likhachev, Natsizm v Rossii (Moscow: Pa­norama, 2002), and Semyon Reznik, The Nazification of Rus­sia: Antisemitism in the Post-­Soviet Era (Washington, DC: Challenge, 1996). 25. Andreas Umland, “Concepts of Fascism in Con­temporary Rus­sia and the West.” Po­ liti­cal Studies Review 3, no. 1 (2005): 34–49; Andreas Umland, “Challenges and Promises of Comparative Research into Post-­Soviet Fascism: Methodological and Conceptual Issues in the Study of the Con­temporary East Eu­ro­pean Extreme Right,” Communist and Post-­ Communist Studies 28, no. 2–3 (2015): 169–181; and Roger Griffin, Werner Loh, and Andreas Umland, Fascism Past and Pre­sent, West and East: An International Debate on Concepts and Cases in the Comparative Study of the Extreme Right (Stuttgart: Ibidem-­Verlag, 2006). 26. Aleksandr Yanov, Posle El´tsina: ‘Veimarskaia’ Rossiia (Moscow: KRUK, 1995); Stephen E. Hanson and Jeffrey S. Kopstein, “The Weimar/Rus­sia Comparison,” Post-­Soviet Affairs 13, no. 3 (1997): 252–283; Steffen Kailitz and Andreas Umland, “Why Fascists Took Over the Reichstag but Have Not Captured the Kremlin: A Comparison of Weimar Germany and Post-­Soviet Rus­sia,” Nationalities Papers 45, no. 2 (2017): 206–221; Stephen D. Shenfield, “The Weimar/Rus­sia Comparison: Reflections on Hanson and Kopstein,” Post-­ Soviet Affairs 14, no. 4 (1998): 355–368; and Steffen Kailitz and Andreas Umland, “Why the Fascists W ­ on’t Take Over the Kremlin (for Now): A Comparison of Democracy’s Breakdown and Fascism’s Rise in Weimar Germany and Post-­Soviet Rus­sia,” Higher School of Economics Working Paper 14 (2009). 27. Leonid Luks, “A ‘Third Way’—or Back to the Third Reich?” Rus­sian Politics and Law 47, no. 1 (2009): 7–23, and Leonid Luks, Zwei Sonderwege? Russisch-­deutsche Parallelen und Kontraste (1917–2014) (Stuttgart: Ibidem-­Verlag, 2014). 28. Shenfield, “Weimar/Rus­sia Comparison.” 29. Alexander J. Motyl, “Is Putin’s Rus­sia Fascist?” National Interest, December 3, 2007. 30. Alexander J. Motyl, “Is Vladimir Putin a Fascist?” Newsweek, April 27, 2015. 31. Motyl, “Is Putin’s Rus­sia Fascist?” 32. Timothy Snyder, “Putin’s New Nostalgia,” New York Review, November 10, 2014, https://­www​.­nybooks​.­com​/­daily​/­2014​/­11​/­10​/­putin​-­nostalgia​-­stalin​-­hitler​/­. 33. Snyder, “Putin’s New Nostalgia.” 34. Snyder, “Putin’s New Nostalgia.” 35. Snyder, “Putin’s New Nostalgia.” 36. Paula Chertok, “Timothy Snyder: Ukraine Is but One Aspect of a Much Larger Strategy That Threatens Eu­ro­pean Order,” Euromaidan Press, May 18, 2015, http://­euromaidanpress​ .­com​/­2015​/­03​/­18​/­timothy​-­snyder​-­ukraine​-­is​-­but​-­one​-­aspect​-­of​-­a​-­much​-­larger​-­strategy​ -­that​-­threatens​-­european​-­order​/­.

NOTES TO PAGES 17–20

171

37. Timothy Snyder, Bloodlands: Eu­rope between Hitler and Stalin (New York: Basic Books, 2010). 38. See the debate in Richard J. Evans. “Who Remembers the Poles?” London Review of Books 32, no. 21 (2010). 39. Timothy Snyder, “How a Rus­sian Fascist Is Meddling in Amer­ic­ a’s Election,” New York Times, September 20, 2016. See also Alexandra Wiktorek Sarlo, “Rus­sian Foreign Policy in the Putin Era,” Foreign Policy Research Institute, 2016, http://­web​.­archive​.­org​/­web​ /­2 0170329132724​/­h ttp://­c cat​.­s as​.­upenn​.­e du​/­s lavic​/­e vents​/­slavic​_­symposium​/­FPRI​ _­report​.­pdf. 40. Snyder, “How a Rus­sian Fascist Is Meddling in Amer­ic­ a’s Election.” 41. Sophie Pinkham, “Zombie History: Timothy Snyder’s Bleak Vision of the Pre­sent and Past,” The Nation, May 3, 2018. 42. Mikhail Iampolski, “Putin’s Rus­sia Is in the Grip of Fascism,” Newsweek, March 9, 2015. 43. Viktor Vasil´ev, “Andrei Zubov: Putin stroit bespretsedentnoe gosudarstvo,” Golos Ameriki, January 26, 2015, http://­www​.­golos​-­ameriki​.­ru​/­a​/­russia​-­zubov​/­2611952​.­html. 44. Viktor Vasil´ev, “Lev Gudkov: nyneshnii rezhim priobretaet cherty russkogo,” Golos Ameriki, April 13, 2015, http://­www​.­golos​-­ameriki​.­ru​/­a​/­vv​-­gudkov​-­usa​/­2710432​.­html. 45. Tom Whipple, “Disturbing Echo of Youth Group That Lauds Putin,” The Times, December 9, 2006; Cathy Young, “Putin’s Young ‘Brownshirts,’ ” Boston Globe, August 10, 2007; and Reuben F. Johnson, “The Putin Jugend: The Kremlin’s Teenage Shock Troops,” Washington Examiner, July 30, 2007. 46. Marcel van Herpen, Putinism: The Slow Rise of a Radical Right Regime in Rus­sia (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013), 202–203. 47. van Herpen, Putinism, 106–107. 48. Mikhail Sokolov, “V Rossii—­miagkii variant fashistskogo rezhima,” Radio Svoboda, October 12, 2016, www​.­svoboda​.­org​/­a​/­28047747​.­html. 49. Vladislav Inozemtsev, “Rus­sia’s Flirtation with Fascism,” Proj­ect Syndicate, July 29, 2016, https://­www​.­project​-­syndicate​.­org​/­commentary​/­russia​-­no​-­long​-­term​-­fascist​-­danger​ -­by​-­vladislav​-­inozemtsev​-­2016–07. 50. Vladislav Inozemtsev, “Putin’s Rus­sia: A Moderate Fascist State,” American Interest 12, no. 4 (January 23, 2017). See also Boris Mezhuev’s answer at “Vladislav Inozemtsev ubezhaet Zapad perezhit Putina,” UM+, January 26, 2017, https://­um​.­plus​/­2017​/­01​/­26​ /­zapad​/­. 51. Inozemtsev, “Putin’s Rus­sia”; and Mezhuev, “Vladislav Inozemtsev ubezhaet.” 52. Madeleine Albright, Fascism: A Warning (New York: Harper, 2018). Timothy Snyder, On Tyranny: Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth C ­ entury (New York: Random House, 2017). 53. Marlene Laruelle, “ ‘Reductio ad Hitlerum’ as a New Frame for Po­liti­cal and Geopo­ liti­cal Conflicts,” in Routledge Handbook of Character Assassination and Reputation Management, ed. Sergei A. Samoilenko, Martijn Icks, Jennifer Keohane, and Eric B. Shiraev (Routledge, 2019), 307–319. 54. Damien McElroy, “Angela Merkel’s Greece Visit Provokes Clashes in Athens,” Telegraph, October 9, 2012; and Rachel Roberts, “Turkish Newspaper Depicts Angela Merkel as Hitler Amid Diplomatic Crisis,” The In­de­pen­dent, March 17, 2017, http://­www​ .­independent​.­co​.­uk​/­news​/­world​/­angela​-­merkel​-­hitler​-­turkey​-­newspaper​-­erdogan​-­nazi​ -­row​-­rallies​-­a7635761​.­html. 55. Sergei Samoilenko, “Ad Hominem Argument,” in The SAGE Encyclopedia of Corporate Reputation, ed. Craig E. Carroll (Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 2016), 16–19. 56. François De Smet, Reductio ad Hitlerum: Essai sur la loi de Godwin. (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 2014).

172 NOTES TO PAGES 20–23

57. Dan Amira, “Mike Godwin on Godwin’s Law, ­Whether Nazi Comparisons Have Gotten Worse, and Being Compared to Hitler by His ­Daughter,” New York Magazine, March 8, 2013. 58. De Smet, Reductio ad Hitlerum. 59. Edna Friedberg, “Why Holocaust Analogies Are Dangerous,” United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, press release, December 12, 2018, https://­www​.­ushmm​.­org​ /­information​/­press​/­press​-­releases​/­why​-­holocaust​-­analogies​-­are​-­dangerous. 60. Omer Bartov, Doris Bergen, Andrea Orzoff, Timothy Snyder, Anika Walke et al., “An Open Letter to the Director of the US Holocaust Memorial Museum,” New York Review Daily, July 1, 2019, https://­www​.­nybooks​.­com​/­daily​/­2019​/­07​/­01​/­an​-­open​-­letter​-­to​-­the​ -­director​-­of​-­the​-­holocaust​-­memorial​-­museum. 61. Michael Freeden, Liberalism: A Very Short Introduction (New York: Oxford University Press, 2015); see also Pierre Manent, An Intellectual History of Liberalism (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 1995). 62. Ruth Wodak, Majid Khosravinik, and Brigitte Mral, Right-­Wing Pop­u­lism in Eu­ rope: Politics and Discourse (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2013); Ruth Wodak and Salomi Boukala, “Eu­ro­pean Identities and the Revival of Nationalism in the Eu­ro­pean Union: A Discourse Historical Approach,” Journal of Language and Politics 14, no. 1 (2015): 87–109; and Bram Spruyt, Gil Keppens, and Filip Van Droogenbroeck, “Who Supports Pop­ul­ ism and What Attracts P ­ eople to It?” Po­liti­cal Research Quarterly 69, no. 2 (2016): 335–346. 63. Rogers Brubaker, “Between Nationalism and Civilizationism: The Eu­ro­pean Populist Moment in Comparative Perspective,” Ethnic and Racial Studies 40, no. 8 (2017): 1191–1226. See also Rogers Brubaker, “The New Language of Eu­ro­pean Pop­u­lism: Why ‘Civilization’ Is Replacing the Nation,” Foreign Affairs, December 6, 2017. 64. Nicolas Lebourg and Joseph Beauregard, Dans l’ombre des Le Pen: Une histoire des numéros 2 du FN (Paris: Nouveau Monde, 2012). 65. Cas Mudde, “The War of Words Defining the Extreme Right Party ­Family,” West Eu­ro­pean Politics 19, no. 2 (1996): 225–248; Cas Mudde, “The Populist Radical Right: A Pathological Normalcy,” West Eu­ro­pean Politics 33, no. 6 (2010): 1167–1186; and Cas Mudde and Cristóbal Rovira Kaltwasser, eds., Pop­u­lism in Eu­rope and the Amer­i­cas: Threat or Corrective for Democracy? (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012). 66. Paris Aslanidis, “Is Pop­u­lism an Ideology? A Refutation and a New Perspective,” Po­liti­cal Studies 64, no. 1, suppl. (2016): 88–104. 67. Don Kalb and Gabor Halmai, Headlines of Nation, Subtexts of Class: Pop­ul­ism and the Return of the Repressed in Neoliberal Eu­rope (New York: Berghahn Books, 2011). 68. Sebastian Schiek and Azam Isabaev, “Ready for Diffusion? Rus­sia’s ‘Cultural Turn’ and the Post-­Soviet Space,” in New Conservatives in Rus­sia and East Central Eu­rope, ed. Katharina Bluhm and Mihai Varga (New York: Routledge, 2018), 260–279. 69. See, for instance, Kenneth A. Bollen and Pamela Paxton, “Subjective Mea­sures of Liberal Democracy,” Comparative Po­liti­cal Studies 33, no. 1 (2000): 58–86; and Marc F. Plattner, “Liberalism and Democracy: ­Can’t Have One without the Other,” Foreign Affairs 77, no. 2 (1998): 171–180. 70. William Galston, “The Populist Challenge to Liberal Democracy,” Journal of Democracy 29, no. 2 (2018): 5–19; and Gordon Graham, “Liberalism and Democracy,” Journal of Applied Philosophy 9, no. 2 (1992): 149–160. 71. Miklós Bánkuti, Gábor Halmai, and Kim Lane Scheppele, “Hungary’s Illiberal Turn: Disabling the Constitution,” Journal of Democracy 23, no. 3 (2012): 138–146, and Péter Krekó and Zsolt Enyedi, “Orbán’s Laboratory of Illiberalism,” Journal of Democracy 29, no. 3 (2018): 39–51.

NOTES TO PAGES 23–31

173

72. For a current overview of research on the far Right, see Cas Mudde, “The Study of Populist Radical Right Parties: T ­ owards a Fourth Wave,” C-­Rex Working paper series 1, no. 1 (2016). 73. Andreas Umland, “Deistvitel´no li Rossiia Putina ‘fashistskaia’? Replika Aleksandru Motyliu,” Forum noveishei vostochnoevropeiskoi istorii i kul´tury 2 (2010), http://­www1​ .­ku​-­eichstaett​.­de​/­ZIMOS​/­forum​/­inhaltruss14​.­html. 74. Umland, “Concepts of Fascism,” 39. 75. Quoted in Shenfield, “Weimar/Rus­sia Comparison,” 357. 76. Marlene Laruelle, “The ‘Third Continent’ Meet the ‘Third Way’: Eurasianism’s Reading of Fascism,” in Entangled Far Right: A Russian-­European Intellectual Romance in the 20th ­Century, ed. Marlene Laruelle (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2018), 47–60. 77. See Marlene Laruelle, “The Paradoxical Legacy of Eurasianism in Con­temporary Eurasia,” in Between Eu­rope and Asia: The Origins, Theories and Legacies of Rus­sian Eurasianism, ed. Mark Bassin, Sergey Glebov, and Marlene Laruelle (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2015), 187–193. 2. THE SOVIET LEGACY IN THINKING ABOUT FASCISM

1. Mischa Gabowitsch, “Fascism as Stiob,” Kultura 4 (2009): 4. 2. Victoria Donovan, “How Well Do You Know Your Krai?” The Kraevedenie Revival and Patriotic Politics in Late Khrushchev-­Era Rus­sia,” Slavic Review 74, no. 3 (2015): 464–483. 3. Nina Tumarkin, The Living and the Dead: The Rise and Fall of the Cult of Second World War in Rus­sia (New York: Perseus Books, 1994), 104. 4. For more, see the special issue by Lisa Kirschenbaum, “Introduction: World War II in Soviet and Post-­Soviet Memory,” Soviet and Post-­Soviet Review 38, no. 2 (2011): 97–103. 5. See Katherine Verdery, The Po­liti­cal Lives of Dead Bodies (New York: Columbia University Press, 2000). For comparison with Eu­rope, see Laura Wittman, The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, Modern Mourning, and the Reinvention of the Mystical Body (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2011). 6. See Mischa Gabowitsch’s current research on Soviet war memorials and Victory Day: Mischa Gabovich, ed., Pamiatnik i prazdnik: Etnografiia Dnia Pobedy (St. Petersburg: Nestor-Istoriia, 2020) 7. “ ‘Sdvig v storonu gordosti i paradnosti’: Kak s godami izmenilsia pervonachal´nyi smysl Dnia Pobedy,” Lenta.ru, April 20, 2015, https://­lenta​.­ru​/­articles​/­2015​/­04​/­20​ /­denpobedy​/­. 8. For a history of that trend before the 1970s, see Gleb Tsipursky, Socialist Fun: Youth, Consumption, and State-­Sponsored Popu­lar Culture in the Soviet Union, 1945–1970 (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2016). 9. Alexei Yurchak, Every­thing Was Forever, ­until It Was No More: The Last Soviet Generation (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2005). 10. Jonathan Brunstedt, “Forging a Common Glory: Soviet Remembrance of the Second World War and the Limits of Rus­sian Nationalism, 1960–1991” (PhD diss., University of Oxford, 2011). 11. Tumarkin, The Living and the Dead, 133. 12. Tumarkin, The Living and the Dead, 194. 13. John M. Cammett, “Communist Theories of Fascism, 1920–1935,” Science & Society 31, no. 2 (Spring 1967): 149–163. 14. “Antifashistskie plakaty vremen Sovetskogo Soiuza,” Iozhin.ru, last updated December 21, 2011, https://­web​.­archive​.­org​/­web​/­20170103071711​/­http://­www​.­ejin​.­ru​/­ostalnoe​

174 NOTES TO PAGES 31–34

/­antifashistskie​-­plakaty​-­vremen​-­sovetskogo​-­soyuza​.­html; and “Antifashistskie plakaty (32 foto),” Fishki​.­net, http://­fishki​.­net​/­38442​-­antifashistskie​-­plakaty​-­32​-­foto​.­html. 15. Tumarkin, The Living and the Dead, 73. 16. See, for example, “Kak rabotala sovetskaia propaganda v gody Velikoi Otechestvennoi Voiny,” Russkaia Semerka, last modified October 3, 2016, http://­russian7​.­ru​/­post​/­kak​ -­rabotala​-­sovetskaya​-­propaganda​-­v​-­g​/­. 17. See Walter Laqueur, Rus­sia and Germany: A ­Century of Conflict (Piscataway, NJ: Transaction, 1990). 18. R. A. Rudenko, Nyurnbergskii protsess nad glavnymi nemetskimi voennymi prestupnikami. Sbornik materialov v 7 tomakh, vol. 6 (Moscow: Gosudarstvennoe izdatel´stvo iuridicheskoi literatury, 1957–1961). 19. Petr Nikolaevich Pospelov, Istoriia Velikoi Otechestvennoi Voiny Sovetskogo Soiuza, 1941–1945, (Moscow: Voenizdat, 1960–1965). 20. Vasilii D. Kulbakin, Ocherki noveishei istorii Germanii (Moscow: Izdatel´stvo Sotsial´no-­ekonomicheskoi literatury, 1962). German Rozanov, Germaniia pod vlast´iu fashizma 1933–1939 (Moscow: Izdatel´stvo Instituta mezhdunarodnykh otnoshenii, 1961), http://­www​.­katyn​-­books​.­ru​/­library​/­germaniya​-­pod​-­vlastyu​-­fashizma27​.­html​.­, 1961. 21. Kulbakin, Ocherki noveishei istorii Germanii, 441–443. 22. Rozanov, Germaniia pod vlast´iu. 23. Sabine Hänsgen and Wolfgang Beilenhoff, “Image Politics: Ordinary Fascism—­ Contexts of Production and Reception.” Apparatus 2–3 (2016). http://­www​.­apparatusjournal​ .­net​/­index​.­php​/­apparatus​/­article​/­v iew​/­42​/­96. 24. See Georgii S. Filatov, Krakh ital´ianskogo fashizma (Moscow: Nauka, 1973); Georgii S. Filatov, ed., Istoriia fashizma v Zapadnoi Evrope (Moscow: Nauka, 1978); Aleksandr S. Blank, Iz istorii rannego fashizma v Germanii: Organizatsiia. Ideologiia. Metody (Moscow: Mysl´, 1978); Pavel Iu. Rakhshmir, Proiskhozhdenie fashizma (Moscow: Nauka, 1981); Ia. Zharnovskii, Fashizm i antidemokraticheskie rezhimy v Evrope (nachalo 20-kh godov–1945) (Moscow: Nauka, 1981); and Boris N. Besonov, Fashizm: ideologiia, politika (Moscow: Vysshaia shkola, 1985). 25. Dan Stone, ed., The Historiography of the Holocaust (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004). 26. Shimon Redlich, ed., War, Holocaust and Stalinism (New York: Harwood Academic, 1995). 27. Zvi Gitelman, “Politics and the Historiography of the Holocaust in the Soviet Union,” in ­Bitter Legacy: Confronting the Holocaust in the USSR, ed. Zvi Gitelman (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1997), 14–42; Lukasz Hirszowicz, “The Holocaust in the Soviet Mirror,” in The Holocaust in the Soviet Union: Studies and Sources on the Destruction of the Jews in the Nazi-­Occupied Territories of the USSR, 1941–1945, ed. Lucjan Dobroszycki and Jeffrey Gurock (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1993), 39–50. 28. William Korey, “Down History’s Memory Hole: Soviet Treatment of the Holocaust,” in Con­temporary Views of the Holocaust, ed. Randolph Braham (Boston: Kluwer-­Nijhoff, 1983), 145–156. 29. Gitelman, “Politics and the Historiography of the Holocaust”; and Hirszowicz, “Holocaust in the Soviet Mirror.” 30. Allen Paul, Katyn: Stalin’s Massacre and the Triumph of Truth (Northern Illinois University Press, 2010). 31. Semen Charnyi, “Natsistskie gruppy v SSSR v 1950–1980e gody,” Neprikosnovennyi zapas 5, no. 37 (2004): 71–78. 32. Charnyi, “Natsistskie gruppy.” 33. Peter Duncan, “The Fate of Rus­sian Nationalism: The Samizdat Journal Veche Revisited,” Religion in Communist Lands 16, no. 1 (1988): 36–53.

NOTES TO PAGES 34–36

175

34. Influenced by the German Conservative Revolution theoretician Ernst Niekisch, National Bolshevism celebrated the cult of the superman, vitalism, and military strength. Its main doctrinaire, Nikolai Ustrialov (1880–1937), began his c­ areer as the director of Admiral Aleksandr Kolchak’s press agency but was also an active member of the Kadet party as a young professor in Moscow. ­After resettling in Harbin, where he worked as an adviser at the China Far East Railway, in 1920, he became deeply convinced that Bolshevism was actually positive in that it would Russify communism and eradicate Marxism. Communism was therefore merely an episode in the history of a ­great, indivisible, and eternal Rus­ sia. In 1935, Ustrialov de­cided to return to the Soviet Union and was executed during the Stalinist G ­ reat Purge of 1937. See Mikhail Agurskii, Ideologiia natsional´no-­bolshevizma (Paris: YMCA-­Press, 1980), 62–98; and Hilde Hardeman, Coming to Terms with the Soviet Regime: The “Changing Signposts” Movement among Rus­sian Emigrés in the Early 1920s (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 1994). 35. All details are available in Aleksandr Verkhovskii and Vladimir Pribylovskii, Natsional-­patrioticheskie organizatsii v Rossii: istoriia, ideologiia, ekstremistskie tendentsii (Moscow: Institute of Experimental Sociology, 1996), 6–12. 36. Traditionalism believes in the Tradition, that is, in the existence of a world that was steady in its religious, philosophical, and social princi­ples but that started disappearing with the advent of modernity in the sixteenth ­century. Modernity is considered to be harmful in that it destroys the established natu­ral hierarchical order. Traditionalists thus call for a return to the world’s golden era, marked by the transcendental unity of all religions, and they reject the desacralization and secularization of the modern world. For them, all religions and esoteric traditions—­regardless of their concrete practices—­reveal the existence of a now-­extinct original sacred Tradition. Dubbed the “primordial Tradition,” it is seen as the secret essence of all religions. Through this appeal, Traditionalism has influenced numerous Gnostic and Masonic currents, as well as several Sufi ­orders. See Mark Sedgwick, Against the Modern World: Traditionalism and the Secret Intellectual History of the Twentieth C ­ entury (New York: Oxford University Press, 2004). 37. Aleksei Chelnokov, “Tri bogatyria v forme Waffen-­SS,” Sovershenno sekretno 7, no. 278 (July 2, 2012), http://­www​.­sovsekretno​.­ru​/­articles​/­id​/­3197​/­. 38. Arkadii Rovner, Gurdzhiev i Uspenskii (Moscow: Sofiia, 2002), 153. 39. Marlene Laruelle, “The Yuzhinsky Circle: Far-­R ight Metaphysics in the Soviet Under­ground and Its Legacy T ­ oday,” Rus­sian Review 75, no. 4 (2015): 563–580. 40. On Pamiat, see William Korey, Rus­sian Antisemitism, Pamyat and the Demonology of Zionism (Chur: Harwood Academic Publishers for the Vidal Sassoon International Center for the Study of Antisemitism, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1995); Viacheslav Likhachev, Po­liti­cal Antisemitism in Post-­Soviet Rus­sia: Actors and Ideas in 1991–2003 (Stuttgart: Ibidem-­Verlag, 2006); V. Pribylovskii, “Natsional-­patrioticheskie partii, organizatsii i gruppy v 1994–1999 gg.,” http://­www​.­anticompromat​.­ru​/­nazi​-­p​/­naz99​.­html; Verkhovskii and Pribylovskii, Natsional-­patrioticheskie organizatsii, and A. Verkhovskii, A. Papp, and V. Pribylovskii, Politicheskii ekstremizm v Rossii (Moscow: Pa­norama, 1996). 41. See Vladimir Pribylovsky’s biography of Dugin: Vladimir Pribylovsky, “Dugin Aleksandr Gel´evich,” Antikompromat, last modified January 11, 2016, http://­www​ .­anticompromat​.­org​/­dugin​/­duginbio​.­html. 42. Chelnokov, “Tri bogatyria.” 43. Miriam Dobson, Khrushchev’s Cold Summer: Gulag Returnees, Crime, and the Fate of Reform a­ fter Stalin (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2011), 117. 44. See Arkady Bronnikov, Rus­sian Criminal Tattoo: Police Files, vol. 1 (London: FUEL Design and Publishing, 2014); and Danzig Baldaev, Sergei Vasiliev, Alexei Plutser-­Sarno, Anne Applebaum, and Aleksandr Sidorov, Rus­sian Criminal Tattoo, vols. 1–3 (London: FUEL Design and Publishing, 2003, 2006, 2008).

176 NOTES TO PAGES 36–40

45. Bronnikov, Rus­sian Criminal Tattoo, 41. 46. Anne Applebaum, Gulag: A History (London: Penguin, 2004). 47. Klaus Mehnert, The Rus­sians and Their Favorite Books (Stanford, CA: Hoover Institution Press, 1983). 48. Ivan Zassoursky, Media and Power in Post-­Soviet Rus­sia (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 2004). 49. Birgit Beumers, Pop Culture Rus­sia! Media, Arts, and Lifestyle. Popu­lar Culture in the Con­temporary World (Santa Barbara, CA: ABC-­CLIO, 2005); see also Catharine Theimer Nepomnyashchy, “The Blockbuster Miniseries on Soviet TV: Isaev-­Stierliz, the Ambiguous Hero of Seventeen Moments in Spring,” Soviet and Post-­Soviet Review 29 (2002): 257–276. 50. James von Geldern, “Seventeen Moments in Spring,” Soviet History, http://­ soviethistory​.­msu​.­edu​/­1973–2​/­seventeen​-­moments​-­in​-­spring​/­. 51. Maya Turovskaya, “The Swastika and Us: Questions without Answers,” Kultura 4 (2009): 8–14. 52. Richard Stites, Rus­sian Popu­lar Culture: Entertainment and Society since 1900 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 170. 53. Charnyi, “Natsistskie gruppy.” See also “Fenomen russkogo molodezhnogo fashizma v SSSR,” Maxpark​.c­ om, last modified July 24, 2013, http://­maxpark​.­com​/­community​/­4375​ /­content​/­2107303. 54. The excerpts published are titled “Kakomu bogu poklonialsia Gitler?” Nauka i religiia, no. 9–10 (1966): 63–69, and no. 11 (1966): 82–89. 55. On this Nazi occultism, see the seminal work of Nicholas Goodrick-­Clarke, The Occult Roots of Nazism: Secret Aryan Cults and Their Influence on Nazi Ideology (New York: New York University Press, 1992). 56. Roger Sabin, Punk Rock: So What? The Cultural Legacy of Punk (London: Routledge, 1999); Lauren Langman, “Punk, Porn and Re­sis­tance: Carnivalization and the Body in Popu­ lar Culture,” Current Sociology 56, no. 4 (2008): 657–677; and Jeff Goldthorpe, “Intoxicated Culture: Punk Symbolism and Punk Protest,” Socialist Review 22, no. 2 (1992): 35. 57. Ivan Gololobov, Hilary Pilkington, and Yngvar B. Steinholt. Punk in Rus­sia: Cultural Mutation from the “Useless” to the “Moronic.” Rougledge Con­temporary Rus­sia and Eastern Eruope Series (London: Routledge, 2016). 58. Ewgeniy Kasakow, “Models of ‘Taboo Breaking’ in Rus­sian Rock M ­ usic: The Ambivalence of the ‘Po­liti­cally Incorrect,’ ” Kultura 4 (2009): 19–23. 59. Viktor Kokosov, “Alisa s kosoi chelkoi,” Smena, November 22, 1987. 60. Sergei Medvedev, “Izobrazhaia Gitlera: Kak pamiat´ o voine prevrashchaetsia v igru,” Republic.ru, May 5, 2017, https://­republic​.­ru​/­posts​/­82518. 61. Richard Sakwa, Putin: Rus­sia’s Choice (London: Routledge, 2008), 6. 62. See Nikolai Mitrokhin, “The Apparatus of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, Antisemitism, and Ethnic Policy Guidelines in the 1960s through the mid-1980s,” unpublished manuscript. 63. Even though the Soviet Union comprised fifteen theoretically equal republics, the RSFSR was devoid of some institutions: with only fourteen republican-­level institutions and one pan-­Soviet one, the specific status of Rus­sia was more the center of the Union than an equal among other republics. For the non-­Russian elite, it was a sign of the Soviet Union’s continuation of Rus­sian colonial domination, whereas for Rus­sian nationalists it was a sign of Rus­sia’s being “dissolved” by the Soviet regime in ­favor of other republics. See Nikolai Mitrokhin, “Russkaia partiia”: dvizhenie russkikh natsionalistov v SSSR 1953–1985 gg. (Moscow: NLO, 2003). See also Geoffrey Hosking, Rulers and Victims: The Rus­sians in the Soviet Union (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2006).

NOTES TO PAGES 40–45

177

64. Valerie Sarah-­Elizabeth Zawilski, “Saving Rus­sia: The Development of Nationalist Thought among the Rus­sian Intelligent­sia, 1965–1985” (PhD diss., University of Toronto, 1996). 65. On Zionology, see Semyon Reznik, The Nazification of Rus­sia: Antisemitism in the Post-­Soviet Era (Washington, DC: Challenge, 1996); and Korey, Rus­sian Antisemitism. 66. Hashim Behbehani, The Soviet Union and Arab Nationalism, 1917–1966 (New York: Wiley, 1986). 67. Quoted in Alexander Yanov, The Rus­sian New Right: Right-­Wing Ideologies in the Con­temporary USSR (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978), 170–172. Other excerpts are available in Verkhovskii and Pribylovskii, Natsional-­patrioticheskie organizatsii, 8. 68. Walter Laqueur, Black Hundred: The Rise of the Extreme Right in Rus­sia (New York: HarperCollins, 1993), 114. 69. For more, see Marlene Laruelle, Rus­sian Nationalism. Imaginaries, Doctrines and Po­ liti­cal Battlefields (London: Routledge, 2018), 73–93; and Viktor Shnirel´man, Ariiskii mif v sovremennom mire: Evoliutsiia ariiskogo mifa v Rossii, 2 vols. (Moscow: NLO, 2015). 70. For more, see Viktor Shnirel´man, Intellektual´nye labirinty: ocherki ideologii v sovremennoi Rossii (Moscow: Academia, 2004), 231. 71. Vladimir Chivilikhin, “Pamiat´,” Roman-­gazeta 17 (1982): 11. 3. ANTIFASCISM AS THE RENEWED SOCIAL CONSENSUS U ­ NDER PUTIN

1. “Lavrov: Na pravde o voine nel´zia spekulirovat ´,” Lenta.ru, May 4, 2005, https://­ lenta​.­ru​/­news​/­2005​/­05​/­03​/­lavrov​/­. 2. “Stenograficheskii otchet o zadedannii Rossiiskogo organizatsionnogo komiteta ‘Pobeda,’ ” Kremlin.ru, March 29, 2005, http://­kremlin​.­ru​/­events​/­president​/­transcripts​ /­22888. 3. Kathleen Smith, Mythmaking in the New Rus­sia (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2002). 4. Robert W. Davies, Soviet History in the Yeltsin Era (London: Macmillan, 1997). 5. Amir Weiner, “The Making of a Dominant Myth: The Second World War and the Construction of Po­liti­cal Identities Within the Soviet Polity,” Rus­sian Review 55, no. 4 (October 1996): 638–660. 6. “Duma Approves Restoring Soviet Anthem,” Eurasian Daily Monitor 6, no. 229, ­December 8, 2000, https://­jamestown​.­org​/­program​/­duma​-­approves​-­restoring​-­soviet​ -­an​them​/­. 7. “Security Watch: December 3, 2002,” RFE/RL, December 3, 2002, http://­www​.­rferl​ .­org​/­a​/­1344688​.­html. 8. “Security Watch: June 11, 2003,” RFE/RL, June 11, 2003, http://­www​.­rferl​.­org​/­a​ /­1344622​.­html. 9. “Ukaz Prezidenta RF ot 16 iiuniia 2007 g. No. 770 ‘O priznanii utrativshimi silu nekotorykh aktov Prezidenta Rossiiskoi Federatsii,’ ” Garant.ru, June 25, 2007, http://­www​ .­garant​.­ru​/­products​/­ipo​/­prime​/­doc​/­6232278​/­. 10. Olga Kucherenko, “That’ll Teach’em to Love Their Motherland! Rus­sian Youth Revisit the ­Battles of Second World War.” Journal of Power Institutions in Post-­Soviet Socie­ties 12 (2011), https://­pipss​.­revues​.­org​/­3866. 11. Gennadii Bordiugov, Oktiabr´. Stalin. Pobeda. Kul´t iubileev v prostranstve pamiati (Moscow: AIRO-­XXI, 2010). 12. Stephen Norris, “Memory for Sale: Victory Day 2010 and Rus­sian Remembrance,” Soviet and Post-­Soviet Review 38, no. 2 (2011): 201–229. 13. Elizabeth Wood, “Performing Memory: Vladimir Putin and the Cele­bration of Second World War in Rus­sia,” Soviet and Post-­Soviet Review 38, no. 2 (2011): 172–200.

178 NOTES TO PAGES 45–48

14. Participants included the Chinese president Xi Jinping, the Indian president Pranad Mukherjee, the Palestinian leader Mahmoud Abbas, South Africa’s Jacob Zuma, the Serbian leader Tomislav Nikolić, Mongolia’s Tsakhiagiin Elbegdori, the Viet­nam­ese leader Trương Tấn Sang, the Cuban president Raúl Castro, Venezuela’s Nicolás Maduro, the Egyptian president General Abdel Fattah el-­Sisi, the UN secretary-­general Ban Ki-­moon, and several presidents of post-­Soviet republics. 15. The Day of National Unity (Den´ narodnogo edinstva) was established by the Rus­sian government in 2005 to replace the November 7 cele­bration of the ­Great October Socialist Revolution, which was renamed the Day of Concord and Reconciliation in 1996. The new holiday celebrates the end of the Time of Trou­bles, when the p ­ eople of Rus­sia united to rise up against the Polish occupation and restore their national sovereignty. Specifically, the Day of National Unity marks the capture of Moscow (on October 22, 1612, following the old Julian Calendar) by the national militia headed by Kuz´ma Minin and Dmitrii Pozharskii, less than two days a­ fter which Polish forces, besieged in the Moscow Kremlin, surrendered. The holiday was actually celebrated by both the Rus­sian state and the church in the pre-­Soviet period, and although it initially met with mixed reaction from the media and the population at large, the Day of National Unity has endured and remains a state-­centric event. 16. Smith, Mythmaking in the New Rus­sia, especially chapter 5, “Recasting the Commemorative Calendar,” 78–101. 17. Seth Bern­stein, “Remembering war, remaining Soviet: Digital commemoration of World War II in Putin’s Rus­sia,” Memory Studies 9, no. 4 (2016): 422–436. 18. “O Vserossiiskom proekte ‘Nasha obshchaia pobeda,’ ” Patriot, http://­patriotcentr29​ .­ru​/­aktsii​/­regionalnye​-­etapy​-­vserossijskikh​-­proektov​/­nasha​-­obshchaya​-­pobeda. 19. Norris, “Memory for Sale.” 20. “Home page,” Bessmertnyi polk, http://­www​.­moypolk​.­ru. 21. “V aktsii ‘Bessmertnyi polk’ uchastvovali 12 millionov rossiian,” Lenta.ru, May 9, 2015, https://­lenta​.­ru​/­news​/­2015​/­05​/­09​/­polk3​/­. 22. “Parad pobedy i aktsiia ‘Bessmertnyi polk,’ ” Levada Center, May 31, 2016, http://­ www​.­levada​.­ru​/­2016​/­05​/­31​/­parad​-­pobedy​-­i​-­aktsiya​-­bessmertnyj​-­polk​/­. 23. “Direktor instituta RAN predlozhil nadelit’ pravom golosa pogibshikh vo vremia Velikoi Otechestvennoi voiny,” Newsru​.­com, May 20, 2016, http://­www​.­newsru​.­com​/­russia​ /­20may2016​/­elections​.­html. 24. See some examples in Pål Kolstø, “Symbol of the War—­But Which One? The St. George Ribbon in Rus­sian Nation-­Building,” Slavonic and East Eu­ro­pean Review 94, no. 4 (2016): 660–701. 25. Vladimir Putin, “Vystuplenie na voennom parade v chest’ 60-­i godovshchiny Pobedy v Velikoi Otechestvennoi voine,” Kremlin.ru, May 9, 2005, http://­special​.­kremlin​.­ru​ /­events​/­president​/­transcripts​/­22959. 26. Vladimir Putin, “Putin posovetoval amerikantsam, chto pochitat’ o Vtoroi mirovoi,” InoSmi.ru, February 1, 2011, http://­inosmi​.­ru​/­history​/­20110201​/­166170265​.­html. This article originally appeared in En­glish in World War II magazine, where then-­prime minister Putin gave his personal reading list of books about the war and commented that ­every Rus­sian f­ amily had lost members in the conflict. 27. Geraldine Falgan, “Rus­sia: Pussy Riot, Blasphemy, and Freedom of Religion or Belief,” International Journal of Civil Society Law 10, no. 4 (2012): 3–10. 28. Ekaterina Kalinina, “Mediated Post-­Soviet Nostalgia” (PhD diss., Sodertorn University, 2014); and Sarah E. Mendelson and Theodore P. Gerber. “Soviet Nostalgia: An Impediment to Rus­sian Democ­ratization.” Washington Quarterly 29, no. 1 (2005): 83–96. 29. See, for instance, a list of photos denounced by the Orthodox website Pravoslavie i mir, “Pobednye tushki, rolly i tapochki,” Pravmir.ru, May 10, 2017, https://­www​.­pravmir​ .­ru​/­pobednyie​-­tushki​-­rollyi​-­i​-­tapochki​-­foto​/­. Some patriotic groups or­ga­nized campaigns

NOTES TO PAGES 48–51

179

to fight against the “nonethical use” of war symbols. See Anton Rezhnichenko, “Reidy protiv neetichnogo ispol´zovaniia simbolov Podeby proidut v Moskve,” Vecherniaia Moskva, April 27, 2017, http://­vm​.­ru​/­news​/­374928​.­html. 30. March Ferro, The Use & Abuse of History (Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge, 2003). 31. On that topic, see Thomas Sherlock, Historical Narratives in the Soviet Union and Post-­Soviet Rus­sia: Destroying the Settled Past, Creating an Uncertain ­Future (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007). 32. Davies, Soviet History; Catherine Merridale, Night of Stone: Death and Memory in Twentieth-­Century Rus­sia (London: Penguin Books, 2002); and Joseph Zajda and Rea Zajda. “The Politics of Rewriting History: New History Textbooks and Curriculum Materials in Rus­sia.” International Review of Education 49, no. 3–4 (2003): 361–386. 33. Zajda and Zajda, “Politics of Rewriting History.” 34. A. V. Filippov, A. I. Utkin, and S. V. Sergeev, eds., Noveishaia istoriia Rossii, 1945– 2006: Kniga dlia uchitelia (Moscow: Prosveshchenie, 2007). 35. The Rus­sian Historical Society was headed by the State Duma chairman Sergey Naryshkin, who also led the Commission to ­Counter Attempts to Falsify History to the Detriment of Rus­sia’s Interests. The Rus­sian Society for Military History was headed by the minister of culture, Vladimir Medinsky. 36. Ivan Kurilla, “The Strug­gle for the History Textbook in Rus­sia,” Newsnet: News of the Association for Slavic, East Eu­ro­pean, and Eurasian Studies 54, no. 5 (2014): 13–15. 37. “Minobrnauki otkazalos ot idei vvedenia edinogo uchebnika istorii,” RIA Novosti, August 27, 2014, http://­ria​.­ru​/­society​/­20140827​/­1021587921​.­html. 38. David Brandenberger, “Promotion of a Usable Past: Official Efforts to Rewrite Russo-­Soviet History, 2000–2014,” in Remembrance, History, and Justice: Coming to Terms with Traumatic Pasts in Demo­cratic Socie­ties, ed. Vladimir Tismaneanu et al. (Budapest: Central Eu­ro­pean University Press, 2015), 212. 39. David Brandenberger, “A New Short Course? A.V. Filippov and the Rus­sian State’s Search for a ‘Useable Past,’ ” Kritika: Explorations in Rus­sian and Eurasian History 10, no. 4 (2009): 825–833. 40. Todd Nelson, “History as Ideology: The Portrayal of Stalinism and the ­Great Patriotic War in Con­temporary Rus­sian High School Textbooks,” Post-­Soviet Affairs 31, no. 1 (2015): 37–65. 41. Nelson, “History as Ideology,” 57. 42. Oleg V. Volobuev et al., Istoriia Rossii XX veka: Deviatii klass (Moscow: Drofa, 2006), 152. 43. James Wertsch, “Blank Spots in Collective Memory: A Case Study of Rus­sia,” Annals of the American Acad­emy of Po­liti­cal and Social Science 617 (May 2008): 58–71. 44. Vladimir Shestakov, Istoriia Rossii XX–­nachalo XXI veka (Moscow: Prosveshchenie, 2007), 217. 45. On Vlasov, see, among o ­ thers, Catherine Andreyev, Vlasov and the Rus­sian Liberation Movement: Soviet Real­ity and Emigré Theories (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989). 46. Volobuev et al., Istoriia Rossii XX veka, 169–170. 47. Shestakov, Istoriia Rossii XX–­nachalo XXI veka, 238–239. 48. For more, see Ivan Kurilla, “In Search of National Unity or International Separation: World War II Era Textbook Narratives in Post-­Soviet States,” PONARS Eurasia Policy Memo no. 203 (June 2012), http://­www​.­ponarseurasia​.­org​/­memo​/­search​-­national​-­unity​ -­or​-­international​-­separation​-­wwii​-­era​-­textbook​-­narratives​-­post​-­soviet. 49. Volobuev et al., Istoriia Rossii XX veka, 168. 50. Andrei A. Levandovskii, Iurii A. Shchetinov, and Sergei V. Mironenko. Istoriia Rossii: XX—­nachalo XXI veka (Moscow: Prosveshchenie, 2013), 176.

180 NOTES TO PAGES 51–54

51. Vladimir Shestakov. Istoriia Rossii XX–­nachalo XXI veka (Moscow: Prosveshchenie, 2007), 243. 52. Volobuev et al., Istoriia Rossii XX veka, 195. 53. For a comprehensive view of this emerging research field, see Gennadii Bordiugov, ed., Istoricheskie issledovaniia v Rossii-­II: Sem’ let spustia (Moscow: AIRO-­XX, 2003) and Gennadii Bordiugov, ed., Istoricheskie issledovaniia v Rossii-­II: Piatnadtsat’ let spustia (Moscow: AIRO-­XXI, 2011). 54. Valeria Korchagina and Andrei Zolotov Jr., “It’s Too Early To Forgive Vlasov,” St. Petersburg Times, November 6, 2001, http://­web​.­archive​.­org​/­web​/­20070928003436​/­http://­www​ .­sptimes​.­ru​/­index​.­php​?­action​_­id​=­2&story​_­id​=­5830. 55. Grigorii Mitrofanov, Tragediia Rossii: zapretnye temi istorii XX veka (Moscow: Moby Dik, 2009). On the debate around the book, see Adzhar Kurtov, “Byl li general Vlasov predatelem? Pravovaia otsenka popytok reabilitatsii,” Perspektivy, November 11, 2009, http://­w ww​.­p erspektivy​.­i nfo​ /­h istory​ /­b yl​ _­l i​ _­g eneral​ _­v lasov​ _­p redatelem​_­p ravovaja​ _­ocenka​_­popytok​_­reabilitacii​_­2009​-­11​-­11​.­htm. 56. See the En­glish version, Gavriil Popov, Summoning the Spirit of General Vlasov (New York: Vantage Press, 2009). The Rus­sian original is from 2007. 57. A. Chubar´ian, ed., Istoriia Rossii XX veka: Posobie dlia uchitelia (Moscow: Prosveshchenie, 2003), 133. 58. Andrei Artizov, ed. General Vlasov: Istoriia predatel’stva. V trekh tomakh (Moscow: RGASPI, Politicheskaia entsiklopediia, 2015). 59. Elena Novoselova, “Voina: goriachii arkhiv,” Rossiiskaia gazeta, June 21, 2015, https://­rg​.­ru​/­2015​/­06​/­22​/­artizov​.­html. 60. Kirill Aleksandrov, “Generalitet i ofitserskie kadry vooruzhennykh formirovanii Komiteta osvobozhdeniia narodov Rossii v 1943–1946 gg.,” (PhD diss., St. Petersburg Institute of History, Rus­sian Acad­emy of Arts, 2015). See the story of the defense at “Porokhovaia bochka istorii,” Novaia gazeta Sankt–­Peterburg, March 25, 2016, http://­ novayagazeta​.­spb​.­ru​/­articles​/­10243​/­. 61. Kirill Aleksandrov, Ofitserskii korpus armii general-­leitenanta A.A. Vlasova 1944– 1945 (Moscow: Posev, 2001); Kirill Aleksandrov, Russkie soldaty Vermarkhta: Geroi ili predateli [Rus­sian soldiers of the Wehrmacht: Heroes or traitors?] (Moscow: Iauza, Eksmo, 2005). On the prehistory of this narrative, coming from the early Cold War period, see Benjamin Tromly, “Reinventing Collaboration: The Vlasov Movement in the Postwar Rus­ sian Emigration,” in Traitors, Collaborators and Deserters in Con­temporary Eu­ro­pean Politics of Memory, ed. G. Grinchenko and E. Narvselius (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018), 87–111. 62. Sergei Aksionov, “Rosarkhiv likvidiruet vlasovshchinu,” Russkaia planeta, April 18, 2016, http://­rusplt​.­ru​/­society​/­rosarhiv​-­likvidiruet​-­vlasovschinu​-­23743​.­html. 63. “Ekspertnyi sovet VAK ne podderzhal dissertatsiiu o vlasovtsakh,” Fontanka, June 2, 2017, https://­www​.­fontanka​.­ru​/­2017​/­06​/­02​/­004​/­. 64. See Boris Kovalev, Dobrovol´tsy na chuzhoi voine: Ocherki istorii Goluboi divizii (Velikii Novgorod: NovGU, 2011); Boris Kovalev, Kollaboratsionizm v Rossii v 1941–1945 gg.: Tipy i formy (Velikii Novgorod: NovGU, 2009); Boris Kovalev, Natsitskaia okkupatsiia i kollaboratsionizm v Rossii 1941–1944 (Moscow: Ast, 2004); and Boris Kovalev, Povsednevnaia zhizn´ naseleniia Rossii v period natsitskoi okkupatsii (Moscow: Molodaia Gvardiia, 2011). 65. Igor Ermolov, Tri goda bez Stalina: Okkupatsiia: sovetskie grazhdane mezhdu natsistami i bol´shevikami: 1941–1944 (Moscow: Tsentrpoligraf, 2010); Aleksandr Diukov, Za chto srazhalis´ sovetskie liudi: “Russkii ne dolzhen umeret´” (Moscow: Eksmo, 2007), 489–490. 66. See Boris Kovalev, “The Rus­sian National-­Socialist Party Viking in Soviet Occupied Territories,” in Entangled Far Rights: A Russian-­European Intellectual Romance in the

NOTES TO PAGES 54–60

181

Twentieth ­Century, ed. Marlene Laruelle (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2018), 105–127. 67. Andrei Zubov, ed., Istoriia Rossii XX veka [History of 20th ­Century Rus­sia], 3 volumes (Moscow: Eksmo, 2017). 68. Andrei Zubov, “Andrei Zubov o termine ‘sovetsko-­natsistskaia voina,’ ” LiveJournal (blog), May 12, 2010, http://­russia​-­xx​.­livejournal​.­com​/­92043​.­html. 69. “Sem´ glavnykh mifov o voine: S kommentariiami istorikov,” Insider, May 8, 2015, http://­theins​.­ru​/­history​/­7421. 70. Al´bert Naryshkin, “Professor Zubov kak ideolog novoi vlasovshchiny,” Politicheskaia Rossiia, September 1, 2016, http://­politrussia​.­com​/­control​/­parnas​-­vedyet​-­k​-­652​/­. 71. Elena Rykovtseva, “ ‘Rzhev’ vzorval obshchestvennost´ tem, chto on strashno spekuliativen: Fil’m NTV kak pereklichka pisatelia Suvorova i zhurnalista Pivovarova,” Radio Svoboda, March 10, 2009, http://­www​.­svoboda​.­org​/­a​/­1507647​.­html. 72. “Prokuratura nachala proverku ‘Dozhdia’ posle oprosa o blokade Leningrada,” RIA Novosti, January 30, 2014, https://­ria​.­ru​/­society​/­20140130​/­992152684​.­html. 73. Grigorii Shugaev, “Radost´ ot razoblacheniia,” Russkaia planeta, July 31, 2015, http://­rusplt​.­ru​/­society​/­radost​-­ot​-­razoblacheniya​-­18169​.­html; Elena Rykovtseva, “Direktor Gosarkhiva RF Sergei Mironenko nazval podvig 28 panfilovtsev mifom,” Radio Azattyk, June 12, 2015, http://­rus​.­azattyk​.­org​/­a​/­27068326​.­html. 74. “Gosudarstvennyi arkhiv Rossii opublikoval document o t.n. podvige ‘geroev-­ panfilovtsev,’ ” Ekho Moskvy, July 9, 2015, http://­echo​.­msk​.­ru​/­blog​/­echomsk​/­1581508–echo​/­. 75. “Putin i Nazarbaev posmotreli fil´m ‘28 panfilovtsev,’ ” RBK, October 4, 2016, http://­ www​.­rbc​.­ru​/­rbcfreenews​/­57f3ba5d9a79474c3d056fc3. 76. “Kakie daty rossiiskoi istorii my schitaem vazhneishimi? I kakie—­znaem?” Fond obshchestvennogo mneniia, last modified December 28, 2014, http://­fom​.­ru​/­proshloe​ /­11896. 77. A. S. Petrova, “22 iiunia—­nachalo voiny,” Fond obshchestvennogo mneniia, last modified June 26, 2002, http://­bd​.­fom​.­ru​/­report​/­map​/­of022202. 78. Boris Dubin, “ ‘Krovavaia’ voina i ‘velikaia’ pobeda,” Otechestvennye zapiski 20 (2004), http://­www​.­strana​-­oz​.­ru​/­2004​/­5​/­krovavaya​-­voyna​-­i​-­velikaya​-­pobeda. 79. Lev Gudkov, “Pobeda v voine: k sotsiologii odnogo natsional´nogo simvola,” in Lev Gudkov, Negativnaia identichnost´: Stati 1997–2002 gg. (Moscow: NLO, 2004), 39. 80. Lev Gudkov, “Struktura i kharakter natsional´noi identichnosti v Rossii,” in Gudkov, Negativnaia identichnost´, 135. 81. Gudkov, “Pobeda v voine,” 41. 82. “Velikaia otechestvennaia voina,” Levada Center, April 29, 2015, http://­www​.­levada​ .­ru​/­2015​/­04​/­29​/­velikaya​-­otechestvennaya​-­vojna​/­. 83. “Velikaia otechestvennaia voina.” 84. Levada-­Center, Ekspress, June 2002. 85. Data collected yearly by the Levada Center are available at “Omnibus,” http://­www​ .­levada​.­ru​/­en​/­methods​/­omnibus/ by key word search. 86. The survey’s raw data are available from the author upon request. 87. It is worth noting that both in the surveys and in the focus groups, Pinochet’s Chile is mentioned relatively regularly, prob­ably as a legacy of Soviet times. 88. The survey’s raw data are available from the author upon request. 89. Ivan Zassoursky, Media and Power in Post-­Soviet Rus­sia (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 2004), 136–137. 90. See VTsIOM, “Stirlitz—­navsegda?” VTsIOM, no. 4083, October 21, 2019, https://­ wciom​.­ru​/­index​.­php​?­id​=­236&uid​=9­ 953. 91. Nikolay Koposov, “ ‘The Armored Train of Memory’: The Politics of History in Post-­ Soviet Rus­sia,” Perspectives on History, January 2011, 23–26, https://­www​.­historians​.­org​

182 NOTES TO PAGES 61–65

/­publications​-­and​-­directories​/­perspectives​-­on​-­history​/­january​-­2011​/­the​-­armored​-­train​ -­of​-­memory​-­the​-­politics​-­of​-­history​-­in​-­post​-­soviet​-­russia. 92. Respectively S. A. Tiushkevich, “Mogushchii istochnik patriotizma,” in Patriotizm—­ odin iz reshaiushchikh faktorov bezopasnosti rossiiskogo gosudarstva (Moscow: Rus­sian Acad­emy of Sciences Institute of History, Ekonomicheskaia literatura, 2006), 280; and V. A. Zolotarev, “Slovo k chitateliam,” in Patriotizm—­dukhovnyi sterzhen’ narodov Rossii (Moscow: Rus­sian Acad­emy of Sciences Institute of History, Ekonomicheskaia literatura, 2006), 9. 4. INTERNATIONAL MEMORY WARS

1. Vladimir Putin, “Speech by the President of Rus­sia at a Formal Reception Dedicated to the Sixtieth Anniversary of Victory,” Kremlin.ru, http://­en​.­kremlin​.­ru​/­events​/­president​ /­transcripts​/­22960. 2. Richard Holbrooke, “The End of the Romance,” Washington Post, February 16, 2005. 3. ­Here, I define Central Eu­rope as the countries that ­were ­under Soviet influence during the Cold War, and Eastern Eu­rope as ­those countries which ­were part of the Soviet Union—­the Baltic states, Ukraine, and Moldova. I consider Rus­sia part of Eastern Eu­rope in many re­spects but explic­itly differentiate it from its neighbors. 4. Maria Mälksoo, “The Memory Politics of Becoming Eu­ro­pe­an: The East Eu­ro­pean Subalterns and the Collective Memory of Eu­rope,” Eu­ro­pean Journal of International Relations 15, no. 4 (2009): 653. 5. Timothy Snyder, “The Historical Real­ity of Eastern Eu­rope,” East Eu­ro­pean Politics and Socie­ties 23, no. 1 (2009): 7–12. 6. Igor Torbakov, “History, Memory, and National Identity: Understanding the Politics of History and Memory Wars in Post-­Soviet Lands,” Demokratizatsiya 19, no. 3 (2011): 209–232. 7. Heike Karge, “Practices and Politics of Second World War Remembrance: (Trans) National Perspectives from Eastern and South-­Eastern Eu­rope,” in A Eu­ro­pean Memory? Contested Histories and Politics of Remembrance, ed. Malgorzara Pakier and Bo Strath (New York: Berghahn Books, 2010), 137–146. 8. Wilfried Jilge, “Zmahannia zhertv,” Krytyka 5 (2006): 14–17. 9. Jelena Subotić, Yellow Star, Red Star: Holocaust Remembrance ­after Communism (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2019). 10. Stefan Rohdewald, “Post-­Soviet Remembrance of the Holocaust and National Memories of the Second World War in Rus­sia, Ukraine and Lithuania,” Forum for Modern Language Studies 44, no. 2 (April 2008): 173–184; Maria Mälksoo, “Nesting Orientalisms at War: Second World War and the ‘Memory War’ in Eastern Eu­rope,” in Orientalism and War, ed. Tarak Barkawi and Keith Stanski (New York: Columbia University Press, 2013), 177–195. For a general overview by a Rus­sian historian, see Gennadii Bordiugov, Voina pamiati na postsovetskom prostranstve (Moscow: AIRO-­XXI, 2010). 11. Roman David, “Lustration Laws in Action: The Motives and Evaluation of Lustration Policy in Czech Republic and Poland (1989–2001),” Law & Social Inquiry 28, no. 2 (2003): 387–439. 12. See, among many o ­ thers, Gabrielle Hogan-­Brun and Sue Wright, “Language, Nation and Citizenship: Contrast, Conflict and Convergence in Estonia’s Debate with the International Community,” Nationalities Papers: Journal of Nationalism and Ethnicity 41, no. 2 (2013): 240–258. 13. Eva-­Clarita Onken, “The Baltic States and Moscow’s 9 May Commemoration: Analysing Memory Politics in Eu­rope,” Europe-­Asia Studies 59, no. 1 (2007): 23–46. 14. Petru Clej, “Romania Exposes Communist Crimes,” BBC, December 18, 2006, http://­news​.­bbc​.­co​.­uk​/­2​/­hi​/­europe​/­6190931​.­stm.

NOTES TO PAGES 65–66

183

15. “Moldovan Leader: Court Ruling Against ‘Soviet Occupation Day’ Was Po­liti­cal,” Radio ­Free Eu­rope/Radio Liberty, July 12, 2010, http://­www​.­rferl​.­org​/­a​/­Moldovan​_­Leader​ _­Court​_­Ruling​_­Against​_­Soviet​_­Occupation​_­Day​_­Was​_­Political​/­2097994​.­html. 16. Vasili Rukhadze, “Reinterpretations of Soviet History in Georgia and the Post-­Soviet Space: Never-­Ending ­Battle,” Eurasia Daily Monitor 9, no. 212 (November 2012), https://­ jamestown​.­org​/­program​/­reinterpretations​-­of​-­soviet​-­history​-­in​-­georgia​-­and​-­the​-­post​ -­soviet​-­space​-­never​-­ending​-­battle​/­#sthash​.­UXWEtSwH​.­dpuf. 17. Website of the Museum of the Occupation of Latvia, http://­okupacijasmuzejs​.­lv​/­en. On the Latvian case, see Eva-­Clarita Onken, “Ot istorii osvobozhdeniia k istorii okkupatsii: Vospriatie Vtoroi mirovoi voiny i pamiat´ o nee v Latvii posle 1945 goda,” in Pamiat´ o voine 60 let spustia: Rossiia, Germaniia, Evropa, ed. Mikhail Gabowitsch (Moscow: Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie, 2005), 436–451. 18. House of Terror, http://­www​.­terrorhaza​.­hu​/­en. 19. Museum of Occupations, http://­www​.­okupatsioon​.­ee​/­index​.­php​/­et. 20. “Museum of Soviet Occupation: History,” Georgian National Museum, http://­ museum​.­ge​/­index​.­php​?­lang​_­id​=E ­ NG&sec​_­id​=­53. 21. For more details, see Eva-­Clarita Pettai and Vello Pettai, Transitional and Retrospective Justice in the Baltic States (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015); Eva-­ Clarita Pettai, “Negotiating History for Reconciliation: A Comparative Evaluation of the Baltic Presidential Commissions,” Europe-­Asia Studies 67, no. 7 (2015): 1079–1101; and Lauri Mälksoo. “Soviet Genocide? Communist Mass Deportations in the Baltic States and International Law,” Leiden Journal of International Law 14 (2001): 757–787. 22. Estonian State Commission on Examination of the Policies of Repression, The White Book: Losses Inflicted on the Estonian Nation by Occupation Regimes, 1940–1991 (Tallinn: Estonian Encyclopaedia Publishers, 2005), http://­www​.­riigikogu​.­ee​/­wpcms​/­wp​-­ content/ uploads/2015/02/TheWhiteBook.pdf. 23. Karsten Brüggemann and Andres Kasekamp, “The Politics of History and the ‘War of Monuments’ in Estonia,” Nationalities Papers: Journal of Nationalism and Ethnicity 36, no. 3 (2008): 425–448; Heiko Pääbo, “War of Memories: Explaining ‘Memorials War’ in Estonia,” Baltic Security & Defence Review 10 (2008): 5–28; and Marko Lehti, Matti Jutila, and Markku Jokisipilä, “Never-­Ending Second World War: Public Per­for­mance of National Dignity and the Drama of the Bronze Soldier,” Journal of Baltic Studies 39, no. 4 (2008): 393–418. 24. Maria Mälksoo, “Liminality and Contested Eu­ro­pe­anness: Conflicting Memory Politics in the Baltic Space,” in Identity and Foreign Policy: Baltic-­Russian Relations in the Context of Eu­ro­pean Integration, ed. Eiki Berg and Piret Ehin (Aldershot: Routledge, 2013), 65–83. On cyberattacks, see Lene Hansen and Helen Nissenbaum, “Digital Disaster, Cyber Security, and the Copenhagen School,” International Studies Quarterly 53 (2009): 1155–1175. 25. See Olga Andriewsky, “­Towards a Decentred History: The Study of the Holodomor and Ukrainian Historiography,” East/West: Journal of Ukrainian Studies 2, no. 1 (2015): 18–52. For more details, see Robert Davies and Stephen Wheatcroft, The Years of Hunger: Soviet Agriculture, 1931–1933 (Houndmills, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004); Robert Davies and Stephen Wheatcroft, “Stalin and the Soviet Famine of 1932–33: A Reply to Ellman,” Europe-­Asia Studies 58, no. 4 (2006): 625–633; Michael Ellman, “Stalin and the Soviet Famine of 1932–33 Revisited,” Europe-­Asia Studies 59, no. 4 (2007): 663–693; Michael Ellman, “The Role of Leadership Perceptions and of Intent in the Soviet Famine of 1931–1934,” Europe-­Asia Studies 57, no. 6 (2005): 823–841; Hiroaki Kuromiya, “The Soviet Famine of 1932–1933 Reconsidered,” Europe-­Asia Studies 60, no. 4 (2008): 663–675; and Mark Tauger, “The 1932 Harvest and the Famine of 1933,” Slavic Review 50, no. 1 (1990): 70–89. For a review of the historiography, see David Marples, “Ethnic Issues in the Famine of 1932–1933 in Ukraine,” Europe-­Asia Studies 61, no. 3 (2009): 505–518.

184 NOTES TO PAGES 67–68

26. Timothy Snyder, Bloodlands: Eu­rope Between Hitler and Stalin (New York: Basic Books, 2010); Robert Conquest, The Harvest of Sorrow (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986); Anne Applebaum, Red Famine: Stalin’s War on Ukraine (New York: Penguin Random House, 2017); and Raphael Lemkin, “Soviet Genocide in the Ukraine,” in Holodomor: Reflections on the ­Great Famine of 1932–1933 in Soviet Ukraine, ed. Lubomyr Luciuk and Lisa Grekul (Kingston, Canada: Kashtan Press, 2008) (originally published in 1953), http://­uccla​ .­ca​/­SOVIET​_­GENOCIDE​_­IN​_­THE​_­UKRAINE​.­pdf. See also Commission on the Ukraine Famine (James Mace, staff director), “Investigation of the Ukrainian Famine 1932–1933,” April 22, 1988, https://­babel​.­hathitrust​.­org​/­cgi​/­pt​?­id​=u ­ mn​.­31951d00831044s;view​=­1up;seq​ =­1. See, for example, Andriewsky, “­Towards a Decentred History.” 27. Jan Maksyiuk, “Ukraine: Parliament Recognizes Soviet-­Era Famine as Genocide,” RFE/RL, November 29, 2006, http://­www​.­rferl​.­org​/­a​/­1073094​.­html. 28. Aleksei Miller, “Rossiia: vlast’ i istoriia,” Pro et Contra, May-­August 2009, 6–23, http://­carnegieendowment​.­org​/­files​/­ProEtContra​_­3​.­2009​_­all​_­screen​.­pdf. 29. “President Proposes Holodomor Bill,” UNIAN, March 29, 2007, http://­www​.­unian​ .­info​/­society​/­39369–president​-­proposes​-­holodomor​-­bill​.­html. 30. Tatiana Zhurzhenko, “Commemorating the Famine as Genocide: The Contested Meanings of Holodomor Memorials in Ukraine,” in Memorials of Mass Vio­lence and Transitional Justice, ed. Susanne Buckley-­Zistel and Stefanie Schäfer (Mortsel, Belgium and Cambridge: Intersentia, 2013), 221–242. 31. “Yanukovych Reverses Ukraine’s Position on Holodomor Famine,” Sputnik, April 27, 2010, https://­sputniknews​.­com​/­world​/­20100427158772431​/­. 32. Georgii Kas´ianov, “Golodomor i stroitel´stvo natsii,” Pro et Contra (May–­ August 2009): 24–42, http://­carnegieendowment​.­org​/­files​/­ProEtContra​_­3​.­2009​_­all​_­screen​ .­pdf. 33. For example, John-­Paul Himka and Joanna Beata Michlic, eds., Bringing the Dark Past to Light: The Reception of the Holocaust in Postcommunist Eu­rope (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2013); Zvi Gitelman, ­Bitter Legacy: Confronting the Holocaust in the USSR (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1998); William Korey, “Down History’s Memory Hole: Soviet Treatment of the Holocaust,” in Con­temporary Views of the Holocaust, ed. Randolph Braham (Boston: Kluwer-­Nijhoff, 1983), 145–156; and Michael Steinlauf, Bondage to the Dead: Poland and the Memory of the Holocaust (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 1997). 34. Michael Shafir, Between Denial and “Comparative Trivialization”: Holocaust Negationism in Post-­Communist East Central Eu­rope (Jerusalem: Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2002); Nadya Nedelsky, “The Strug­gle for the Memory of the Nation: Post-­Communist Slovakia and Its Second World War Past,” ­Human Rights Quarterly 38, no. 4 (2016): 969–992; and Himka and Michlic, Bringing the Dark Past to Light. 35. Volha Charnysh and Evgeny Finkel, “Rewriting History in Eastern Eu­rope: Poland’s New Holocaust Law and the Politics of the Past,” Foreign Affairs, February 14, 2018. 36. “Vlasti Estonii reshili oplatit´ pamyatnik fashistam,” RBK, November 10, 2005, http://­www​.­rbc​.­ru​/­society​/­10​/­11​/­2005​/­5703c5349a7947dde8e0d1ad. 37. “Estonia Allows Burial of Former Nazi Soldier,” UPI, January 11, 2014, http://­www​ .­upi​.­com​/­Top​_­News​/­World​-­News​/­2014​/­01​/­11​/­Estonia​-­allows​-­burial​-­of​-­former​-­Nazi​ -­soldier​/­UPI​-­92641389463793​/­. 38. Ian Traynor, “Patriots or Nazi Collaborators? Latvians March to Commemorate SS Veterans,” The Guardian, March 16, 2010; and Tony Paterson, “Thousands Pay Tribute to Latvia’s Fallen Nazi Troops,” The In­de­pen­dent, March 17, 2010, http://­www​.­independent​ .­co​.­uk​/­news​/­world​/­europe​/­thousands​-­pay​-­tribute​-­to​-­latvias​-­fallen​-­nazi​-­troops​-­1922388​ .­html. See also the Eu­ro­pean Commission against Racism and Intolerance, “Report on Lat-

NOTES TO PAGES 68–70

185

via (fourth monitoring cycle),” December 9, 2011, http://­www​.­coe​.­int​/­t​/­dghl​/­monitoring​ /­ecri​/­Country​-­by​-­country​/­Latvia​/­LVA​-­CbC​-­IV​-­2012​-­003–ENG​.­pdf. 39. Wilfried Jilge, “Competing Victimhoods: Post-­Soviet Ukrainian Narratives on Second World War.” In Shared History—­Divided Memory: Jews and ­Others in Soviet Occupied Poland, 1939–1941, ed. Elazar Barkan, Elizabeth Cole, and Kai Struve (Leipzig: Leipziger Universitätsverlag, 2008), 103–131. 40. Timothy Snyder, “A Fascist Hero in Demo­cratic Kiev,” New York Review Daily, February 24, 2010, http://­www​.­nybooks​.­com​/­daily​/­2010​/­02​/­24​/­a​-­fascist​-­hero​-­in​-­democratic​ -­kiev​/­. 41. Snyder, “Fascist Hero.” 42. Lily Hyde, “Ukraine to Rewrite Soviet History with Controversial ‘Decommunisation’ Laws,” The Guardian, April 20, 2015. 43. “The Majority of Ukrainians Demonstrate Lack of Trust t­ owards the Government, Decommunization Reform and Media,” Lviv Media Forum, October 6, 2015, http://­ lvivmediaforum​.­com​/­en​/­news​/b ­ ilshist​-­ukrajintsiv​-­uperedzheni​-­do​-v­ lady​-­deko​munizatsiji​-­ta​-­zmi​/­. 44. See Georgii Kas’ianov’s comments on Aksin´ia Kurina, “Istorik Georgii Kas´ianov: Sposobi zdiisnenniia dekomunizatsii nagaduiut´ komunistichni praktiki,” Ukrains´ka pravda, May 7, 2017, http://­life​.­pravda​.­com​.­ua​/­society​/­2016​/­05​/­7​/­211912​/­. 45. Eu­ro­pean Commission for Democracy through Law (Venice Commission), OSCE Office for Demo­cratic Institutions And ­Human Rights (OSCE/ODIHR) Joint Interim Opinion on the Law of Ukraine, On the Condemnation of The Communist And National Socialist (Nazi) Regimes and Prohibition of Propaganda of their Symbols, ­adopted by the Venice Commission at its 105th Plenary Session, 2015, https://­www​.­venice​.­coe​.­int​/­webforms​ /­documents​/­default​.­aspx​?­pdffile​=C ­ DL​-­AD(2015)041​-­e. 46. “Kiev ne priznal simvoliku SS Galichiny natsistskoi,” Korrespondent, May 18, 2017, http://­korrespondent​.­net​/­ukraine​/­3853155–kyev​-­ne​-­pryznal​-­symvolyku​-­ss​-­halychyny​ -­natsystskoi. 47. Josh Cohen, “The Historian Whitewashing Ukraine’s Past,” Foreign Policy, May 2, 2016, http://­foreignpolicy​.­com​/­2016​/­05​/­02​/­the​-­historian​-­whitewashing​-­ukraines​-­past​ -­volodymyr​-­v iatrovych​/­. 48. Veronika Melkozerova, “Ukrainian Jewish Leaders Challenge Report on Rising Antisemitism,” Kyiv Post, January 29, 2018, https://­www​.­kyivpost​.­com​/­lifestyle​/­people​ /­journalism-​ ­of​-­tolerance​/­ukrainian-​ ­jewish​-­leaders-​ ­challenge​-­report​-­rising-​ ­antisemitism​ .­html​?­cn​-­reloaded​=1­ ; Volodymyr Ishchenko, “Nationalist Radicalization Trends in Post-­ Euromaidan Ukraine,” PONARS Eurasia Policy Memo no. 529 (May 2018), http://­www​ .­ponarseurasia​.­org​/­memo​/­nationalist​-­radicalization​-­trends​-­post​-­euromaidan​-­ukraine. 49. Maria Mälksoo, “Criminalizing Communism: Transnational Mnemopolitics in Eu­ rope,” International Po­liti­cal Sociology 8, no. 1 (2014): 82–99; and Laure Neumayer and Georges Mink, History, Memory and Politics in Central and Eastern Eu­rope: Memory Games (Houndmills, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013). 50. “Need for International Condemnation of Crimes of Totalitarian Communist Regimes,” Council of Eu­rope Parliamentary Assembly, January 25, 2006, http://­assembly​.­coe​ .­int​/­nw​/­xml​/­XRef​/­Xref​-­XML2HTML​-­en​.­asp​?­fileid​=­17403&lang​=­en. 51. “Proclamation of 23 August as Eu­ro­pean Day of Remembrance for Victims of Stalinism and Nazism,” Eu­ro­pean Parliament, 23 September 2008, http://­www​.­europarl​ .­europa​.­eu​/­sides​/­getDoc​.­do​?­type​=T ­ A&reference​=­P6–TA​-­2008–0439&language​=­EN. 52. “Resolution on Eu­ro­pean Conscience and Totalitarianism,” Eu­ro­pean Parliament, April 2, 2009, http://­www​.­europarl​.­europa​.­eu​/­sides​/­getDoc​.­do​?­pubRef​=​-­ ­//­EP//­TEXT​ +TA+P6​–TA​-­2009–0213+0+DOC+XML+V0//­EN.

186 NOTES TO PAGES 71–74

53. Compare, for example, “23 August—­European Day of Remembrance for Victims of Totalitarian Regimes,” Eu­ro­pean Network “Remembrance and Solidarity,” http://­www​ .­enrs​.­eu​/­en​/­august23​/­864–23–august​-­european​-­day​-­of​-­remembrance​-­for​-­v ictims​-­of​ -­stalinism​-­and​-­nazism; and “23 August—­The Eu­ro­pean Day of Remembrance for Victims of Stalinism and Nazism,” Embassy of the Republic of Lithuania to the Republic of Poland, https://­de​.­mfa​.­lt​/­pl​/­en​/­news​/­23–augustthe​-­european​-­day​-­of​-­remembrance​-for-victims​-­of​ -­stalinism​-­and​-­nazism. 54. Eu­ro­pean Parliament, “Resolution on Eu­ro­pean Conscience.” 55. Eu­ro­pean Parliament, “Resolution on Eu­ro­pean Conscience.” 56. Platform of Eu­ro­pean Memory and Conscience, http://­www​.­memoryandconscience​ .­eu​/­. 57. “Vilnius Declaration,” OSCE Parliamentary Assembly, July 3, 2009, https://­www​ .­oscepa​.­org​/­documents​/­all​-­documents​/­annual​-­sessions​/­2009–vilnius​/­declaration​-­6​/­261​ -­2009–vilnius​-­declaration​-­eng​/­file. 58. “Resolution on Stalin Riles Rus­sia,” BBC, July 3, 2009, http://­news​.­bbc​.­co​.­uk​/­2​/­hi​ /­europe​/­8133749​.­stm. 59. “Eu­ro­pean Parliament Resolution on the Importance of Eu­ro­pean Remembrance for the F ­ uture of Eu­rope,” Eu­ro­pean Parliament, September 9, 2019, https://­www​.­europarl​ .­europa​.­eu​/­doceo​/­document​/­RC​-­9–2019–0097​_­EN​.­html. 60. Maria Mälksoo, “Kononov v. Latvia as the Ontological Security Strug­gle over Remembering the Second World War,” in Law and Memory: Addressing Historical Injustice by Legislation and T ­ rials, ed. Uladzislau Belavusau and Aleksandra Gliszczynska-­Grabias (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), 91–108. 61. William Schabas, “Kononov War Crimes Judgment Issued by Eu­ro­pean Court of ­Human Rights ­Grand Chamber,” PhD Studies in H ­ uman Rights (blog), May 27, 2010, http://­humanrightsdoctorate​.­blogspot​.­com​/­2010​/­05​/­kononov​-­war​-­crimes​-­judgment​ -­issued​-­by​.­html. 62. “Rogozin: prakh voinov v Talline dolzhen vyzvolit´ rossiiskii spetsnaz,” Kavkazskii uzel, April 19, 2007, http://­www​.­kavkaz​-­uzel​.­eu​/­articles​/­112246. 63. Dmitri Medvedev, “Vystuplenie na soveshchanii s poslami i postoiannymi predstaviteliami Rossiiskoi Federatsii pri mezhdunarodnykh organizatsiiakh,” Kremlin.ru, June 15, 2008, http://­kremlin​.­ru​/­events​/­president​/­transcripts​/­787. 64. Francine Hirsch, “The Soviets at Nuremberg: International Law, Propaganda, and the Making of the Postwar Order,” American Historical Review 113, no. 3 (2008): 701–730. 65. See the Rus­sian viewpoint in “Remarks by Rus­sian Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs Aleksandr Yakovenko at Press Conference at Interfax News Agency, Moscow,” September 19, 2008, http://­www​.­mid​.­ru​/­en​_­GB​/­organs​/­​-­​/­asset​_­publisher​/­AfvTBPbEYay2​ /­content​/­id​/­324458. 66. Konstantin Kosachev, “Sovetskaia li Rossiia?” Ekho Moskvy, June 29, 2010, http://­ echo​.­msk​.­ru​/­blog​/­kosachev​/­691501​-­echo​.­html. See also Maria Mälksoo, “In Search of a Modern Mnemonic Narrative of Communism: Rus­sia’s Mnemopo­liti­cal Mimesis during the Medvedev Presidency.” Journal of Soviet and Post-­Soviet Politics and Society 1, no. 2 (2015): 317–339. 67. “Rus­sia Wants ECHR to Avoid Politicized Decisions,” Voice of Rus­sia, September 9, 2010, https://­sputniknews​.­com​/­voiceofrussia​/­2010​/­09​/­09​/­19483307​.­html. 68. See, for instance, John Laughland, “International Tribunals as a Tool of Policy,” Institut de la Démocratie et de la Coopération, November 16, 2011, http://­www​.­idc​-­europe​ .­org​/­en​/­Book​-­launch​-­on​-­Vassiliy​-­Kononov. 69. Sergey Lavrov, “Uroki velikoi Pobedy,” Diplomat, May 2005, http://­www​.­mid​.­ru​ /­p ress​ _­s ervice​ /­m inister​ _­s peeches​ /­​ -­​ /­a sset​ _­publisher​ /­7 OvQR5KJWVmR​ /­c ontent​ /­i d​ /­441036.

NOTES TO PAGES 74–79

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70. Nikolay Kolosov, “Istoriia i pravosudie. Kak istoricheskaia politika pytaetsia prikryt’sia Niurnbergom,” Polit.ru, April 26, 2010, http://­www​.­polit​.­ru​/­institutes​/­2010​/­04​ /­26​/­koposov​.­html. 71. Nikolay Kolosov, “The Debate in Rus­sia over the ‘History’ Laws,” Liberté pour l’histoire, July 5, 2009, http://­www​.­lph​-­asso​.­fr​/­index​.­php​?­option​=­com​_­content&view​ =­article&id​=­73 percent3Ale​-­debat​-­russe​-­sur​-­les​-­lois​-­memorielles&catid​=­31 percent3Ados​ sier​-­russie&Itemid​=­78&lang​=­en; and Nikolay Kolosov, “Does Rus­sia Need a Memory Law?” Open Democracy, June 16, 2010, http://­www​.­opendemocracy​.­net​/­od​-­russia​/­nikolai​-­koposov​ /­does​-­russia​-­need​-­memory​-­law. 72. “Shoigu predlozhil vvesti ugolovnoe nakazanie za otritsanie pobedy v VOV,” RIA Novosti, February 24, 2009, https://­ria​.­ru​/­politics​/­20090224​/­163016713​.­html. 73. Sergei Kovalev, “Vymysly i falsifikatsii v otsenkakh roli SSSR nakanune i s nachalom vtoroi mirovoi voiny,” Vzgliad, June 4, 2009, http://­vz​.­ru​/­information​/­2009​/­6​/­4​ /­294019​.­html. 74. Decree No. 549 “O Komissii pri Prezidente Rossiiskoi Federatsii po protivodeistviiu popytkam fal’sifikatsii istorii v ushcherb interesam Rossii,” Rossiiskaia gazeta, May 15, 2009, https://­rg​.­ru​/­2009​/­05​/­20​/­komissia​-­dok​.­html. 75. Mikhail Zakharov, “Kommissia protiv istorii,” Polit.ru, May 19, 2009, http://­www​ .­polit​.­ru​/­country​/­2009​/­05​/­19​/­history​.­html. 76. “Komissiia protiv fal´sifikatsii istorii obeshchaet ne perepisyvat´ knigi i ne uchit´ uchenykh,” Newsru​.­com, June 17, 2009, http://­www​.­newsru​.­com​/­russia​/­17jun2009​/­history​ .­html. 77. Iuliia Kantor, “Bez fal´sifikatsii,” Moskovskie novosti, March 19, 2012, http://­www​ .­mn​.­ru​/­society​/­history​/­79310. 78. Sergei Golubev, “354.1 ishchut sebe opravdaniia,” Mediazona, May 15, 2015, https://­ zona​.­media​/­article​/­2015​/­15​/­05​/­codex​-­354–1. 79. Ivan Kurilla, “The Implications of Rus­sia’s Law against the ‘Rehabilitation of Nazism,’ ” PONARS Eurasia Policy Memo no. 331 (August 2014), http://­www​.­ponarseurasia​ .­org​/­memo​/­201408​_­Kurilla. 80. “Vozbuzhdeno ugolovnoe delo po knigam izdatel´stva ‘Algoritm,’ ” ProBooks.ru, September 30, 2013, http://­pro​-­books​.­ru​/­news​/­3​/­13524. 81. “V. Putin nazval pakt Molotova-­Ribbentropa amoral´nym,” RBK, August 31, 2009, http://­www​.­rbc​.­ru​/­politics​/­31​/­08​/­2009​/­5703d6099a7947733180ab16. 82. Vladimir Putin, “Vstrecha s molodymi uchenymi i prepodavateliami istorii,” Kremlin.ru, November 5, 2014, http://­www​.­kremlin​.­ru​/­events​/­president​/­news​/­46951. 83. “Putin nazval pakt Molotova-­Ribbentropa vazhnym dlia obespecheniia bezopasnosti SSSR,” Meduza.io, May 10, 2015, https://­meduza​.­io​/­news​/­2015​/­05​/­10​/­putin​-­nazval​ -­pakt​-­molotova​-­ribbentropa​-­vazhnym​-­dlya​-­obespecheniya​-­bezopasnosti​-­sssr. 84. “Putin schitaet temu pakta 1939 goda zakrytoi,” BBC Rus­sian, May 10, 2005, http://­ news​.­bbc​.­co​.­uk​/­hi​/­russian​/­russia​/­newsid​_­4534000​/­4534777​.­stm. 85. Michael Birnbaum, “In Tense Confrontation with Rus­sia, a B ­ attle over History Suggests Cold War Never Ended,” Washington Post, July 3, 2016. 86. “What Changes will be in the Constitution of the Russian Federation?” State Duma, March 12, 2020, http://duma.gov.ru/en/news/48039/. 87. Maria Lipman, “Putin’s Nation-­Building Proj­ect Offers Reconciliation without Truth,” Open Democracy, April 12, 2017, https://­www​.­opendemocracy​.­net​/­od​-­russia​/­maria​ -­lipman​/­putins​-­nation​-­building​-­project​-­reconciliation​-­without​-­truth. 88. The survey’s raw data are available from the author upon request. 89. Vladimir Putin, “Obrashchenie Prezidenta Rossiiskoi Federatsii,” Kremlin.ru, March 18, 2014, http://­kremlin​.­ru​/­events​/­president​/­news​/­20603. 90. Putin, “Obrashchenie Prezidenta.”

188 NOTES TO PAGES 79–81

91. “Kiev khochet arestovat´ Zhirinovskogo, Ziuganova i Mironova,” Komsomol´skaia pravda, August 24, 2016, https://­www​.­kp​.­ru​/­daily​/­26260​/­3139337. 92. “V GD otvetili na obvineniia RF v razviazyvanii gibridnoi voiny protiv Ukrainy,” Regnum, May 30, 2017, https://­regnum​.­ru​/­news​/­polit​/­2281791​.­html. 93. “Zakon o liustratsii narushaet prava soten tysiach grazhdan na Ukraine—­A. Klishas,” Sovet Federatsii Rossiiskoi Federatsii, October 17, 2014, http://­www​.­council​.­gov​.­ru​ /­events​/­news​/­47452​/­. 94. Gennadii Ziuganov, “Bezdeistvie Rossii smertel´no opasno!” Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Rus­sian Federation, June 5, 2014, https://­kprf​.­ru​/­party​-­live​ /­cknews​/­131902​.­html. 95. See Christina Cottiero, Katherine Kucharski, Evgenia Olimpieva, and Robert Orttung, “War of Words: The Impact of Rus­sian State Tele­v i­sion on the Rus­sian Internet,” Nationalities Papers 43, no. 4 (2015): 533–555; Irina Khaldarova and Mervi Pantii, “Fake News: The Narrative B ­ attle over the Ukrainian Conflict,” Journalism Practice 10, no. 7 (2016): 891–901; and Julie Fedor, ed., “Rus­sian Media and the War in Donbas,” special issue, Journal of Post-­Soviet Politics and Society 1, no. 1 (2015). 96. Stephen Ennis, “How Rus­sian TV Uses Psy­chol­ogy over Ukraine,” BBC Monitoring, February 4, 2015, http://­web​.­archive​.­org​/­web​/­20170320054748​/­http://­www​.­bbc​.­co​.­uk​ /­monitoring​/­how​-­russian​-­tv​-­uses​-­psychology​-­over​-­ukraine; and “Rus­sian Information Campaign Against the Ukrainian State and Defence Forces,” NATO Strategic Communications Centre of Excellence, Estonian National Defence College, 2016, http://­www​.­ksk​.­edu​ .­ee​/­wp​-­content​/­uploads​/­2017​/­02​/­Report​_­infoops​_­08​.­02​.­2017​.­pdf. 97. Christian Esch, “ ‘Banderites’ vs. ‘New Rus­sia’: The Battlefield of History in the Ukraine Conflict,” R ­ euters Institute Fellowship Paper, University of Oxford, 2015. 98. It is worth mentioning that Ukraine’s Party of Regions was using the same terminology. See Alexandr Osipian, “Historical Myths, E ­ nemy Images, and Regional Identity in the Donbass Insurgency (Spring 2014),” Journal of Post-­Soviet Politics and Society 1, no. 1 (2015): 109–140. 99. Taras Kuzio, “Soviet and Rus­sian Anti-(Ukrainian) Nationalism and Re-­Stalinization,” Communist and Post-­Communist Studies 49, no. 1 (2016): 87–99. 100. Shaun Walker, “Kommunar, East Ukraine: ‘Nothing to Eat, Nothing to Do, No Point in Life,’ ” The Guardian, February 6, 2015. 101. Stephen Hutchings and Joanna Szostek, “Dominant Narratives in Rus­sian Po­liti­ cal and Media Discourse during the Ukraine Crisis,” in Ukraine and Rus­sia: P ­ eople, Politics, Propaganda and Perspectives, ed. Agnieszka Pikulicka-­Wilczewska and Richard Sakwa (Bristol, UK: E-­International Relations, 2015), 173–185. 102. Howard Amos, “Rus­sian Propaganda Feeds on Kiev’s Culture War,” Moscow Times, August 12, 2015, https://­themoscowtimes​.­com​/­articles​/­russian​-­propaganda​-­feeds​-­on​-­kievs​ -­culture​-­war​-­48911. 103. Simon Shuster, “Rus­sians Rewrite History to Slur Ukraine over War,” Time, October 29, 2014. 104. “Kyiv Ditches Separatist-­Linked Ribbon as WWII Symbol,” Radio F ­ ree Eu­rope/ Radio Liberty, May 6, 2014, http://­www​.­rferl​.­org​/­a​/­russia​-­ukraine​-­st​-­george​-­ribbon​-­wwii​ -­commemoration​/­25375013​.­html; and “Ukraina otkazalas´ ot georgievskoi lentochki kak simvola prazdnika 9 maia,” newsru​.­com, May 6, 2014, http://­www​.­newsru​.­com​/­world​ /­06may2014​/­9maycoloradoffukr​.­html. 105. Andrei Pozniakov, “Georgievskie lenty v kazhdyi dom?” Ekho Moskvy, May 6, 2015, http://­echo​.­msk​.­ru​/­blog​/­shoo​_­ash​/­1543526–echo. 106. “Pyton,” “Kak raspoznat´ korichnevuiu chumu,” Pyton (blog), April 10, 2014, http://­pyton​.­livejournal​.­com​/­81643​.­html; and Pål Kolstø, “Symbol of the War—­But Which

NOTES TO PAGES 81–87

189

One? The St. George Ribbon in Rus­sian Nation-­Building,” Slavonic and East Eu­ro­pean Review 94, no. 4 (October 2016): 660–701. 107. On that topic, see Ellen Rutten, Julie Fedor, and Vera Zvereva, eds., Memory, Conflict and New Media: Web Wars in Post-­Socialist States (London: Routledge, 2013), and Tea Sindbœk Andersen and Barbara Törnquist-­Plewa, eds., Disputed Memory: Emotions and Memory Politics in Central, Eastern and South-­Eastern Eu­rope (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2016). 108. Elizaveta Gaufman, “Fascism and the Ukrainian Crisis,” in Security Threats and Public Perception: Digital Rus­sia and the Ukraine Crisis, ed. Elizaveta Gaufman (New York: MacMillan, 2017), 109. See also another version: Elizaveta Gaufman, “Memory, Media and Securitization: Rus­sian Media Framing of the Ukrainian Crisis,” Journal of Post-­Soviet Politics and Society 1, no. 1 (2015): 140–173. 109. Elizaveta Gaufman, “Second World War 2.0: Digital Memory of Fascism in Rus­ sia in the Aftermath of Euromaidan in Ukraine,” Journal of Regional Security 10, no. 1 (2015): 17–36. 110. Gaufman, “Fascism and the Ukrainian Crisis.” 111. Gaufman, “Fascism and the Ukrainian Crisis,” 106. 112. Inge Melchior, “Forming a Common Eu­ro­pean Memory of WWII from a Peripheral Perspective: Anthropological Insight into the Strug­gle for Recognition of Estonians’ WWII Memories in Eu­rope,” in Andersen and Törnquist-­Plewa, Disputed Memory, 203–225. 113. Obviously, international cooperation between professional historians did not cease and some pointed out the way to fruitful dialogue between dif­fer­ent memories. See, for instance, a number of articles by Aleksei Miller and Georgii Kas´ianov: “Rossiia-­Ukraina: kak pishetsia istoriia,” Polit.ru, June 18, 2009, http://­polit​.­ru​/­article​/­2009​/­06​/­18​/­ukr; “Chast´ 1: Golodomor,” Polit.ru, March 10, 2009, http://­www​.­polit​.­ru​/­article​/­2009​/­03​/­10​/­golod​ omor; “Chast´ 2: Vtoraia mirovaia voina,” Polit.ru, April 2, 2009, http://­www​.­polit​.­ru​ /­article​/­2009​/­04​/­02​/­historia; “Chast´ 3: Ot Khmel´nitskogo do Mazepy,” Polit.ru, April 21, 2009, http://­www​.­polit​.­ru​/­article​/­2009​/­04​/­21​/­ukr; “Chast´ 4: Mezhdu Grazhdanskoi i Vtoroi Mirovoi,” Polit.ru, June 18, 2009, http://­www​.­polit​.­ru​/­article​/­2009​/­06​/­18​/­ukr; and “Chast´ 5: Pervaia Mirovaia,” Polit.ru, July 2, 2009, http://­www​.­polit​.­ru​/­article​/­2009​/­07​/­02​ /­worldwar. 114. Alexey Miller, “Clashing Memory Cultures in Rus­sia and Eu­rope. An Interview with Alexey Miller,” Point and Counterpoint, June 19, 2018, http://­www​.­ponarseurasia​.­org​ /­point​-­counter​/­clashing​-­memory​-­cultures​-­russia​-­and​-­europe​-­interview​-­alexey​-­miller. 115. See Tatiana Zhurzhenko, “The Geopolitics of Memory,” Eurozine, May 10, 2007, http://­www​.­eurozine​.­com​/­the​-­geopolitics​-­of​-­memory. 5. THE PUTIN REGIME’S IDEOLOGICAL PLURALITY

1. Karen Dawisha, Putin’s Kleptocracy: Who Owns Rus­sia? (New York: Simon and Schuster, 2004). 2. Charles Clover, Black Wind, White Snow: The Rise of Rus­sia’s New Nationalism (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2016); and Marcel H. van Herpen, Putin’s Wars: The Rise of Rus­sia’s New Imperialism (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 2014). 3. Samuel A. Greene and Graeme B. Robertson, Putin v. the P ­ eople: The Perilous Politics of a Divided Rus­sia (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2019). 4. Ivan Krastev, “V chem Zapad oshibaetsia naschet Rossii,” Rossiia v global´noi politike, August 16, 2015, http://­www​.­globalaffairs​.­ru​/­global​-­processes​/­V​-­chem​-­Zapad​-­oshibaetsya​ -­naschet​-­Rossii​-­17624. 5. Brian Taylor, The Code of Putinism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), 2. 6. Georgii Bovt, “Vladislav Surkov: A Pragmatic Idealism,” Rus­sian Politics and Law 46, no. 5 (2008): 33–40; and Richard Sakwa, “Rus­sian Po­liti­cal Culture through the Eyes of

190 NOTES TO PAGES 87–91

Vladislav Surkov: Guest Editor’s Introduction,” Rus­sian Politics and Law 46, no. 5 (2008): 3–7. 7. Boris Dubin, “Kharakter massovoi podderzhki nyneshnego rezhima,” Doklad na konferentsii Levada-­Tsentr “Sobytiia i tendentsii 2009 g. v obshchestvennom mnenii,” January 19, 2010, http://­emsu​.­ru​/­nmsu​/­2010​/­0224​_­levada​.­htm. 8. Stephen Hanson, “Instrumental Democracy: The End of Ideology and the Decline of Rus­sian Po­liti­cal Parties,” in Elections, Parties, and the ­Future of Rus­sia, ed. V. Hesli and W. Reisinger (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 163–185. 9. Neil Robinson, “Rus­sian Neo-­patrimonialism and Putin’s ‘Cultural Turn,’ ” Europe-­ Asia Studies 69, no. 2 (2017): 348–366. 10. Paul J. Goode, “Love for the Motherland,” Rus­sian Politics 1, no. 4 (2016): 418–449. 11. Maria Engström, “Con­temporary Rus­sian Messianism and New Rus­sian Foreign Policy,” Con­temporary Security Policy 35, no. 3 (2014): 356–379. 12. Iver Neuman, Rus­sia and the Idea of Eu­rope (London: Routledge, 2017). 13. See Robert Nisbet, Conservatism: Dream and Real­ity (London: Routledge, 2001). 14. Gulnaz Sharafutdinova, “Rus­sia’s Strug­gle over the Meaning of the 1990s and the Keys to Kremlin Power,” PONARS Eurasia Policy memo no. 592 (May 2019), http://­www​ .­ponarseurasia​ .­org​ /­memo​ /­russias​ -­struggle​ -­over​ -­meaning​ -­1990s​ -­and​ -­keys​ -­kremlin​ -­power. 15. See Stephen White, “Soviet Nostalgia and Rus­sian Politics,” Journal of Eurasian Studies 1, no. 1 (2010): 1–9; and Charles ­Sullivan, Motherland: Soviet Nostalgia in Post-­Soviet Rus­sia (PhD diss., George Washington University, 2014). 16. Julien Nocetti, “Contest and Conquest: Rus­sia and Global Internet Governance,” International Affairs 91, no. 1 (2015): 111–130. 17. Olga Romanova, “Between Internationalization and Uniqueness: Transformation of Foreign Policy Narratives in Rus­sia” (2014), DOI: 10.13140/RG.2.1.1084.7449; and Andrey Makarychev and Viatcheslav Morozov, “Multilateralism, Multipolarity, and Beyond: A Menu of Rus­sia’s Policy Strategies,” Global Governance 17, no.3 (2011): 353–373. 18. Vincent Jauvert, “Poutine et le FN: révélations sur les réseaux russes des Le Pen,” L’Obs, November 27, 2014, http://­tempsreel​.­nouvelobs​.­com​/­politique​/­20141024​.­OBS3131​ /­poutine​-­et​-­le​-­fn​-­revelations​-­sur​-­les​-­reseaux​-­russes​-­des​-­le​-­pen​.­html. 19. “Poslednii predsedatel´,” Lenta.ru, November 27, 2007, https://­lenta​.­ru​/­articles​/­2007​ /­11​/­27​/­kgb. 20. Sergei Lebedev, Russkie idei i russkoe delo: Natsional´no-­patrioticheskoe dvizhenie v Rossii v proshlom i nastoiashchem (St. Petersburg: Aleteiia, 2007), 350. 21. Timothy Thomas and Lester Grau. “A Military Biography: Rus­sian Minister of Defense General Igor Rodionov: In with the Old, In with the New,” Journal of Slavic Studies 9, no. 2 (1996): 443–452; Mark Galeotti, “Igor Rodionov, 1936–2014: Soldier, Scapegoat, Minister, Hard-­Liner and Reformer, All at Once,” In Moscow’s Shadows (blog), December 19, 2014, https://­inmoscowsshadows​.­wordpress​.­com​/­2014​/­12​/­19​/­igor​-­rodionov​ -­1936–2014–soldier​-­scapegoat​-­minister​-­hard​-­liner​-­and​-­reformer​-­all​-­at​-­once; and “Igor Rodionov,” Global Security, http://­www​.­globalsecurity​.­org​/­military​/­world​/­russia​/­rodionov​ .­htm. 22. John B. Dunlop, “Aleksandr Dugin’s Foundations of Geopolitics,” Demokratizatsiya 12, no. 1 (2004), http://­demokratizatsiya​.­pub​/­archives​/­Geopolitics​.­pdf. 23. The website of the Acad­emy of Geopo­liti­cal Issues, http://­ivashov​.­ru​/­, is almost bare of content. 24. On the history and positioning of Rodina, see Marlene Laruelle, In the Name of the Nation: Nationalism and Politics in Con­temporary Rus­sia (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009), 102–118.

NOTES TO PAGES 91–93

191

25. Luke March, The Communist Party in Post-­Soviet Rus­sia (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2002). 26. Andreas Umland, “Zhirinovsky’s Last Thrust to the South and the Definition of Fascism.” Rus­sian Politics and Law 46, no. 4 (2008): 31–46; and Andreas Umland, “Zhirinovsky before Politics: A Curriculum Vitae 1946–1989,” Journal of Slavic Military Studies 17, no. 3 (2004): 425–447. 27. “Krakh chetvertogo internatsionalizma,” Izvestiia, August 28, 1993, 10. For more, see William Korey, Rus­sian Antisemitism, Pamyat and the Demonology of Zionism (Chur: Harwood Academic Publishers for the Vidal Sassoon International Center for the Study of Antisemitism, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1995), 222. 28. Andreas Umland, “Zhirinovski in the First Rus­sian Republic: A Chronology of the Development of the Liberal-­Democratic Party of Rus­sia 1991–1993,” Journal of Slavic Military Studies 19, no. 2 (2006): 193–241. 29. Wayne Allensworth, The Rus­sian Question: Nationalism, Modernization, and Post-­ Communist Rus­sia (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 1998). 30. See, for instance, “Aleksei Zhuravlev i partiia Rodina podderzhivaiut Aleksandra Prokhanova,” Rodina, November 21, 2014, https://­bit​.­ly​/­3cZzzox. 31. Sergey Gogin, “Izborskii klub: Back in the USSR?” Ezhednevnyi zhurnal, January 9, 2013, http://­www​.­ej​.­ru​/­​?­a​=n ­ ote&id​=­12560#. 32. Marlene Laruelle, “The Izborsky Club, or the New Nationalist Avant-­Garde in Rus­ sia,” Rus­sian Review 75 (2016): 626–644. 33. “Rozhdenie Izborskogo kluba,” Izborskii klub: Russkie strategii 1 (2013): 6. 34. The icon is on the cover of Izborskii klub: Russkie strategii 4 (2015), and its story is told in pictures in the first several pages of that issue. 35. Aleksandr Prokhanov, “Misticheskii stalinizm,” Izborskii klub: Russkie strategii 4 (2015): 78–81. 36. Izborskii klub, Russkii povorot:ot ugrozy smuty k svobode i spravedlivost’, Dynacon.ru, 2013, http://­www​.­dynacon​.­ru​/­content​/­articles​/­1372​/­. 37. Maksim Kalashnikov, “Armiia monienosnogo razvitiia,” Izborskii klub: Russkie strategii 1 (2013): 84–87. 38. Heather Pringle, The Master Plan: Himmler’s Scholars and the Holocaust (New York: Hyperion, 2006). 39. Maksim Kalashnikov, “O russkom ‘Anenerbe,’ ” Izborskii klub: Russkie strategii 10 (2013): 94–103. 40. On Dugin’s borrowings from fascism and Nazism, see Andreas Umland, “Aleksandr Dugin’s Transformation from a Lunatic Fringe Figure into a Mainstream Po­liti­cal Publicist, 1980–1998: A Case Study in the Rise of Late and Post-­Soviet Rus­sian Fascism,” Journal of Eurasian Studies 1 (2010): 144–152; Anton Shekhovtsov, “The Palinge­ne­tic Thrust of Rus­sian Neo-­Eurasianism: Ideas of Rebirth in Aleksandr Dugin’s Worldview,” Totalitarian Movements and Po­liti­cal Religions 9, no. 4 (2008): 491–506; and Leonid Luks. “A ‘Third Way’—or Back to the Third Reich?” Rus­sian Politics and Law 47, no. 1 (2009): 7–23. 41. Marius Laurinavičius, “Dmitry Rogozin’s Clan: Visionaries and Executors ­behind Aggression ­towards Ukraine,” Delfi, August 19, 2014, http://­en​.­delfi​.­lt​/­central​-­eastern​ -­europe​/­dmitry​-­rogozins​-­clan​-­v isionaries​-­and​-­executors​-­behind​-­aggression​-­towards​ -­ukraine​.­d​?­id​=­65585356. 42. Viktor Shnirel´man, “Rasologiia v deistvii: mechty deputata Savel´eva,” in Verkhi i nizy russkogo natsionalizma, ed. Aleksandr Verkhovskii (Moscow: SOVA Center, 2007), 162–187. 43. Lev Krichevsky, “Rus­sian Prosecutors Probe Jewish Group,” Jewish Telegraphic Agency, June 23, 2005, https://­www​.­jta​.­org​/­2005​/­06​/­23​/­lifestyle​/­russian​-­prosecutors​-­probe​ -­jewish​-­group.

192 NOTES TO PAGES 94–96

44. Oleg Gastello and Fedor Volkov, “Soltevorot Egora Letova,” Zheleznyi marsh 19 (1997), http://­grob​-­hroniki​.­org​/­article​/­1997​/­art​_­1997–xx​-­xxb​.­html. 45. “Zapreshcheny pesni ideologa partii ‘Rodina,’ ” Novoe informatsionnoe agentstvo, May 25, 2015, http://­newia​.­info​/­25162. 46. Fedor Biriukov, “Prokhanov, eto—­Nestor noveishei istorii Rossii,” KRO-­Rodina, September 30, 2013, http://­kro​-­rodina​.­ru​/­all​-­news​/­981​-­fjodor​-­biryukov​-­prokhanov​-­eto​ -­nestor​-­novejshej​-­istorii​-­rossii. 47. “Manifest kluba ‘Sta­lin­grad,’ ” Sta­lin­grad: Sotsial´no-­patrioticheskii klub, http://­ www​.­stalingradclub​.­ru​/­about​/­manifest. 48. Fedor Biriukov, “Artika, eto sovremennaia Giperboreia, za nee budet bitva,” Rodina, April 23, 2015, http://­rodina​.­ru​/­novosti​/­Biryukov​-­Arktika​-­ehto​-­sovremennaya​ -­Giperboreya​-­za​-­neyo​-­budet​-­bitva. 49. Cécile Vaissié, Le clan Mikhalkov: Culture et pouvoirs en Russie (1917–2017) (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2019). 50. Kristina Stoeckl, “The Rus­sian Orthodox Church as Moral Norm Entrepreneur,” Religion, State and Society 44, no. 2 (2016): 123–151. 51. Aleksei Kovalev, “Desiat´ zapovedei Mizulinoi,” Ekho Moskvy, December 9, 2014, http://­echo​.­msk​.­ru​/­blog​/­yopolisnews​/­1452316–echo​/­. 52. Dmitrii Smirnov was born in 1951 into a f­ amily of priests and officers who had sided with the White Army. He entered the Sergiev Posad Monastery in 1978 and ­later joined the Moscow Spiritual Acad­emy. In 1980, he became the head of a small Moscow parish and grew in influence a­ fter 1991 as the Church began its rapid revival. Given his contacts with military circles, it is entirely pos­si­ble—­but difficult to document—­that he was recruited by the KGB, as many priests ­were during Soviet times. 53. For more, see Stoeckl, “Rus­sian Orthodox Church.” 54. Charles Clover, “Kto takoi arkhimandrit Tikhon (Shevkunov),” Vedomosti, January 29, 2013, https://­www​.­vedomosti​.­ru​/­library​/­articles​/­2013​/­01​/­29​/­putin​_­i​_­arhimandrit. 55. At the turn of the twenty-­first ­century, a movement opposing electronic barcodes— in which the Church saw the presence of the Antichrist in the world—­became so power­ ful within the Church that it began to threaten the unity of the institution. See Nikolai Mitrokhin. “Infrastruktura podderzhki pravoslavnoi eskhatologii v sovremennoi RPTs: Istoriia i sovremennost´,” in Russkii natsionalizm v politicheskom prostranstve, ed. Marlene Laruelle (Moscow: Franko-­rossiiskii tsentr gumantiarnykh i obshchestvennykh nauk, 2007), 200–254. 56. According to the Internet traffic tracker similarweb​.c­ om. See also Anastasia Mitrofanova, “Rus­sian Ethnic Nationalism and Religion ­Today,” in The New Rus­sian Nationalism: Imperialism, Ethnicity and Authoritarianism 2000–2015, ed. Pål Kolstø and Helge Blakkisrud (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2017), 104–131. 57. Aleksandr Verkhovskii, Politicheskoe pravoslavie: Russkie pravoslavnye natsionalisty i fundamentalisty, 1995–2001 (Moscow: SOVA Center, 2003); Mitrofanova, “Rus­sian Ethnic Nationalism.” 58. Verkhovskii, Politicheskoe pravoslavie; Aleksandr Verkhovskii, “Politizirovannaia pravoslavnaia obshchestvennost´ i ee mesto v russkom natsionalizme,” in Laruelle, Russkii natsionalizm, 180–199. 59. Marc Bennetts, “Eating Blueberry Muffins with Rus­sia’s Most Notorious Religious Radical,” Vocativ, March 19, 2014, http://­www​.­vocativ​.­com​/­world​/­russia​/­eating​-­blueberry​ -­muffins​-­russias​-­notorious​-­religious​-­radical​/­. 60. Boris Makarenko, “Postkrymskii politicheskii rezhim,” Pro et Contra 3–4 (2014). 61. Ozero is a cooperative created by the f­ uture president Vladimir Putin and his close associates to build a number of dachas in the St. Petersburg region. See Vladimir Pribylovskii, Kooperativ Ozero i drugie proekty Putina (Moscow: Algoritm, 2012).

NOTES TO PAGES 96–98

193

62. Vladimir Iakunin, Vardan Bagdasarian, and Stepan Sulakshin, Novye tekhnologii bor´by s rossiiskoi gosudarstvennost´iu (Moscow: Nauchnyi ekspert, 2013). 63. Dialogue of Civilizations Research Institute, https://­doc​-­research​.­org​/­en​/­. 64. For example, the former UNESCO director-­general Kōichirō Matsuura received the Dialogue of Civilizations International Prize of St. Andrew. See also Victor Yasmann, “Rus­ sia: Could Yakunin Be ‘First-­Called’ as Putin’s Successor?” Radio ­Free Eu­rope/Radio Liberty, June 21, 2006, https://­www​.­rferl​.­org​/­a​/­1069345​.­html. 65. See Endowment for St. Andrey the First Foundation, “The International Prize ‘For Faith and Loyalty,’ ” http://­www​.­st​-­andrew​-­foundation​.­org​/­programmes​/­historical_­memory​ _­of​_­generations​_­programme​/­. 66. Marshall Capital Partners was ­later accused of “raiding” its competitors. It had a 10 ­percent stake in Rostelecom (making it the largest minority shareholder u ­ ntil Malofeev sold a large proportion of its shares) and purchased some of the assets of the state mono­poly SvyazInvest. Malofeev was briefly a member of both companies’ boards of directors. In 2012, he entered the po­liti­cal realm, with the primary goal of being protected by parliamentary immunity, and was elected a member of Parliament for a small district in the Smolensk region. The most complete biography of Malofeev (in Rus­sian) is available at “Spravka: Malofeev Konstantin Valer´evich,” Komitet Narodnogo Kontrolia, http://­comnarcon​.­com​ /­444. In En­glish, see Ilya Arkhipov, Henry Meyer, and Irina Reznik, “Putin’s ‘Soros’ Dreams of Empire as Allies Wage Ukraine Revolt,” Bloomberg, June 15, 2014. See also Iuliia Latynina, “Kakaia sviaz´ mezhdu molokozavodami, pedofilami, ‘Rostelekomom’ i neudavshimsia senatorom Malofeevym,” Novaia gazeta, November 22, 2012, https://­www​.­novayagazeta​.­ru​ /­articles​/­2012​/­11​/­23​/­52462–kakaya​-­svyaz​-­mezhdu​-­molokozavodami​-­pedofilami​-­171​ -­rostelekomom​-­187–i​-­neudavshimsya​-­senatorom​-­malofeevym. 67. Oleg Sal´manov, “Kto spriatalsia v ‘Rostelekome,’ ” Vedomosti, December 17, 2012, http://­www​.­vedomosti​.­ru​/­newspaper​/­articles​/­2012​/­12​/­17​/­kto​_­spryatalsya​_­v​_­rostelekome; and Roman Shleinov, “Vysokie otnosheniia,” Vedomosti, March 18, 2013, http://­www​.­vedo​ mosti​.­ru​/­politics​/­articles​/­2013​/­03​/­18​/­vysokie​_­otnosheniya. 68. The original name was the Rus­sian Society of Philanthropy in Defense of Motherhood and Childhood. Malofeev also cofounded the Gymnasium of St. Basil the ­Great. See the Foundation’s website, http://­www​.­ruscharity​.­ru​/­. 69. Elizaveta Ser´gina and Petr Kozlov, “ ‘V sanktsionnye spiski vkliuchali po sovokupnosti zaslug—­Konstantin Malofeev, osnovatel´ ‘Marshal kapitala,’ ” Vedomosti, November 13, 2014, https://­www​.­vedomosti​.­ru​/­newspaper​/­articles​/­2014​/­11​/­13​/­v​-­sankcionnye​ -­spiski​-­vklyuchali​-­posovokupnosti​-­zaslug​?­. 70. Konstantin Malofeev, “Interv´iu—­Konstantin Malofeev, osnovatel´ ‘Marshal kapitala,’ ” Vedomosti, November 13, 2014, http://­www​.­vedomosti​.­ru​/­newspaper​/­articles​/­2014​ /­11​/­13​/­v​-­sankcionnye​-­spiski​-­vklyuchali​-­posovokupnosti​-­zaslug. 71. Sergei Chapnin, “Tsarskie ostanki: obratnyi otchet,” Colta, July 18, 2017, https://­ www​.­colta​.­ru​/­articles​/­media​/­15442​-­tsarskie​-­ostanki​-­obratnyy​-­otschet. 72. See the Russkii Lemnos Fund’s website, http://­ruslemnos​.­ru/ (accessed January 18, 2019). 73. Susan Larsen, “National Identity, Cultural Authority, and the Post-­Soviet Blockbuster: Nikita Mikhalkov and Aleksei Balabanov,” Slavic Review 62, no. 3 (2003): 491–511. 74. “ ‘Prezident’: Fil´m Vladimira Solov´eva,” YouTube video, 2:31:48, posted by “Rossiia 24,” April 26, 2015, https://­www​.­youtube​.­com​/­watch​?­v​=­HyNcbVuDJyA.

194 NOTES TO PAGES 101–104

6. RUS­S IA’S FASCIST THINKERS AND DOERS

1. This ­whole chapter summarizes research done over several years and developed in Marlene Laruelle, Rus­sian Nationalism: Imaginaries, Doctrines and Po­liti­cal Battlefields (London: Routledge, 2018). 2. Thomas Parland, The Extreme Nationalist Threat in Rus­sia: The Growing Influence of Western Rightist Ideas (London: Routledge–­Curzon, 2004); Viacheslav Likhachev and Vladimir Pribylovskii, eds., Russkoe Natsional´noe Edinstvo: Istoriia, politika, ideologiia (Moscow: Pa­norama, 1997); and Mikhail Sokolov, “Russkoe natsional´noe edinstvo: analiz politicheskogo stilia radikal´no-­natsionalisticheskoi organizatsii,” Politicheskoe issledovaniia POLIS 1 (2006): 67–77. 3. Emil Pain, “Sovremennyi russki natsionalizm v zerkale runeta,” in Rossiia—ne Ukraina: Sovremennye aspekty natsionalizma, ed. Aleksandr Verkhovskii (Moscow: SOVA Center, 2014), 13. 4. John B. Dunlop, “Aleksandr Barkashov and the Rise of National Socialism in Rus­ sia,” Demokratizatsiya 4, no. 4 (1996): 519–530; and Sven Gunnar Simonsen, “Aleksandr Barkashov and Rus­sian National Unity: Blackshirt Friends of the Nation,” Nationalities Papers 24, no. 4 (1996): 625–639. 5. Stephen D. Shenfield, Rus­sian Fascism: Traditions, Tendencies and Movements (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 2001), 121. 6. Sven Gunnar Simonsen, Politics and Personalities: Key Actors in the Rus­sian Opposition (Oslo: Peace Research Institute of Oslo, 1996), 38. 7. Shenfield, Rus­sian Fascism, 121. 8. Viktor Shnirel´man, “Chistil´shchiki moskovskikh ulits”: skinkhedy, SMI i obshchestvenno mnenie (Moscow: Academia, 2007), 89. 9. William Jackson, “Fascism, Vigilantism, and the State: The Rus­sian National Unity Movement,” Prob­lems of Post-­Communism 46, no. 1 (1999): 34–42. 10. Aleksandr Verkhovskii, Ekaterina Mikhailovskaia, and Vladimir Pribylovskii, Politicheskaia ksenofobiia, radikal´nye gruppy, predstavleniia liderov, rol´ tserkvi (Moscow: Pa­norama, 1999), 50–59. 11. Shenfield, Rus­sian Fascism, 173. 12. For more, see Andrei Rogachevskii, A Biographical and Critical Study of Rus­sian Writer Eduard Limonov, Studies in Slavic Languages and Lit­er­a­tures 20 (Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen Press, 2003). 13. Shenfield, Rus­sian Fascism, 190. See also Vladimir Pribylovskii, “Nezametnyi raskol,” Russkaia mysl´ 4229 (1998): 9. 14. Vera Nikolski, National-­bolchevisme et néo-­eurasisme dans la Russie contemporaine: La carrière militante d’une idéologie (Paris: Mare & Martin, 2013). 15. Viacheslav Likhachev, Natsizm v Rossii (Moscow: Pa­norama, 2002), 66. 16. Fedor Pavlov-­Andreevich, “La vie de nuit,” Kommersant, December 10, 1994, https://­www​.­kommersant​.­ru​/­doc​/­97429. 17. “Fashizm ili ne fashizm: konkurs,” Limonka 11 (April 1995). 18. For more, see Likhachev, Natsizm v Rossii. 19. Sofia Tipaldou and Katrin Uba, “The Rus­sian Radical Right Movement and Immigration Policy: Do They Just Make Noise or Have an Impact as Well?” Europe-­Asia Studies 66, no. 7 (2014): 1080–1101. 20. Sofia Tipaldou, “The Extreme Right Fringe of Rus­sian Nationalism and the Ukraine Conflict: The National Socialist Initiative,” in Rus­sia before and ­after Crimea: Nationalism and Identity 2010–17, ed. Pål Kolsto and Helge Blakkisrud (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press), 192.

NOTES TO PAGES 104–107

195

21. The party’s website has been banned since 2016. On Demushkin, see Aleksandr Verkhovskii, Galina Kozhevnikova, and Anton Shekhovtsov, eds., Radikal´nyi russkii natsionalizm: Struktury, idei, lista (Moscow: Sova Center, 2009). 22. Author’s field work at the DPNI Rus­sian March, Moscow, November 4, 2007. 23. David Holt­house, “Preston Wiginton Emerges in Rus­sia Promoting Race Hate,” Southern Poverty Law Center Intelligence Report, Summer 2008 (May 20, 2008), https://­www​ .­splcenter​.­org​/­fighting​-­hate​/­intelligence​-­report​/­2008​/­preston​-­w iginton​-­emerges​-­russia​ -­promoting​-­race​-­hate. 24. Andrei Kozenko and Mariia Krasovskaia, “Natsionalisty stroiat evropeiskoe litso,” Kommersant, July 14, 2008, http://­www​.­kommersant​.­ru​/­doc​.­aspx​?­DocsID​=­912162&NodesID​ =­2. 25. Kozenko and Krasovskaia, “Natsionalisty stroiat evropeiskoe litso.” 26. Verkhovskii, Kozhevnikova, and Shekhovtsov, Radikal´nyi russkii natsionalizm, 20– 29, 114–117. 27. Robert Horvath, “Russkii Obraz and the Politics of ‘Managed Nationalism,’ ” Nationalities Papers: The Journal of Nationalism and Ethnicity 42, no. 3 (2014): 469–488. 28. Tipaldou, “Extreme Right Fringe,” 192. 29. Aleksandr Verkhovskii and Vera Al´perovich, eds., “Myslit´ sprava”: Kratkii obzor sovremennoi pravoradikal´noi ideologii (Moscow: SOVA Center, 2011), http://­www​.­sova​ -­center​.­ru​/­racism​-­xenophobia​/­publications​/­2011​/­10​/­d22894​/­. 30. Aleksandr Tarasov, Natsi-­skiny v sovremennoi Rossii (Moscow: Moskovskoe biuro po pravam cheloveka, 2004), http://­scepsis​.­ru​/­library​/­id​_­605​.­html. 31. Shnirel´man, “Chistil´shchiki moskovskikh ulits,” 29. 32. Aleksandr Verkhovskii, “Dinamika nasiliia v russkom natsionalizme,” in Verkhovskii, Rossiia—ne Ukraina, 37–38. 33. According to the SOVA Center, about one-­quarter to one-­third of t­ hese accusations are not justified. 34. Yet this drop should be interpreted with caution. Such incidents are still underreported, especially when vio­lence is perpetrated against mi­grants, who typically do not want to draw police attention. In addition, many acts of racist vio­lence are still often classified as hooliganism. 35. Natalia Yudina, “On the Threshold of Change? The State Against the Promotion of Hate and the Po­liti­cal Activity of Nationalists in Rus­sia in 2018,” SOVA Center Report, 2018, https://­www​.­sova​-­center​.­ru​/­en​/­xenophobia​/­reports​-­analyses​/­2019​/­03​/­d40754/ 36. “Itogi ‘Russkogo marsha 2019’: politsii v razy bol´she, chem uchastnikov,” Svoboda​ .­org, November 4, 2019, https://­www​.­svoboda​.­org​/­a​/­30252668​.­html. Numbers ­were provided by Aleksandr Verkhovsky, “The Decline of Rus­sian Nationalism and the Dynamics of Po­liti­cal Repression (2014–2019),” paper presented at the Institute for Eu­ro­pean, Rus­ sian and Eurasian Studies, George Washington University, November 21, 2019. 37. Vladimir Vashchenko, “ ‘Zloi Kazakh’ i real´nyi srok,” Gazeta.ru, August 24, 2016, https://­www​.­gazeta​.­ru​/­social​/­2016​/­08​/­24​/­10156817​.­shtml. 38. Sasha Sulim, “Mechta ob ‘ariiskom bratstve’: Kak russkie natsionalisty ob ediniaiutsia v tiurmakh,” Meduza.io, December 21, 2018, https://­meduza​.­io​/­episodes​/­2018​/­12​/­21​ /­mechta​-­ob​-­ariyskom​-­bratstve​-­kak​-­russkie​-­natsionalisty​-­ob​-­edinyayutsya​-­v​-­tyurmah. 39. Robert Gerwarth, War in Peace: Paramilitary Vio­lence in Eu­rope ­after the ­Great War (The Greater War), repr. ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013); and Klaus Theweleit, Male Fantasies, Vol. 2: Male Bodies: Psychoanalyzing the White Terror (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1987). 40. David Kowalewski, “Establishment Vigilantism and Po­liti­cal Dissent: A Soviet Case Study,” Armed Forces & Society 9, no. 1 (1982): 83–97.

196 NOTES TO PAGES 108–110

41. See Courtney Weaver, “Cossacks Ride Again as Rus­sia Seeks to Fill Ideological Void,” Financial Times, August 4, 2013; and Tom Balmforth, “Cossacks Strike Again: Rus­sian Feminists Abandon Camp amid Threats, Detentions,” RFE/RL, August 17, 2017, https://­www​ .­rferl​.­org​/­a​/­russia​-­cossacks​-­feminist​-­camp​-­abandoned​/­28682474​.­html. 42. M. G. Kapustina, “Strategiia vozrozhdeniia kazachestva na federal´nom i regional´nom urovniakh,” Acad­emy of National Economy and State Ser­vice ­under the President of the Rus­sian Federation, February 15. 2017, https://­cyberleninka​.­ru. 43. Informatsionnoe Agentstvo Rossiiskogo Kazachestva, http://­ruskazaki​.­ru. 44. Volha Kananovich, “ ‘Execute Not P ­ ardon’: The Pussy Riot Case, Po­liti­cal Speech, and Blasphemy in Rus­sian Law,” Communication Law and Policy 20, no. 4 (2015) 343–422; and Nicholas Denysenko, “An Appeal to Mary: An Analy­sis of Pussy Riot’s Punk Per­for­mance in Moscow,” Journal of the American Acad­emy of Religion 81, no. 4 (2013): 1061–1109. 45. Daniil Turovskii, “Stroiteli oflain-­gosudarstva: Daniil Turovskii rasskazyvaet o pravoslavnom dvizhenii ‘Sorok sorokov,’ ” Meduza.io, September 22, 2015, https://­meduza​ .­io​/­feature​/­2015​/­09​/­22​/­stroiteli​-­oflayn​-­gosudarstva. 46. Afanasii Gumerov (Hieromonk Iov), “Chto oznachaet vyrazhenie ‘sorok sorokov’?” Pravoslavie.ru, December 8, 2009, http://­www​.­pravoslavie​.­ru​/­33084​.­html. 47. “Deputat Rashkin prizval likvidirovat´ dvizhenie ‘Sorok sorokov,’ ” Parliamentskaia gazeta, August 21, 2015, https://­www​.­pnp​.­ru​/­social​/­2015​/­08​/­21​/­deputat​-­rashkin​-­prizval​ -­likvidirovat​-­dvizhenie​-­sorok​-­ sorokov​.­html. 48. The pictures are available at Aidar Buribaev, “Pravoslavie ili natsizm: sviazany li aktivisty RPTs s pravoradikalami?” Medialeaks, August 11, 2015, http://­medialeaks​.­ru​ /­1108stas​_­dss. 49. Turovskii, “Stroiteli oflain-­gosudarstva.” 50. Buribaev, “Pravoslavie ili natsizm?” 51. Vladimir Emel´ianov and Aleksei Puchugin, “ ‘Pravoslavie i sport’: Svetlyi vecher s Vladimirom Nosovym,” Vera—­Svetloe Radio, September 10, 2015, http://­radiovera​.­ru​ /­pravoslavie​-­i​-­sport​-­svetlyiy​-­vecher​-­s​-­vladimirom​-­nosovyim​-­ef​-­10​-­09–2015​.­html. 52. Grigorii Tumanov, “Spustivshiesia s tribun,” Kommersant, July 27, 2015, http://­www​ .­kommersant​.­ru​/­doc​/­2773036. 53. “Pravoslavnoe karate—­eto bred?!” SuperKarate.ru, http://­superkarate​.­ru​/­pravoslavie​ _­karate​.­htm. 54. “Sportsmeny i russkaia tserkov´ zaimutsia razrabotkoi ideologii sambo,” Pravoslavie.ru, March 18, 2010, http://­www​.­pravoslavie​.­ru​/­34568​.­html. 55. “Vladimir Putin prizval sdelat´ vse vozmozhnoe dlia priznaniia sambo olimpiiskim vidom sporta,” International Sambo Federation (FIAS), October 11, 2016, http://­www​ .­sambo​-­fias​.­org​/­news​/­8035. 56. Daniel Etchells, “Putin Calls for Maximum Effort to Get Sambo Recognised as Olympic Sport,” Inside the Games, October 12, 2016, http://­www​.­insidethegames​.­biz​/­index​ .­php​/­articles​/­1042569​/­putin​-­calls​-­for​-­maximum​-­effort​-­to​-­get​-­sambo​-­recognised​-­as​ -­olympic​-­sport. 57. Dominic Malcolm and Raúl Sánchez García, “Decivilizing, Civilizing or Informalizing? The International Development of Mixed Martial Arts,” International Review for the Sociology of Sport 45, no. 1 (2010): 39–58. 58. “Muzhchinam,” Beloyar, https://­web​.­archive​.­org​/­web​/­20170108090937; http://­ beloyar​.­net​/­index​.­php​/­men; White Rex, http://­white​-­rex​.­com. 59. Alec Luhn, “ ‘The Surgeon’: We Spoke with the Leader of Putin’s Favorite Biker Club, the Night Wolves,” Vice News, March 25, 2015, https://­news​.­v ice​.­com​/­article​/­the​-­surgeon​ -­we​-­spoke​-­with​-­the​-­leader​-­of​-­putins​-­favorite​-­biker​-­club​-­the​-­night​-­wolves. 60. Gabrielle Tétrault-­Farber, “Strongman Leader Kadyrov Named Honorary Chief of Chechen Night Wolves,” Moscow Times, November 2, 2016, https://­themoscowtimes​.­com​

NOTES TO PAGES 111–113

197

/­news​/­strongman​-­leader​-­kadyrov​-­named​-­honorary​-­chief​-­of​-­chechen​-­night​-­wolves​ -­46818. 61. Alexandra Yatsyk, “Rus­sia’s Anti-­American Propaganda in the Euromaidan Era,” PONARS Eurasia Policy Memo no. 514 (March 2018), http://­www​.­ponarseurasia​.­org​/­memo​ /­russias​-­anti​-­american​-­propaganda​-­euromaidan​-­era. 62. Martin M. Sobczyk, “Poland to Block ‘Night Wolves’ Rus­sian Motorcycle Group at Border,” Wall Street Journal, April 24, 2015. 63. Laurence Peter, “Slovakia Alarmed by Pro-­Putin Night Wolves Bikers’ Base,” BBC, July 31, 2018, https://­www​.­bbc​.­com​/­news​/­world​-­europe​-­45019133. 64. Tom Parfitt, “Putin’s Outrider: ‘The Surgeon’ Vows to Quell Anti-­Kremlin Dissent,” The Telegraph, March 24, 2015, http://­www​.­telegraph​.­co​.­uk​/­news​/­worldnews​/­europe​/­russia​ /­11492898​/­Putins​-­outrider​-­The​-­Surgeon​-­vows​-­to​-­quell​-­anti​-­Kremlin​-­dissent​.­html. 65. “Russkaia doroga s ‘Nochnymi volkami’: na chto vydli prezidentskie granty,” RBK, November 22, 2017, https://­www​.­rbc​.­ru​/­politics​/­22​/­11​/­2017​/­5a1592ca9a794760522c9c7b. 66. Natalia Yudina and Aleksandr Verkhovsky, “Rus­sian Nationalist Veterans of the Donbas War,” Nationalities Papers 47, no. 5 (2019): 734–749. 67. Marlene Laruelle, “The Three Colors of Novorossiya, or the Rus­sian Nationalist Mythmaking of the Ukrainian Crisis,” Post-­Soviet Affairs 32, no. 1 (2015): 55–74. 68. Marvin T. Prosono, “Fascism of the Skin: Symptoms of Alienation in the Body of Consumptive Capitalism,” Current Sociology 56, no. 4 (2008): 635–656. 69. See, for instance, Iurii D. Petukhov, Sverkhevoliutsiia i Vysshii razum mirozdaniia: Superetnos rusov: ot mutantov k bogochelovechestvu (Moscow: Metagalaktika, 2005). 70. This idea has been developed by Anatolii Fomenko and his “New Chronology.” See Marlene Laruelle, “Conspiracy and Alternate History in Rus­sia: A Nationalist Equation for Success?” Rus­sian Review 71, no. 4 (2012): 656–680; Konstantin Sheiko with Stephen Brown, Nationalist Imaginings on the Rus­sian Past: Anatolii Fomenko and the Rise of Alternative History in Post-­Communist Rus­sia (Stuttgart: Ibidem-­Verlag, 2009); and Charles J. Halperin, “False Identity and Multiple Identities in Rus­sian History: The Mongol Empire and Ivan the Terrible,” The Carl Beck Papers in Rus­sian and East Eu­ro­pean Studies. (Pittsburgh, PA: University of Pittsburgh, Center for Rus­sian and East Eu­ro­pean Studies, 2011). 71. Elena Galkina, Tainy russkogo kaganata (Moscow: Veche, 2002). 72. Valerii Demin, Rus´ giperboreiskaia (Moscow: Veche, 2002). 73. Vladimir Danilov, Ariiskaia imperiia: Gibel´ i vozrozhdenie (Moscow: Volia Rossii, 2000). 74. Parland, Extreme Nationalist Threat in Rus­sia, 174–175. 75. Il´ia Lazarenko, “A eti ne liubiat vostok,” Kommersant Ogonek, October 17, 1999, https://­www​.­kommersant​.­ru​/­doc​/­2286849; and “Glava 3: Pravye radikaly mezhdu Bogom i natsiei,” in Politicheskii antisemitizm v sovremennoi Rossii, ed. Aleksandr Verkhovskii, (Moscow: SOVA Center for Information and Analy­sis, 2003), https://­web​.­archive​.­org​/­web​ /­20090311033947​/­http://­xeno​.­sova​-­center​.­ru:80​/­1ED6E3B​/­216049A​/­2160519. 76. On that school, read the two main works: Viktor Shnirel´man, “Tsepnoi pes rasy”: divannaia rasologiia kak zashchitnitsa “belogo cheloveka” (Moscow: SOVA Center, 2007); and Mark Bassin, “ ‘What Is More Impor­tant? Blood or Soil?’ Rasologiia Contra Eurasianism,” in The Politics of Eurasianism: Identity, Popu­lar Culture and Rus­sia’s Foreign Policy, ed. Mark Bassin and Gonzalo Pozo (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 2017), 39–58. 77. “Istorik, uchreditel´ i izdatel´ zhurnala Atenei Pavel Tulaev,” Portal Credo, January 20, 2005, http://­www​.­portal​-­credo​.­ru​/­site​/­print​.­php​?­act​=­authority&id​=2­ 78. 78. See Vladimir Avdeev, ed., Russkaia rasovaia teoriia do 1917 g. (Moscow: Feri-­V, 2002). 79. See the official transcript of the Procurature, January 20, 2007, http://­www​.­savelev​ .­ru​/­article​/­show​/­​?­id​=­399&t​=­1.

198 NOTES TO PAGES 114–116

80. On conspiracy theories, see Eliot Borenstein, Plots against Rus­sia: Conspiracy and Fantasy a­ fter Socialism (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2019); and Ilya Yablokov, Fortress Rus­sia: Conspiracy Theories in Post-­Soviet Rus­sia (New York: Wiley, 2018). On the Aryan myth in t­ oday’s Rus­sia, the most complete and contextualized overview of the phenomenon can be found in Viktor Shnirel´man, Ariiskii mif v sovremennom mire: Evoliutsiia ariiskogo mifa v Rossii, 2 vols. (Moscow: NLO, 2015). 81. Author’s calculation based on the prints in the book. 82. Ivan Grin´ko, “Sotsial´nyi portret setevogo rasizma (po dannym sotsial´nykh setei),” in Verkhovskii, Rossiia—ne Ukraina, 62–63. 83. Dugin has generated a huge body of lit­er­at­ ure in many languages. Among the most recent English-­language pieces are Anton Shekhovtsov, “The Palinge­ne­tic Thrust of Rus­ sian Neo-­Eurasianism: Ideas of Rebirth in Aleksandr Dugin’s Worldview,” Totalitarian Movements and Po­liti­cal Religions 9, no. 4 (2008): 491–506; Anton Shekhovtsov, “Aleksandr Dugin’s New Eurasianism: The New Right à la russe,” Religion Compass 3–4 (2009): 697–716; and Andreas Umland and Anton Shekhovtsov, “Is Dugin a Traditionalist? ‘Neo-­ Eurasianism’ and Perennial Philosophy,” Rus­sian Review 68 (2009): 662–678. 84. Aleksandr Dugin, Tampliery proletariata: Natsional-­bol´shevizm i initsiatsiia (Moscow: Arktogeia, 1997), http://­www​.­e​-­reading​.­club​/­chapter​.­php​/­85175​/­5​/­Dugin​_-​_Tamp​ lery​_­Proletariata​.­html. 85. See Peter H. Merkel and Leonard Weinberg, eds., The Revival of Right-­Wing Extremism in the Nineties (London: Frank Cass, 1997). 86. On Gumilev, see Mark Bassin, The Gumilev Mystique: Biopolitics, Eurasianism, and the Construction of Community in Modern Rus­sia (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2016). 87. Dugin joined the Old Believer Church in 1999. He pre­sents the Rus­sian schism of the seventeenth ­century as the archetype of Traditionalist thought, born of rejection of the secularization of Orthodoxy, which he dates to around the same period given by Guénon for the end of Tradition in the West (­after the end of the Thirty Years’ War in 1648). According to Dugin, “Eurasianism w ­ ill only be entirely logical if it is based on a return to the Old Belief.” Aleksandr Dugin, Russkaia veshch´: Ocherki natsional´noi filosofii (Moscow: Arktogeia, 2001), 568. 88. Shekhovtsov, “Palinge­ne­tic Thrust.” 89. Aleksandr Dugin, “Interview by Pravaia.ru,” Pravaya.ru, February 22, 2006, http://­ www​.­pravaya​.­ru​/­ludi​/­451​/­6742​?­print​=1­ . 90. See Aleksandr Dugin, Konservativnaia revoliutsiia (Moscow: Arktogeia, 1994), and Aleksandr Dugin, “Velikaia voina kontinentov,” originally published in Den´, January 26–­February 1, 1992, then in Konspirologiia: Nauka o zagovorakh, tainykh obshchestvakh i okkultnoi voine (Moscow: Arktogeia, 1993). See also Andreas Umland, “Patologicheskie tendentsii v russkom ‘neoevraziistve’: o znachenii vzleta Aleksandra Dugina dlia interpretatsii obshchestvennoi zhizni v sovremennoi Rossii,” Forum noveishei vostochnoevropeiskoi istorii i kul´tury 6, no. 2 (2009): 127–142. Available in En­glish at “The ­Great War of Continents,” Open Revolt, February 3, 2013, http://­openrevolt​.­info​/­2013​/­02​/­03​/­Aleksandr​ -­dugin​-­the​-­great​-­war​-­of​-­continents​/­. 91. Dugin, “Velikaia voina kontinentov.” 92. Roger Woods, The Conservative Revolution in the Weimar Republic (New York: Palgrave-­Macmillan, 1996); and Martin Travers, Critics of Modernity: The Lit­er­a­ture of the Conservative Revolution in Germany, 1890–1933 (New York: Peter Lang, 2001). 93. See Leonid Luks, Zwei Sonderwege? Russisch-­deutsche Parallelen und Kontraste (1917–2014) (Stuttgart: Ibidem-­Verlag, 2014). 94. Dugin, Konservativnaia revoliutsiia.

NOTES TO PAGES 116–119

199

95. Aleksandr Dugin, “Metafizika national-­bolshevizma,” Elementy 8 (1996), http://­ arcto​.­ru​/­article​/­73. 96. Aleksandr Dugin, Chetvertaia politicheskaia teoriia (Moscow: Amfora, 2009), 209. 97. “Gruppa Anenerbe: Prezentatsiia diska ‘Teni zabytykh predkov’ na Evraziia TV,” Evrazia-­tv, 59:30, May 11, 2008, http://­evrazia​.­tv​/­content​/­gruppa​-­anenerbe​-­prezentatsiya​ -­diska​-­teni​-­zabytykh​-­predkov​-­na​-­evraziya​-­tv. 98. See Dugin’s speech: “Klub Florian Gaer: Dugin,” YouTube video, 19:02, from the seminar “Sovremennaia demokratiia kak politicheskii institut,” hosted by the Florian Geyer Club, posted by Nadezhda Kevorkova, September 22, 2011, http://­www​.­youtube​.­com​ /­watch​?­v​=p ­ HeeP​_­IWJ5k. 99. The video of Dugin’s lecture is available at Anton Shekhovtsov, “Rus­sian Fascist Aleksandr Dugin’s Dreams of Dictatorship in Rus­sia,” Anton Shekhovstov (blog), February 27, 2014, http://­anton​-­shekhovtsov​.­blogspot​.­com​/­2014​/­02​/­russian​-­fascist​-­aleksandr​ -­dugin​-­is​.­html, and directly at “Rus­sian Fascist Aleksandr Dugin’s Private Meeting with Young Neo-­Eurasianist Activists,” YouTube video, 6:51, posted by “svonz,” November 20, 2016, https://­www​.­youtube​.­com​/­watch​?­v​=O ­ 4zp6o5–0aI. 100. Aleksandr Dugin, Osnovy geopolitiki: Geopoliticheskoe budushchee Rossii (Moscow: Arktogeia, 1997). On this book, see John B. Dunlop, “Aleksandr Dugin’s ‘Neo-­Eurasian’ Textbook and Dmitrii Trenin’s Ambivalent Response,” Harvard Ukrainian Studies 25, no. 1–2 (2001): 91–127. 101. For further details on Dugin’s connections with military circles, see Dunlop, “Aleksandr Dugin’s ‘Neo-­Eurasian’ Textbook,” 94, 102. 102. See Piotr Dutkiewicz and Richard Sakwa, eds., Eurasian Integration: The View from Within (London: Routledge, 2014). 103. See Valerii Korovin’s webpage on the Civic Chamber website, https://­www​.­oprf​ .­ru​/­chambermembers​/­members​/­user​/­1666. 104. Both lectures are available online: “Protoierei Vsevolod (Chaplin): simfoniia vlastei kak luchshaia forma pravleniia,” Evrazia-­tv, 26:34, posted December 1, 2009, http://­ evrazia​.­tv​/­content​/­protoierey​-­vsevolod​-­chaplin​-­simfoniya​-­vlastey​-­kak​-­luchshaya​-­forma​ -­pravleniya; and http://­evrazia​.­tv​.­k0​.­gfns​.­net​/­content​/­xx​-­rozhdestvenskie​-­chteniya. 105. Especially ­after some eve­nings involving alcohol. See Dugin’s interview from 2007 at “Putin—­eto Dugin,” YouTube video, 11:52, posted by “Evraziiskii Soiuz Molodezhi ESM,” April 24, 2014, https://­www​.­youtube​.­com​/­watch​?­v​=Z ­ cVwGBsrS​_­g. 106. Charles Clover, Black Wind, White Snow: The Rise of Rus­sia’s New Nationalism (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2016), 255. 107. See Dugin speaking from Mount Athos, “Three Ideas from Mount Athos by Aleksandr Dugin: May 28, 2016,” YouTube video, 3:15, posted by “Orthosword,” May 31, 2016. 108. See Dunlop, “Aleksandr Dugin’s ‘Neo-­Eurasian Textbook.’ ” 109. For instance Aslambek Aslakhanov, then-­adviser to the Rus­sian president; Eduard Kokoity, president of the self-­proclaimed Republic of South Ossetia; and Talgat Tadzhuddin, chairman of the Central Spiritual Board of Muslims. On Dugin’s Turkish connections, see Vügar İmanbeyli, “ ‘Failed Exodus’: Dugin’s Networks in Turkey,” in Eurasianism and Eu­ro­pean Far Right: Reshaping the Europe-­Russia Relationship, ed. Marlene Laruelle (Lanham, MD: Lexington, 2015), 145–174. 110. Vadim Rossman, “Moscow State University’s Department of Sociology Agenda and the Climate of Opinion in Post-­Soviet Rus­sia,” in Eurasianism and the Eu­ro­pean Far Right: Reshaping the Europe–­Russia Relationship, ed. Marlene Laruelle (Lanham, MD: Lexington, 2015), 55–76. 111. “Dugin on Neo-­Nazi Ukrainians Who ­Don’t Want Eurasia, ‘Kill, kill, kill,’ ” YouTube video, 2:50, posted by “Chaim O’Goldberg,” July 19, 2017.

200 NOTES TO PAGES 119–124

112. “MGU okonchatel´no rasstalsia s Aleksandrom Duginym,” RBK, July 1, 2014, https://­www​.­rbc​.­ru​/­politics​/­01​/­07​/­2014​/­57041eda9a794760d3d3fb46. 113. “Attitudes t­oward Mi­grants,” Levada Center, May 29, 2017, https://­www​.­levada​ .­ru​/­en​/­2017​/­05​/­29​/­attitudes​-­toward​-­migrants​/­. 7. RUS­S IA’S HONEYMOON WITH THE EU­R O­P EAN FAR RIGHT

1. On the history of this relationship, see Marlene Laruelle, ed., Entangled Far Rights: A Russian-­European Intellectual Romance in the Twentieth ­Century (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2018). 2. Jeune Nation solidariste, March 15, 1979. 3. The most complete study so far on that topic is Anton Shekhovtsov, Rus­sia and the Western Far Right: Tango Noir (London: Routledge, 2017). 4. Eduard Limonov, Moia politicheskaia biografiia (St. Petersburg: Amfora, 2002), 25. 5. The most complete analy­sis of this period is found in Anton Shekhovtsov, “Aleksandr Dugin and the West Eu­ro­pean New Right, 1989–1994,” in Eurasianism and the Eu­ro­pean Far Right: Reshaping the Europe-­Russia Relationship, ed. Marlene Laruelle (Lanham, MD: Lexington, 2015), 35–54. 6. See Pierre-­André Taguieff, Sur la Nouvelle Droite: Jalons d’une analyse critique (Paris: Descartes, 1994), 296. 7. On ­these Western Eu­ro­pean movements, see Nicolas Lebourg, Jonathan Preda, and Joseph Beauregard, Aux Racines du FN: L’Histoire du Mouvement Ordre Nouveau (Paris: Fondation Jean Jaurès, 2014). 8. Nicolas Lebourg, “Arriba Eurasia? The Difficult Establishment of Neo-­Eurasianism in Spain,” in Laruelle, Eurasianism and the Eu­ro­pean Far Right, 125–141. 9. Giovanni Savino, “From Evola to Dugin: The Neo-­Eurasianist Connections in Italy,” in Laruelle, Eurasianism and the Eu­ro­pean Far Right, 97–124. 10. Fen Montaigne, “David Duke Says He Backs a Power­ful ‘White Rus­sia,’ ” Philadelphia Inquirer, October 15, 1992. 11. David Duke, My Awakening: A Path to Racial Understanding (­Free Speech Books, 2000). Translated into Rus­sian as Evreiskii vopros glazami amerikantsa (retranslated back to Rus­sian: The Jewish question through the eyes of an American). 12. “David Duke, ‘To Rus­sia With Hate,’ ” CBS News, February 2, 2001, http://­www​ .­cbsnews​.­com​/­news​/­david​-­duke​-­to​-­russia​-­with​-­hate. 13. “David Duke in Rus­sia,” Anti-­Defamation League, 2001, http://­archive​.­adl​.­org​/­anti​ _­semitism​/­duke​_­russia​.­html#​.­V​_­​-­Yj​_­krLIV. 14. David Duke, “Is Rus­sia the Key to White Survival?” DavidDuke​.c­ om, October 23, 2004, http://­davidduke​.­com​/­is​-­russia​-­the​-­key​-­to​-­white​-­survival​/­. 15. Guillaume Faye, Pourquoi nous combattons: Manifeste de la Résistance européenne (Paris: Aencre, 2001), 123. 16. “Historic Moscow Conference,” DavidDuke​.c­ om, June 20, 2006, http://­davidduke​ .­com​/­historic​-­moscow​-­conference​-­press​-­release​/­. 17. Richard Arnold and Ekaterina Romanova, “The ‘White World’s F ­ uture?’ An Analy­ sis of the Rus­sian Far Right,” Journal for the Study of Radicalism 7, no. 1 (2013): 97. 18. David Holt­house, “Preston Wigington Emerges in Rus­sia Promoting Race Hate,” Southern Poverty Law Center Intelligence Report, Summer 2008, http://­www​.­splcenter​.­org​ /­get​-­informed​/­intelligence​-­report​/­browse​-­all​-­issues​/­2008​/­summer​/­from​-­russia​-­w ith​ -­hate. 19. “Ot pervogo litsa: Vladimir Zhirinovskii kak politicheskii karnaval,” Brestskii Kur´er, May 2016, http://­www​.­bk​-­brest​.­by​/­2016​/­05​/­ot​-­pervogo​-­lica​-­vladimir​-­zhirinovskij​-­kak​ -­politicheskij​-­karnaval​-­2016​-­05​-­03​-­01.

NOTES TO PAGES 124–127

201

20. Andreas Umland, “Vladimir Zhirinovsky in Rus­sian Politics: Three Approaches to the Emergence of the Liberal-­Democratic Party of Rus­sia 1990–1993” (PhD diss., Promotionsausschuß FB Geschichtswissenschaft, Freie Universität Berlin, 1997), 199. 21. Umland, “Vladimir Zhirinovsky,” 200–203. 22. See Leonid Mlechin, “Vechernie posidelki v nemetskoi kontrazvedke,” Izvestiia 235, December 10, 1995; and Craig R. Whitney, “Rus­sian Nationalist Stirs Up a Storm in Germany,” New York Times, December 23, 1993. 23. Shekhovtsov, Rus­sia and the Western Far Right. 24. Anton Shekhovtsov, “Sergey Glazyev and the American Fascist Cult,” The Interpreter, June 8, 2015, http://­www​.­interpretermag​.­com​/­sergey​-­glazyev​-­and​-­the​-­american​ -­fascist​-­cult. 25. Helga Zepp-­LaRouche, Michael Billington, and Rachel Douglas, The New Silk Road Becomes the World Land-­Bridge (Leesburg, VA: Executive Intelligence Review, 2014). 26. For more details, see Jean-­Yves Camus, “A Long-­Lasting Friendship: Aleksandr Dugin and the French Radical Right,” in Laruelle, Eurasianism and the Eu­ro­pean Far Right, 79–96. 27. See Savino, “From Evola to Dugin.” 28. Ancient texts name Central Asia as “Turan,” and the term was used u ­ ntil the nineteenth c­ entury. Jobbik emphasized the Eastern origin of the Hungarian p ­ eople, their nomadic past, the prestige of the Scythians and the Huns ­under Attila, and their Finno-­Ugric language. 29. In September 2014, the Hungarian public prosecutor asked the Eu­ro­pean Parliament to suspend Kovács’s MEP immunity so that he could be investigated. “Jobbik Spy Case Stuck in Brussels,” Politics.hu, September 10, 2014, http://­www​.­politics​.­hu​/­20140910​ /­jobbik​-­spy​-­case​-­stuck​-­in​-­brussels​/­; Damien Sharkov, “Far-­Right MEP Accused of Acting as Rus­sian Spy,” Newsweek​.­com, September 26, 2014, http://­www​.­newsweek​.­com​/­far​ -­right​-­mep​-­accused​-­acting​-­russian​-­spy​-­273444; and Balázs Pivarnyik, “EP Lifts Immunity from Prosecution of Jobbik MEP Béla Kovács,” Budapest Beacon, May 30, 2017, http://­ budapestbeacon​.­com​/­news​-­in​-­brief​/­ep​-­lifts​-­immunity​-­prosecution​-­jobbik​-­mep​-­bela​ -­kovacs​/­47237. 30. “The Beginning of a New Geopo­liti­cal Era: A Talk With Manuel Ochsenreiter,” Open Revolt, March 28, 2014, https://­openrevolt​.­info​/­2014​/­03​/­28​/­manuel​_­ochsenreiter​_­crimea​ /­; “United by Hatred,” ManuelOchsenreiter​.­com, January 29, 2014, accessed February 19, 2015, http://­manuelochsenreiter​.­com​/­blog​/­2014​/­1​/­29​/­united​-­by​-­hatred; and “What W ­ ill Rus­sia Do?” ManuelOchsenreiter​.­com, September 6, 2013, accessed February 19, 2015, http://­manuelochsenreiter​.­com​/­blog​/­2013​/­9​/­6​/­what​-­will​-­russia​-­do. See also Manuel Ochsenreiter, “Der Vordenker,” Zuerst, Deutsches Nachrichtenmagazin 3 (2013): 73–77. 31. See the origins of the movement in Alan Ingram, “A Nation Split into Fragments: the Congress of Rus­sian Communities and Rus­sian Nationalist Ideology,” Europe-­Asia Studies 51, no. 4 (1999): 687–704. 32. Andrei N. Savel´ev, Vremia russkoi natsii (Moscow: Knizhnyi mir, 2007), 31. 33. “Russkie i predstaviteli drugikh korennykh narodov Rossii dolzhny poluchat´ grazhdanstvo RF avtomaticheski,” Delovaia pressa, November 21, 2005, http://­businesspress​.­ru​ /­newspaper​/­article​_­mid​_­33​_­aid​_­361175​.­html. 34. Jussi Lassila, “Making Sense of Nashi’s Po­liti­cal Style: The Bronze Soldier and the Counter-­Orange Community,” in Rus­sian Nationalism, Foreign Policy and Identity Debates in Putin’s Rus­sia: New Ideological Patterns a­ fter the Orange Revolution, ed. Marlene Laruelle (Stuttgart: Ibidem-­Verlag, 2012), 105–138. 35. Semen Charnyi, Ksenofobiia, migrantofobiia i radikal´nyi natsionalizm na vyborakh v Moskovskuiu gorodskuiu dumu (Moscow: Moskovskoe biuro po pravam cheloveka, n.d.), www​.­antirasizm​.­ru​/­english​_­rep​_­019​.­doc.

202 NOTES TO PAGES 127–129

36. “Briussel´, Stokgol´m, teper´ Iekaterinburg! Ustami partii Rogozina meriia Iekaterinburga opolchilas´ na migrantov: Sleduiushchie na ocheredi—­sverdlovskie chinovniki,” URA.ru, June 20, 2013, http://­ura​.­ru​/­news​/­1052159898. 37. Sergei Riazanov, “Nashi storonniki v Evrope,” Svobodnaia pressa, May 17, 2014, http://­svpressa​.­ru​/­society​/­article​/­87614​/­. 38. Johannes Oeldemann, “The Concept of Canonical Territory in the Rus­sian Orthodox Church,” in Religion and the Conceptual Boundary in Central and Eastern Eu­rope. Encounters of Faiths, ed. Thomas Bremer, 229–236 (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008); and Daniel P. Payne, “Spiritual Security, the Rus­sian Orthodox Church, and the Rus­sian Foreign Ministry: Collaboration or Cooptation?” Journal of Church and State 52, no. 4 (2010): 712–727. 39. Charles Clover, “Kto takoi arkhimandrit Tikhon (Shevkunov),” Vedomosti, January 29, 2013, http://­www​.­vedomosti​.­ru​/­library​/­articles​/­2013​/­01​/­29​/­putin​_­i​_­arhimandrit. 40. Karin Hyldal Christensen, The Making of the New Martyrs in Rus­sia: Soviet Repressions in Orthodox Memory (London: Routledge, 2018). 41. Zoe Knox and Anastasia Mitrofanova, “The Rus­sian Orthodox Church,” in Eastern Chris­tian­ity and Politics in the Twenty-­First ­Century, ed. Lucian N. Leustean, 38–66 (London: Routledge, 2014). 42. Nicolai N. Petro, “Rus­sia’s Orthodox Soft Power,” Car­ne­gie Council for Ethics in International Affairs (2015), https://­papers​.­ssrn​.­com​/­sol3​/­papers​.­cfm​?­abstract​_­id​=3­ 172378; and Robert C. Blitt, “Rus­sia’s ‘Orthodox’ Foreign Policy: The Growing Influence of the Rus­ sian Orthodox Church in Shaping Rus­sia’s Policies Abroad,” University of Pennsylvania Journal of International Law 33, no. 2 (2011): 363–460. 43. “Rus­sian Orthodox Church, Vatican Ready for Collaboration,” Sputnik, November 13, 2013, https://­sputniknews​.­com​/­art​_­living​/­20131113184671536–Russian​-­Orthodox​ -­Church​-­Vatican​-­Ready​-­for​-­Collaboration​/­. 44. “Rus­sian Orthodox Church.” 45. Irina Du Quenoy, “Christian Geopolitics and the Ukrainian Ecclesiastical Crisis,” War on the Rocks, October 30, 2018, https://­warontherocks​.­com​/­2018​/­10​/­christian​ -­geopolitics​-­and​-­the​-­ukrainian​-­ecclesiastical​-­crisis/ 46. Kristina Stoeckl, The Rus­sian Orthodox Church and ­Human Rights (London: Routledge, 2014); and Grant S. Smith, “The Rus­sian Orthodox Church and the Eu­ro­pean Union: Constructing a Rus­sian Orthodox Identity in Eu­rope,” in The Religious Roots of Con­ temporary Eu­ro­pean Identity, ed. Lucia Faltin and Melanie J. Wright, 78–89 (London: Continuum, 2007). 47. Gillian Kane, “What Does the ‘Traditional F ­ amily’ Have to Do With Pussy Riot?” Religion Dispatches, August 21, 2012, http://­religiondispatches​.­org​/­what​-­does​-­the​ -­traditional​-­family​-­have​-­to​-­do​-­w ith​-­pussy​-­riot; and Gillian Kane, “World Congress of Families Meets, Seeks a New Dark Ages,” Religion Dispatches, June 13, 2012, http://­ religiondispatches​.­org​/­world​-­congress​-­of​-­families​-­meets​-­seeks​-­a​-­new​-­dark​-­ages​/­. 48. Adam Federman, “How US Evangelicals Fueled the Rise of Rus­sia’s ‘Pro-­Family’ Right,” The Nation, January 7, 2014. 49. Christopher Stroop, “Bad Ecumenism: The American Culture Wars and Rus­sia’s Hard Right Turn,” The Wheel (2016): 20–24. 50. Miranda Blue, “Globalizing Homophobia, Part 1: How The American Right Came to Embrace Rus­sia’s Anti-­Gay Crackdown,” Right Wing Watch, October 3, 2013, http://­ www​.­rightwingwatch​.­org​/­post​/­globalizing​-­homophobia​-­part​-­1​-­how​-­the​-­american​-­right​ -­came​-­to​-­embrace​-­russias​-­anti​-­gay​-­crackdown​/­#sthash​.­Bu2BQQ5q​.­dpuf. 51. Miranda Blue, “Fischer Praises Putin, Calls Him A ‘Lion of Chris­tian­ity,’ ” Right Wing Watch, October 10, 2013, http://­www​.­rightwingwatch​.­org​/­content​/­fischer​-­praises​ -­putin​-­calls​-­him​-­lion​-­christianity#sthash​.­eh7gWsS5​.­dpuf.

NOTES TO PAGES 129–131

203

52. Miranda Blue, “Globalizing Homophobia, Part 2: ‘­Today the Whole World Is Looking At Rus­sia,’ ” Right Wing Watch, October 3, 2013, http://­www​.­rightwingwatch​.­org​ /­content​/­globalizing​-­homophobia​-­part​-­2​-­today​-­whole​-­world​-­looking​-­russia#sthash​ .­wdyrKObx​.­dpuf. 53. See Bethany Moreton, Slouching t­ owards Moscow: American Conservatives and the Romance of Rus­sia (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, forthcoming). 54. Doris Buss, Globalizing F ­ amily Values: The Christian Right in International Politics (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2003). 55. Blue, “Globalizing Homophobia, Part 2”; and Miranda Blue, “Globalizing Homophobia, Part 4: The World Congress of Families and Rus­sia’s ‘Christian Saviors,’ ” Right Wing Watch, October 4, 2013, http://­www​.­rightwingwatch​.­org​/­content​/­globalizing​ -­homophobia​-­part​-­4​-­world​-­congress​-­families​-­and​-­russias​-­christian​-­saviors#sthash​ .­HpzGFCF0​.­dpuf. 56. Federman, “How US Evangelicals Fueled the Rise.” 57. The WCF held a follow-up Demographic Summit in Ulyanovsk in 2012. See “Uganda = Rus­sia = Kansas = The ­Family or The Fellowship,” Thom Hartmann Program (forum), http://­www​.­thomhartmann​.­com​/­forum​/­2014​/­02​/­uganda​-­russia​-­kansas​-­family​-­or​ -­fellowship#sthash​.­D6hfmHIo​.­dpuf. 58. See the website of Orthodox Parishes of Rus­sian Tradition in Western Eu­rope, http://­ www​.­oltr​.­fr​/­qui​-­sommes​-­nous. 59. Claire Digiacomi, “Comment la Russie a réussi á construire une imposante église orthodoxe au pied de la tour Eiffel,” Huffington Post (French ed.), October 19, 2016, http://­ www​.­huffingtonpost​.­fr​/­2016​/­10​/­18​/­comment​-­russie​-­reussi​-­construire​-­eglise​-­orthodoxe​ -­tour​-­Eiffel​_­a​_­21585977. 60. “Descendants of the White Emigration Against Russophobia in Western MSM,” December 2014, http://­stanislavs​.­org​/­descendants​-­of​-­the​-­white​-­emigration​-­against​-­russophobia​ -­in​-­western​-­msm​/­. See the Rus­sian version at “Parizh, Sevastopol´skii bul´var,” Rossiiskaia gazeta, December 25, 2014, https://­rg​.­ru​/­2014​/­12​/­25​/­pismo​.­html. 61. Anton Shekhovtsov, “Rus­sian Connections to the Far Right in Eu­rope,” NEOS, May 7, 2019, https://­bit​.­ly​/­2WY9i4q. 62. Nicolas Lebourg, “The French Far Right in Rus­sia’s Orbit,” Car­ne­gie Council for Ethics in International Affairs Papers, May 2018, https://­www​.­carnegiecouncil​.­org​ /­publications​/­articles​_­papers​_­reports​/­the​-­french​-­far​-­right​-­in​-­russias​-­orbit​/­​_­res​/­id​ =­Attachments​/­index​=­0​/­Lebourg​-­FR%20revised​.­pdf. 63. Marlene Laruelle and Ellen Rivera, “Collusion or Homegrown Collaboration? Connections between German Far Right and Rus­sia,” Po­liti­cal Capital (April 2019), https://­ www​.­politicalcapital​.­hu​/­news​.­php​?­article​_­read​=­1&article​_­id​=2­ 393. 64. Jonáš Syrovátka, “Larger Than Life: Who Is Afraid of the Big Bad Rus­sia? Grassroots Vulnerability to Rus­sian Sharp Power in the Czech Republic: Country Report,” Po­liti­cal Capital (May 2019), https://­www​.­politicalcapital​.­hu​/­pc​-­admin​/­source​ /­documents​/­pc​_­larger​_­than​_­life​_­czech​_­republic​_­eng​_­web​_­20190522​.­pdf; and Daniel Milo, Katarína Klingová, and Dominika Hajdu, “Larger Than Life: Who Is Afraid of the Big Bad Rus­sia? Grassroots Vulnerability to Rus­sian Sharp Power in Slovakia: Country Report,” Po­liti­cal Capital (April 2019), https://­www​.­politicalcapital​.­hu​/­pc​ -­a dmin​/­s ource​/­d ocuments​/­p c​_­l arger​_­t han​_­l ife​_­h ungary​_­e ng​_­w eb​_­2 0190514​.­p df, https://­www​.­p oliticalcapital​.­h u​/­r ussian​_­s harp​_­power​_­in​_­c ee​/­research​_­results​.­php​ ?­article​_­read​=1­ &article​_­id​=2­ 395. 65. “The Rus­sian Connection: The Spread of Pro-­Russian Policies on the Eu­ro­pean Far Right,” Po­liti­cal Capital Institute Papers (March 14, 2014), 7, http://­www​.­riskandforecast​ .­com​/­useruploads​/­files​/­pc​_­flash​_­report​_­russian​_­connection​.­pdf.

204 NOTES TO PAGES 132–134

66. Natasha Bertrand, “ ‘A Model for Civilization’: Putin’s Rus­sia Has Emerged as ‘a Beacon for Nationalists’ and the American Alt-­Right,” Business Insider, December 10, 2016, http://­www​.­businessinsider​.­com​/­russia​-­connections​-­to​-­the​-­alt​-­right​-­2016–11. 67. J. Lester Feder, “This Is How Steve Bannon Sees the Entire World,” BuzzFeed, November 16, 2016, http://­www​.­buzzfeed​.­com​/­lesterfeder​/­this​-­is​-­how​-­steve​-­bannon​-­sees​-­the​ -­entire​-­world​?­utm​_­term​.­ik19YdVvmM#​.­awaL381M70. 68. Marlene Laruelle, “Mirror Games? Ideological Resonances between Rus­sian and US Radical Conservatism,” in Con­temporary Rus­sian Conservatism: Prob­lems, Paradoxes and Dangers, ed. Mikhail Suslov and Dmitri Uzlaner, 177–203 (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2019). 69. Marlene Laruelle, “Scared of Putin’s Shadow,” Foreign Affairs, March 25, 2015. 70. Diana Bruk, “Richard Spencer’s Rus­sian Wife Talks Trump, Utopia: Full Interview,” Observer, September 19, 2017. 71. Carolina Vendil Pallin and Susanne Oxenstierna, Rus­sian Think Tanks and Soft Power (Stockholm: Swedish Defense Research Agency, 2017), https://­www​.­foi​.­se​/­rest​-­api​/­report​ /­FOI​-­R—4451—SE. 72. “Cherny Internatsional: Malofeev i Dugin,” Anonimnyi internatsional (blog), November 27, 2014, http://­b0ltay​.­blogspot​.­com​/­2014​/­11​/­blog​-­post​.­html. 73. Shekhovtsov, Rus­sia and the Western Far Right, 143. 74. Péter Krekó, Marie Macaulay, Csaba Molnár, and Lóránt Győri, “Eu­rope’s New Pro-­ Putin Co­ali­tion: The Parties of ‘No,’ ” Institute of Modern Rus­sia, August 3, 2015, https://­ imrussia​.­org​/­en​/­analysis​/­world​/­2368​-­europes​-­new​-­pro​-­putin​-­coalition​-­the​-­parties​-­of​ -­no. 75. See Anton Shekhovtsov, “Far-­Right Election Observation Monitors in the Ser­v ice of the Kremlin’s Foreign Policy,” in Laruelle, Eurasianism and the Eu­ro­pean Far Right, 223–244. 76. Anton Shekhovtsov, “Pro-­Russian Extremists Observe the Illegitimate Crimean ‘Referendum,’ ” Anton Shekhovtsov (blog), March 17, 2014, http://­anton​-­shekhovtsov​ .­blogspot​.­com​/­2014​/­03​/­pro​-­russian​-­extremists​-­observe​.­html. 77. Anton Shekhovtsov, “International ‘Observers’: Moscow—­Rostov—­Donetsk,” Anton Shekhovtsov (blog), November 8, 2014, http://­anton​-­shekhovtsov​.­blogspot​.­co​.­at​/­2014​ /­11​/­international​-­observers​-­moscow​-­rostov​.­html. 78. Anton Shekhovtsov, “Fascist Vultures of the Hungarian Jobbik and the Rus­sian Connection,” Anton Shekhovtsov (blog), April 12, 2014, http://­anton​-­shekhovtsov​.­blogspot​ .­com​/­2014​/­04​/­fascist​-­vultures​-­of​-­hungarian​-­jobbik​.­html. 79. Originally named the Rus­sian Society of Philanthropy in Defense of Motherhood and Childhood. Malofeev also cofounded the Gymnasium of St. Basil the G ­ reat. See the Foundation’s website, http://­www​.­ruscharity​.­ru​/­. 80. Odehnal Von Bernhard, “Gipfeltreffen mit Putins fünfter Kolonne,” Tages Anzeiger, June 3, 2014, http://­www​.­tagesanzeiger​.­ch​/­ausland​/­europa​/­Gipfeltreffen​-­mit​-­Putins​ -­fuenfter​-­Kolonne​/­story​/­30542701. 81. “Patrioty vsekh stran ob”ediniaiutsia,” LDPR 2 (2003), 3. 82. See the movement’s “About” page, http://­anti​-­global​.­ru​/­​?­page​_­id​=­160. 83. “Mezhdunarodnaia konferentsiia ‘Dialog natsii: Pravo narodov na samoopredelenie i postroenie mnogopoliarnogo mira,” Rodina, September 20, 2015, http://­rodina​.­ru​ /­pres​-­slujba​/­mmedia​/­v ideo. 84. “My sobrali ne fashistov, a druzei Rossii, podderzhivaiushchikh Putina: Fedor Biriukov o forume ‘konservatorov,’ ” Dozhd´, March 22, 2015, http://­rutwi​.­ru​/­article​ /­23350. 85. Il´ia Azar, “Soiuz ultrapravykh sil,” Meduza.io, March 23, 2015, https://­meduza​.­io​ /­feature​/­2015​/­03​/­23​/­soyuz​-­ultrapravyh​-­sil.

NOTES TO PAGES 134–140

205

86. Aleksandr Baunov, “Why the St. Petersburg Summit of the Kremlin’s Friends Failed,” Car­ne­gie Eurasia Outlook, March 27, 2015, http://­carnegie​.­ru​/­eurasiaoutlook​/­​?­fa​ =­59513. 87. Adam Nossiter and Jason Horo­witz, “Bannon’s Populists, Once a ‘Movement,’ Keep Him at Arm’s Length,” New York Times, May 24, 2019. Claire Provost and Adam Ramsay, “Revealed: Trump-­linked US Christian ‘Fundamentalists’ Pour Millions of ‘Dark Money’ into Eu­rope, Boosting the Far Right,” March 27, 2019, Open Democracy, https://­www​ .­opendemocracy​.­net​/­en​/­5050​/­revealed​-­trump​-­linked​-­us​-­christian-​ ­fundamentalists-​ ­pour​ -­millions​-­of​-­dark​-­money​-­into​-­europe​-­boosting​-­the​-­far​-­right​/­. 88. See, for instance, Veronika Krasheninnikova, member of the High Council of United Rus­sia, “L’Extrême droite européenne est un danger pour la Russie,” Le Courrier de Russie, March 20, 2019, https://­www​.­lecourrierderussie​.­com​/­politique​/­2019​/­03​/­l​-­extreme​-­droite​ -­europeenne​-­est​-­un​-­danger​-­pour​-­la​-­russie​/­. 89. See Maria Lipman, “Putin’s ‘Besieged Fortress’ and Its Ideological Arms,” in Rus­sia Beyond 2014: Development Through Crises, ed. Maria Lipman and Nikolay Petrov (Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015), 110–136. 90. Paul R. Gregory, “Empathizing with the Dev­il: How Germany’s Putin-­Verstehers Shield Rus­sia,” Forbes​.­com, April 5, 2014, http://­www​.­forbes​.­com​/­sites​/­paulroderickgregory​ /­2014​/­04​/­05​/­empathizing​-­with​-­the​-­devil​-­how​-­germanys​-­putin​-­verstehers​-­shield​-­russia​/­. 91. Roman Goncharenko, “Is Francois Fillon of France Putin’s Preferred Presidential Candidate?” DW News, November 29, 2016, https://­www​.­dw​.­com​/­en​/­is​-­francois​-­fillon​-­of​ -­france​-­putins​-­preferred​-­presidential​-­candidate​/­a​-­36579170. 92. See Suslov and Uzlaner, Con­temporary Rus­sian Conservatism. 8. WHY THE RUS­S IAN REGIME IS NOT FASCIST

1. See Timothy Snyder’s speech at an event at Yale University held on December 5, 2016. Yale University, “What Can Eu­ro­pean History Teach Us About Trump’s Amer­ic­ a?” YouTube video, 1:22:49, December 6, 2016, https://­www​.­youtube​.­com​/­watch​?­v​=­6nEmBm​ GK5kM. 2. See Maria Snegovaya, “Fellow Travelers or Trojan Horses? Similarities Across pro-­ Russian Parties’ Electorates in Eu­rope” (forthcoming). 3. Andrey Makarychev and Aliaksei Kazharski, “Eu­rope in Crisis: ‘Old,’ ‘New,’ or Incomplete?” PONARS Eurasia Policy Memo no. 515 (March 2018), http://­www​.­ponarseurasia​ .­org​/­memo​/­europe​-­crisis​-­old​-­new​-­or​-­incomplete; and Stefano Braghiroli and Andrey Makarychev, “Redefining Eu­rope: Rus­sia and the 2015 Refugee Crisis,” Geopolitics, November 3, 2017. 4. See, for example, Ivan Il´in, “Natsional-­sotsializm: Novyi dux,” Vozrozhdenie, May 17, 1933, http://­iljinru​.­tsygankov​.­ru​/­works​/­vozr170533full​.­html. 5. Ivan Il´in, “O fashizme” (1948), republished in Sobranie sochinenii (Moscow: Russkaia kniga, 1993), 1:86–89. 6. See Andrzej Walicki, “Rus­sian Philosophy of Law,” in Routledge Encyclopedia of Philosophy (London: Routledge, 2002); and Mikhail Antonov, “Rus­sian ­Legal Philosophy in the 20th ­Century,” in A Treatise of ­Legal Philosophy and General Jurisprudence, ed. Enrico Pattaro and Corrado Roversi, 587–612 (Dordrecht: Springer, 2016). 7. Vladimir Putin, “Poslanie Federal´nomu Sobraniiu Rossiiskoi Federatsii,” Kremlin. ru, April 25, 2005, http://­kremlin​.­ru​/­events​/­president​/­transcripts​/­22931; Vladimir Putin, “Poslanie Federal´nomu Sobraniiu Rossiiskoi Federatsii,” Kremlin.ru, May 10, 2006, http://­ kremlin​.­ru​/­events​/­president​/­transcripts​/­23577; Vladimir Putin, “Rossiia: natsional´nyi vopros,” Nezavisimaia gazeta, January 23, 2012, http://­www​.­ng​.­ru​/­politics​/­2012​-­01​-­23​/­1​ _­national​.­html; Vladimir Putin, “Priem v chest´ vypusknikov voennykh vuzov,” Kremlin. ru, June 26, 2013, http://­kremlin​.­ru​/­events​/­president​/­news​/­18410; and Vladimir Putin,

206 NOTES TO PAGES 141–147

“Poslanie Prezidenta Federal´nomu Sobraniiu,” Kremlin.ru, December 4, 2014, http://­ kremlin​.­ru​/­events​/­president​/­news​/­47173. 8. Ivan Il’in, “I snova izvestiia s Vostoka,” September 1947, republished in Ivan Ilyin, Sobranie sochinenii: Spravedlivost´ ili ravenstvo? Publitsistika, 1918–1947 (Moscow: St. Tikhon Orthodox Humanitarian University, 2006). 9. I am grateful to Robert Otto for bringing ­these ele­ments of the discussion to my knowledge. 10. Timothy Snyder, “Putin’s New Nostalgia,” New York Review Daily, November 10, 2014, https://­www​.­nybooks​.­com​/­daily​/­2014​/­11​/­10​/­putin​-­nostalgia​-­stalin​-­hitler​/­. 11. Vladimir Putin, “Obrashchenie Prezidenta Rossiiskoi Federatsii,” Kremlin.ru, March 18, 2014, http://­kremlin​.­ru​/­events​/­president​/­news​/­20603. 12. Anthony James Gregor, The Ideology of Fascism: The Rational of Totalitarianism (New York: ­Free Press, 1969). 13. Hannah Arendt, The Origins of Totalitarianism (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1973). 14. Roger Griffin, “Introduction: God’s Counterfeiters? Investigating the Triad of Fascism, Totalitarianism and (Po­liti­cal) Religion,” Totalitarian Movements and Po­liti­cal Religions 5, no. 3 (2004): 291–325. 15. Masha Gessen, The ­Future Is History: How Totalitarianism Reclaimed Rus­sia (New York: Riverhead Books, 2017). 16. “Freedom in the World: Methodology 2019,” Freedom House, April 15, 2019, https://­freedomhouse​.­org​/­report​/­methodology​-­freedom​-­world​-­2019. For a critique of this world ranking system, see Aleksandr Cooley, Ranking the World: Grading States as a Tool of Global Governance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016). 17. “Polity IV Proj­ect,” Center for Systemic Peace, https://­www​.­systemicpeace​.­org​ /­polityproject​.­html. 18. Data available at http://­www​.­systemicpeace​.­org​/­inscr​/­p4v2018​.­xls. 19. See the rich lit­er­at­ ure on protests in Rus­sia, especially Graeme B. Robertson, The Politics of Protest in Hybrid Regimes (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010). 20. “Spisok politzakliuchennykh (bez presleduemykh za religiiu),” Pravozaschitnyi tsentr Memorial, https://­memohrc​.­org​/­ru​/­pzk​-­list; and “Spisok politzakliuchennykh presleduemykh za religiiu,” Pravozaschitnyi tsentr Memorial, https://­memohrc​.­org​ /­r u​/­a ktualnyy​-­s pisok​-­p resleduemyh​-­v​-­s vyazi​-­s​-­r ealizaciey​-­p rava​-­n a​-­s vobodu​ -­veroispovedaniya. 21. Chris Morris, “Real­ity Check: The Numbers b ­ ehind the Crackdown in Turkey,” BBC, June 18, 2019, https://­www​.­bbc​.­com​/­news​/­world​-­middle​-­east​-­44519112; and “Turkey,” World Prison Brief data, World Prison Brief, https://­prisonstudies​.­org​/­country​/­turkey. 22. Roger Griffin, quoted in Anton Shekhovtsov, Rus­sia and the Western Far Right: Tango Noir (London: Routledge, 2017), 70. 23. Anton Barbashin and Hannah Thoburn, “Putin’s Brain: Aleksandr Dugin and the Philosophy ­behind Putin’s Invasion of Crimea,” Foreign Affairs, March 31, 2014. 24. Anton Barbashin and Hannah Thoburn, “Putin’s Phi­los­o­pher: Ivan Ilyin and the Ideology of Moscow’s Rule,” Foreign Affairs, September 20, 2015. 25. See Jussi Lassila, The Quest for an Ideal Youth in Putin’s Rus­sia II: The Search for Distinctive Conformism in the Po­liti­cal Communication of Nashi, 2005–2009 (Stuttgart: Ibidem-­Verlag, 2014). 26. Levada-­Tsentr, Obshchestvennoe mnenie 2018 (Moscow, 2019). 27. Marlene Laruelle and Henry Hale, “Rethinking ‘Civilizations’ from the Bottom Up: A Research Agenda and Case Study of Rus­sia,” Nationalities Papers, forthcoming. 28. On the debate over the use of the term “russkii,” see Pål Kolstø, “The Ethnification of Rus­sian Nationalism,” in The New Rus­sian Nationalism: Between Imperial and Ethnic,

NOTES TO PAGES 147–150

207

ed. Pål Kolstø and Helge Blakkisrud, 18–45 (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2016); and Marlene Laruelle, “Misinterpreting Nationalism: Why Russkii Is Not a Sign of Ethnonationalism,” PONARS Eurasia Policy Memo no. 416 (January 2016), http://­www​ .­ponarseurasia​.­org​/­memo​/­misinterpreting​-­nationalism​-­russkii​-­ethnonationalism. 29. Guzel Yusupova, “Why Ethnic Politics in Rus­sia ­Will Return,” PONARS Eurasia Policy Memo no. 584 (March 2019), http://­www​.­ponarseurasia​.­org​/­memo​/­why​-­ethnic​ -­politics​-­russia​-­will​-­return. 30. Vladimir Putin, “Rus­sia: The Ethnicity Issue,” Nezavisimaia gazeta, January 23, 2012, http://­archive​.­premier​.­gov​.­ru​/­eng​/­events​/­news​/­17831​/­. 31. “Zasedanie diskussionogo kluba ‘Valdai,’ ” Kremlin.ru, October 18, 2019, http://­ kremlin​.­ru​/­events​/­president​/­news​/­61719. 32. Putin mentioned Crimea as a “Rus­sian land” and “Rus­sian territory”—­using both russkii and rossiiskii, in “Obraschenie Prezidenta Rossiiskoi Federatsii,” Kremlin.ru, March 18, 2014, http://­www​.­kremlin​.­ru​/­events​/­president​/­news​/­20603. 33. For instance Kimberly Marten, “Vladimir Putin: Ethnic Rus­sian Nationalist,” Washington Post, March 19, 2014. 34. For a terminological history, see Virginie Symaniec, La construction idéologique slave orientale: Langues, races et nation dans la Rus­sia du XIXe siècle (Paris: Pétra, 2012). 35. Umberto Eco, “Ur-­Fascism,” New York Review of Books 42, no. 11 (1995): 6. 36. Robert O. Paxton, The Anatomy of Fascism (New York: Random House, 2004), 41. 37. Keith Darden, “Keeping the ‘New Cold War’ Cold: Nuclear Deterrence with U.S. and Rus­sian Nuclear Force Modernization,” PONARS Eurasia Policy Memo no. 530 (May 2018), http://­www​.­ponarseurasia​.­org​/­memo​/­keeping​-­new​-­cold​-­war​-­cold​-­nuclear​ -­deterrence​-­us​-­and​-­russian​-­force​-­modernization. 38. On the differences between the two terms, see Bart Moore-­Gilbert, “Postcolonial Cultural Studies and Imperial Historiography: Prob­lems of Interdisciplinarity,” Interventions: International Journal of Postcolonial Studies 1, no. 3 (1999): 397–411; and Barbara Bush, Imperialism and Postcolonialism (Harlow: Pearson Education, 2006). 39. Robert J. C. Young, Postcolonialism: An Historical Introduction (New York: Wiley, 2016); Viatcheslav Morozov, Rus­sia’s Postcolonial Identity: A Subaltern Empire in a Eurocentric World (Houndmills, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015); and Vera Tolz, Rus­ sia: Inventing the Nation (London: Hodder Education, 2003). 40. Gerard Toal, Near Abroad: Putin the West, and the Contest over Ukraine and the Caucasus (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019). 41. Pierre Ayrault and Jean-­Pierre Bat, Françafrique: opérations secrètes et affaires d’Etat (Paris: Tallandier, 2018). 42. Oxana Shevel, “The Politics of Citizenship Policy in Post-­Soviet Rus­sia,” Post-­Soviet Affairs 28, no. 1 (2012): 111–147. 43. Mikhail Suslov, “ ‘Rus­sian World’ Concept: Post-­Soviet Geopo­liti­cal Ideology and the Logic of ‘Spheres of Influence,’ ” Geopolitics 23, no. 2 (2018): 330–353; and Marlene Laruelle, “The ‘Rus­sian World’: Rus­sia’s Soft Power and Geopo­liti­cal Imagination,” Center on Global Interests, May 2015. 44. Eleanor Knott, “Quasi-­Citizenship as a Category of Practice: Analyzing Engagement with Rus­sia’s Compatriot Policy in Crimea,” Citizenship Studies 21, no. 1 (2017): 116–135; and Marlene Laruelle, “Rus­sia as a ‘Divided Nation,’ from Compatriots to Crimea: A Contribution to the Discussion on Nationalism and Foreign Policy,” Prob­lems of Post-­ Communism 62, no. 2 (2015): 88–97. 45. Examples include treaties coordinating foreign policy, a common military and socioeconomic space, joint actions for combating or­ga­nized crime, the harmonization of

208 NOTES TO PAGES 150–155

customs regulations, welfare ser­v ices, and social ser­v ices, and borderization of the line of demarcation. See Kornely Kakachia, “How the West Should Respond to Rus­sia’s ‘Borderization’ in Georgia,” PONARS Eurasia Policy Memo no. 523 (April 2018), http://­www​ .­ponarseurasia​.­org​/­memo​/­how​-­west​-­should​-­respond​-­russias​-­borderization​-­georgia. 46. Samuel Charap and Timothy J. Colton, Every­one Loses: The Ukraine Crisis and the Ruinous Contest for Post-­Soviet Eurasia (London: Routledge, 2017). 47. The Rus­sian Marches of 2015 ­were, for instance, banned in several cities, including Kemerovo, Krasnodar, Voronezh, Ryazan´, Samara, Tver ´, Ulyanovsk, Ufa, Khabarovsk, and ­others. See “Moskva-2015: ‘Russkie’ i prochie marshi natsionalistov,” SOVA, November 4, 2015, https://­www​.­sova​-­center​.­ru​/­racism​-­xenophobia​/­news​/­racism​-­nationalism​ /­2015​/­11​/­d33174​/­, “ ‘Russkie marshi-2015’ v regionakh Rossii,” SOVA, November 5, 2015, https://­www​.­sova​-­center​.­ru​/­racism​-­xenophobia​/­news​/­racism​-­nationalism​/­2015​/­11​ /­d33183​/­. 48. Michael Mann, Fascists (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 13. 49. Andrei Soldatov and Irina Borogan, The New Nobility: The Restoration of Rus­sia’s Security State and the Enduring Legacy of the KGB (New York: Public Affairs, 2010). 50. Evan Gershkovich, “Rus­sia’s Fast-­Growing ‘Youth Army’ Aims to Breed Loyalty to the Fatherland,” Moscow Times, April 17, 2019, https://­www​.­themoscowtimes​.­com​/­2019​ /­04​ /­17​/­russias​ -­fast​ -­growing​-­youth​-­army​-­aimst​ -­to​ -­breed​ -­loyalty​ -­to​-­the​ -­fatherland​ -­a65256. 51. Anna Sanina, Patriotic Education in Con­temporary Rus­sia: So­cio­log­i­cal Studies in the Making of the Post-­Soviet Citizen (Stuttgart: Ibidem-­Verlag, 2017). 52. It has been studied by, among o ­ thers, Mark Galeotti in The Vory: Rus­sia’s Super Mafia (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2018), and Svetlana Stephenson in Gangs of Rus­sia: From the Streets to the Corridors of Power (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2015), and in her research: Svetlana Stephenson, “It Takes Two to Tango: The State and Or­ga­nized Crime in Rus­sia,” Current Sociology 65, no. 3 (2017): 411–426. 53. See Stephenson, Gangs of Rus­sia. 54. See Valerie Sperling, Sex, Politics and Putin: Po­liti­cal Legitimacy in Rus­sia (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014). 55. The domination of masculinity in the vigilantist narrative does not mean that ­women are absent from it. Although patriotic clubs are mostly male, young ­women constitute a growing part of the membership of some of t­ hese groups. 56. Mark Galeotti, “The Rise of the Rus­sian Judocracy,” In Moscow’s Shadows (blog), August 10, 2013, https://­inmoscowsshadows​.­wordpress​.­com​/­2013​/­08​/­10​/­the​-­rise​-­of​-­the​ -­russian​-­judocracy. 57. “Kontseptsiia razvitiia vnevedomstvennoi okhrany na period 2018–2021 godov i dalee do 2025 goda,” Rosgvardiia, 2017, https://­rosgvard​.­ru​/­ru​/­page​/­index​/­koncepciya​ -­razvitiya​-­vnevedomstvennoj​-­oxrany. 58. For instance, the patriotic movement SERB—­a far-­right group born out of Rus­sian nationalists in Ukraine—­physically assaulted Alexei Navalny in 2017. See Igor Zotov, “Otkuda v Rossii vzialsia SERB,” Novye izvestiia, May 13, 2017, https://­newizv​.­ru​/­article​ /­g eneral​/­1 3–05–2017​/­o tkuda​-­v​-­r ossii​-­v zyalsya​-­s erb​-­7 144feaa​-­4 13d​-­4 32f​-­b 960​ -­798fd40ba011. 59. Norman Cigar, Vojislav Kostunica and Serbia’s ­Future (London: Saqi Books, 2002). 60. Marcel van Herpen, Putinism: The Slow Rise of a Radical Right Regime in Rus­sia (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013), 171–188. 61. This comparison was previously published in Marlene Laruelle, “Putinism as Gaullism,” Open Democracy, February 21, 2017, https://­www​.­opendemocracy​.­net​/­od​-­russia​ /­marlene​-­laruelle​/­putinism​-­as​-­gaullism.

NOTES TO PAGES 158–164

209

CONCLUSION

1. Lionel Barber, Henry Foy, and Alex Barker, “Vladimir Putin Says liberalism Has ‘Become Obsolete,’ ” Financial Times, June 27, 2019. 2. On extreme media saturation, see Jacob Groshek and Karolina Koc-­Michalska, “Helping Pop­u­lism Win? Social Media Use, Filter ­Bubbles, and Support for Populist Presidential Candidates in the 2016 US Election Campaign,” Information, Communication & Society 20, no. 9 (2017): 1389–1407. On anti-­elitism and a conspiratorial mindset, see Rob Brotherton, Suspicious Minds: Why We Believe Conspiracy Theories (London: Bloomsbury Sigma, 2015). 3. Oliver Stone, The Putin Interviews, Showtime, 2017. 4. Vladimir Putin, “Rossiia na rubezhe tysiacheletii,” Nezavisimaia gazeta, December 30, 1999, http://­www​.­ng​.­ru​/­politics​/­1999–12​-­30​/­4​_­millenium​.­html. 5. Boris Dubin, Rossiia nulevykh: Politicheskaia kul´tura: Istoricheskaia pamiat ´: Povsednevnaia zhizn´ (Moscow: ROSSPEN, 2011). 6. Jardar Østbø, “Securitizing ‘Spiritual-­Moral Values’ in Rus­sia,” Post Soviet Affairs 33, no. 3 (2017): 200–216. 7. Robert A. Saunders and Vlad Strukov, “The Popu­lar Geopolitics Feedback Loop: Thinking beyond the ‘Rus­sia against the West’ Paradigm,” Europe-­Asia Studies 69, no. 2 (2017): 303–324. 8. Richard Sakwa, “The New Atlanticism: An Alternative Atlantic Security System,” Rus­ sia in Global Affairs, September 21, 2015, http://­eng​.­globalaffairs​.­ru​/­number​/­The​-­New​ -­Atlanticism​-­17695. 9. This partly contradicts another impor­tant notion in Rus­sian intellectual life, that of Sonderweg. On that topic, see a comparison with Germany in Leonid Luks, Zwei Sonderwege? Russisch-­deutsche Parallelen und Kontraste (1917–2014) (Stuttgart: Ibidem-­Verlag, 2014). 10. Iver Neuman, Rus­sia and the Idea of Eu­rope (London: Routledge, 2017). See also Joanna Szostek, “Defence and Promotion of Desired State Identity in Rus­sia’s Strategic Narrative,” Geopolitics 22, no. 3 (2017): 571–593. 11. Sergei A. Ivanov, “The Second Rome as Seen by the Third: Rus­sian Debates on ‘the Byzantine Legacy,’ ” in The Reception of Byzantium in Eu­ro­pean Culture since 1500, ed. Przemyslaw Marciniak and Dion C. Smythe, 55–80 (Farnham: Ashgate, 2016). 12. On the notion of katekhon, see Maria Engström, “Con­temporary Rus­sian Messianism and New Rus­sian Foreign Policy,” Con­temporary Security Policy 35, no. 3 (2014): 356–379; and Michael Hagemeister, “Der ‘Nördliche Katechon’–­‘Neobyzantismus’ und ‘politischer Hesychasmus’ im postsowjetischen Russland,” Erfurter Vorträge zur Kulturgeschichte des Orthodoxen Christentums 15 (2016). 13. Ellen Rutten and Vera Zvereva, “Introduction,” in Memory, Conflict and New Media: Web Wars in Post-­Socialist States, ed. Ellen Rutten, Julie Fedor, and Vera Zvereva (London: Routledge, 2013), 1. 14. Haral Wydra, Communism and the Emergence of Democracy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 226, quoted in Maria Mälksoo, “The Memory Politics of Becoming Eu­ro­pe­an: The East Eu­ro­pean Subalterns and the Collective Memory of Eu­ rope,” Eu­ro­pean Journal of International Relations 15, no. 4 (2009): 662. 15. Maria Lipman, “Putin’s Nation-­Building Proj­ect Offers Reconciliation Without Truth,” Open Democracy, April 12, 2017, https://­www​.­opendemocracy​.­net​/­od​-­russia​/­maria​ -­lipman​/­putins​-­nation​-­building​-­project​-­reconciliation​-­without​-­truth. 16. See, for instance, Dina Khapaeva, “Triumphant Memory of the Perpetrators: Putin’s Politics of Re-­Stalinization,” Communist and Post-­Communist Studies 49, no. 1 (2016): 61–73.

210 NOTES TO PAGES 165–166

17. Sarah Rainsford, “Wall of Grief: Rus­sia Remembers Victims of Soviet Repression,” BBC, August 17, 2017, https://­www​.­bbc​.­com​/­news​/­world​-­europe​-­40948224. 18. See Marlene Laruelle, “Politika pamiati Russkoi Pravoslavnoi Tserkvi: Reabilitiruia, perekhvatyvaia, vozvrashchaia,” in Politika pamiati v sovremennoi Rossii i stranakh Vostochnoi Evropy: Aktory, instituty, narrativy, ed. Aleksei Miller and D. V. Efremenko (St. Petersburg: Eu­ro­pean University, 2019). 19. On the cultural aspect of memory of Soviet terror, see Aleksandr Etkind, “Post-­ Soviet Hauntology: Cultural Memory of the Soviet Terror,” Constellations 16, no. 1 (2009): 182–200; and Maria Ferretti, “Unreconciled Memory: War, Stalinism, and the Shadows of Patriotism,” Osteuropa 4–6 (2005), 45–55. 20. Samuel Charap and Timothy Colton, Every­one Loses: The Ukraine Crisis and the Ruinous Contest for Post-­Soviet Eurasia (London: Routledge, 2017).

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Index

Ahnenerbe (Ancestral Heritage), 93, 113, 116–117 Aleksandrov, Kirill, 53–54 Alfeev, Hilarion, 128–130 Alliance for Deutschland (AfD), 131 alt-­right: Steve Bannon 23; on Vladimir Putin 132; Richard Spencer 132; Donald Trump 23 annexation/occupation of Baltic States, 66, 77 antiliberal, 13, 21, 57, 87–88 anti-­Semitism, 25, 32–35, 40, 49, 68, 69, 92, 99 Arendt, Hannah, 142. See Totalitarianism Aryanism: definition, 91–92; and fascism, 79; and Nazism, 34–35, 41, 91–93; in Rus­sian culture, 40–44, 100–102, 108–110, 112–115, 117, 120, 145, 152; Second World War, 76; swastika, 25, 110; white world, 113, 123, 132 authoritarianism, 6, 14, 16, 21, 27, 37, 70, 85, 142, 143, 156, 159 autocracy, 14, 25, 96, 121, 143, 162, 169 Bagrov, Danila, 59 Baltic states: Estonia, 34, 64–68, 72, 77, 150; Latvia, 64–65, 67–68, 72–73, 150; Lithuania, 65–66, 111. See Bronze Soldier Bandera, Stepan, 68–69, 75, 78–79 Bannon, Steve, 23, 132, 135. See Alt-­Right Barkashov, Aleksandr, 14–15, 101–103, 111. See Rus­sian National Unity Basmanov, Vladimir, 106 Belarus, 34, 44, 54, 67, 81, 124, 147 Belov, Aleksandr, 104–106, 132. See Movement against Illegal Immigration (DPNI) Berlusconism, 18, 155 Bezverkhii, Viktor, 34–35, 113 Biriukov, Fiodor, 93–94, 98, 134. See Rodina Black Block (Chernyi blok), 106 Black Hundreds, 14, 25, 34–35, 40–42, 85, 94–96, 99, 120, 157, 169 Bolshevik Revolution: National Bolshevism, 34, 46, 103, 131; in Soviet Union 47 Bonapartism, 18, 155 Brezhnev, Leonid, 29, 30, 32, 40, 45, 89, 157 BRICS, 88

Bronze Soldier, 66, 72. See Baltic States Brzezinski, Zbigniew, 3 Bulgaria, 98, 131, 134 Byzantium, 88, 162 Chavchavadze, Zurab, 130 Chechnya, 108, 110, 155 China, 21–22, 36, 45, 88, 143, 149, 163, 175, 227, 240 Chivilikhin, Vladimir, 41 Chris­tian­ity, 34, 41, 56, 102–104, 113, 129 162–165 Clinton, Hillary, 3 Cold War (pre-­and post-), 19, 62–64, 73, 80, 83, 125, 141, 148–150, 165–166, 180 collaborationism (collaborationist), 34, 52–54, 60, 67, 82, 84. See Vlasov, Andrey Commission to Fight Against Falsifications of History to the Detriment of Rus­sia’s Interests, 74 communism: and Brezhnev, Leonid, 29, 40; and fascism, 11; and remembering the Holocaust, 164; as related to Nazism, 16, 17, 31, 117, 142, 166; and Rus­sia’s Far Right, 122–123; and memorialization of Second World War, 1–2, 64 Communist Party, The: archives, 33; General Secretary Leonid Brezhnev, 29 Communist Party of the Rus­sian Federation (CPRF), 79, 91 concentration camps: definition, 20, 58; deniers, 122; gas chambers, 74; memory appropriation, 64, 164 conservative revolution: counternarratives, 41; and fascism, 13, 126; German conservative revolution, 35, 103, 115–117, 140; grassroots groups, 100–101; “Solzhenitsynian” and anti-­Soviet sentiments, 54; theories related to, 35 Cossacks, 26, 107–108, 151, 154 Crimea: annexation of, 3–4, 14–16, 19, 55, 75, 78–80, 87, 110–11, 141, 147–150, 163; pro-­Russian government of, 80; reintegration, 79. See also Ukraine Czecho­slo­va­kia, 64, 141 251

252 Index

Danilov Vladimir, 112 de Benoist, Alain, 122, 133 democracy: and the far right, 136; in Rus­sia 166; understood apropos Eu­rope, 166; versus authoritarianism, 159; and Western liberalism, 159 Demushkin, Dmitrii, 104–106, 123 de Smet, Francois, 20 Dialogue of Civilizations, 96, 132, 146. See Yakunin, Vladimir Donbas: war in, 16, 47, 78–81, 89, 97, 108–111, 145, 151, 165 Dugin, Aleksandr, 14, 89, 90–92, 112, 132–133, 135, 142, 144, 160; and fascism 24, 35–36, 98, 114–126. See Eurasianism Duke, David, 104, 122–123, 132. See Ku Klux Klan Dzhemal, Geidar, 35–36 Eco, Umberto: Ur–­fascism, 13, 112, 148, 155, 159 Ehrenburg, Ilya, 31–32 Enlightenment: anti-­, 11, 145; Soviet regime and egalitarian ideology, 34, 162; universalism, 11, 34; humanism, 11, 34; rationalism, 11; materialism, 11 Eurasianism, 115, 120, 125, 163. See Dugin, Aleksandr Euromaidan revolution, 69, 78, 150 Eu­ro­pean Court of H ­ uman Rights (ECHR), 72 Eu­ro­pean Far Right, 89–90, 94–96, 121–139, 159, 166 Eu­ro­pean Parliament: On the Importance of Eu­ro­pean Remembrance for the ­Future of Eu­rope (resolution), 2, 70; PACE resolution, 70–71; and Zhirinovsky, 125 Evola, Julius, 35, 115, 122 Far Right: Eu­ro­pean far-­right: 15, 19, 22–23, 95–96, 139; New Right, 93, 115 121–123, 125, 135, 170, 198; Rus­sian far-­right globally, 14–15, 24, 35, 110, 113–114, 120; Rus­sian authorities relations to Rus­sian far right, 84, 100–107, 138, 151–152; Rus­sia reaching out to Eu­ro­pean and U.S. far right, 9, 120–137, 140, 166; Ukrainian far right 79 fascism: antifascism, 8–9, 27, 43–61, 100–101; and conservatism, 26; evil of, 2, 5, 20–21, 43, 49, 80; in Italy, 140; and neo-­fascism, 23, 52; peripheral, 8, 12, 98, 115; Rus­sian term “fashizm,” 9, 28, 30–33, 37, 48–61; typologies of, 14–19; vigilantism, 100, 107, 112, 159 Faye, Guillaume, 123, 133 Filippov, Aleksandr, 49 Finland, 2, 76, 131, 134

Foucault, Michel, 11, 114 Fourth Po­liti­cal Theory, The, 116. See Dugin, Aleksandr Franco, Francisco, 18, 140 Frankfurt School, 11 Freedom Party of Austria (FPÖ), 131 Galkin, Aleksandr A., 13 Gaullism, 155–156 Georgian–­Russian conflict, 108 Georgia, 65, 108, 130, 149–150, 159 genocide: and fascism, 71, 79–81; Holocaust, 21; Holodomor (famine), 67; Lithuania’s definition, 66; and its acknowl­edgment ­after the Orange Revolution, 67 Gentile, Giovanni, 144 Germany: Angela Merkel, 20; Berlin Wall, 63–64; and war reparations, 19; Weimar Republic, 14–18, 107 Glazunov, Ilia, 40 Glazyev, Sergey, 125, 135 Globalization: narratives, 87; and Rus­sia, 136, 155–158 Golden Dawn, 23, 124, 126, 133–134. See Greece Golovin, Evgenii, 35 ­Great Patriotic War, 43, 44–47, 51, 54, 56, 59–61, 75, 78–79. See Second World War Greece, 19, 23, 37, 70, 98, 118, 131, 134. See Golden Dawn Griffin, Roger, 12–18, 134, 144 Grossman, Vasily, 32 Guénon, René, 35 Gudkov, Lev, 17, 56 GULAG, 36, 52, 153 Heidegger, Martin, 117 Hero Cities, 29, 44 Himmler, Heinrich, 53 Hitler, Adolf: Hitlerism, 4, 116; Hitlerjugend, 117; Mein Kampf, 32, 35, 51, 144; Nazi symbolism, 38–39, 81, 101, 113; pre-­war Hitlerism, 4; pro-­Ukrainian media proj­ect, 3 Holocaust, 1, 17, 20–21, 122, 124, 164; in Central Eu­ro­pean narratives, 63–64, 67, 70; in Rus­sian perceptions, 51, 57–58, 61, 74, 83, 113; Soviet reading of, 30, 32–33 ­human rights, 4, 21, 25, 70–72, 144, 165 Hungary, 24, 71, 124–125, 131, 133, 139, 153 Iampolski, Mikhail, 17 illiberalism, 139; Christianism, 22; classical fascism, 158; parafascism, 158; postliberalism, 158, 21–22 Ilyin, Ivan, 17, 98, 140–145, 160

Index

Immortal Regiment, 46–47, 60 Imperialism, 134, 138, 146, 148 Inozemtsev, Vladislav, 3, 18, 153 Islam/Islamization, 22, 122 Israel: anti-­Semitism 40; Yad Vashem Institute, 33; Zionism, 40–41 Ivan the Terrible, 93, 96 Ivashov, Leonid, 90, 118 Izborsky Club, 92–93. See Prokhanov, Aleksandr Jews/Jewish, 17, 36, 40–41, 93, 102, 111, 113; and Holocaust 1, 32–33, 51, 57–58, 81 Jobbik, 125, 133. See Hungary Judaism, 34 Judocracy, 154 Kasparov, Garry, 4–5, 10, 20–21; other Rus­sia movement, 106; Reductio ad Hitlerum, 4, 10, 20, 21; Winter is Coming, 4 Kazakhstan, 55, 81, 119, 150 KGB, 34–35, 40, 59, 90, 95–96, 141 Kirill (Patriarch), 108, 128–29. See Rus­sian Orthodox Church, and Moscow Patriarchate Kononov, Vassilii, 72–73 Kremlin: and grassroots fascism, 99, 121; military industrial complex, 148; Orthodox realm, 84; presidential administration, 157. See Presidential Administration Kulbakin, Vasilii, 32 Kyrgyzstan, 55, 81 Laqueur, Walter, 14, 31 LaRouche, Lyndon, 125 Latin Amer­i­ca, 12–17, 35, 142–143, 158 Lavrov, Sergey, 43, 73 Lebensraum, 51, 81, 149 Lega, 23, 124–125, 134 Leningrad, 34, 40, 45, 50, 55, 105 Le Pen, Jean Marie, 90, 105, 124, 127 Le Pen, Marine, 131, 134, 136, 166 Levada Center, 17, 46, 56–57, 79, 146 Levi, Primo, 164 Liberal-­Democratic Party of Rus­sia (LDPR), 79, 90, 152. See Zhirinovsky, Vladimir Limonov, Eduard, 58, 102–103, 122, 124. See National Bolshevik Party/ Limonovtsy Lipski, Józef, 1 Luzhkov, Yury, 74, 97,108, 151 Malofeev, Konstantin, 95–97, 118–119, 125, 130–133, 135 Marxism, 11, 85, 136, 175

253

Marxism–­Leninism, 91, 144 Masculinity, 100, 107, 111–112, 153–154 Medinskii, Vladimir, 55, 77 Medvedev, Dmitry, 2–3, 74 Memory Wars, 62–83; and Yalta Order, 64, 83, 141, 166 Merkel, Angela, 171, 238. See Germany Mikhalkov, Nikita, 94, 98 militia (culture), 39, 47, 80, 93, 102, 106–112, 138, 154–155, 159 Mitrofanov, Aleksei, 92, 152 Mitrofanov, Grigorii, 52 Mizulina, Yelena, 95, 130 Mixed Martial Arts, 109–110 Mohler, Armin, 126 Moldova, 34, 65 Molotov–­Ribbentrop Pact, 16, 29–30, 33, 50–51, 57, 70, 76–77, 83, 116 Moscow Patriarchate, 92, 94–97, 126–131, 162. See Rus­sian Orthodox Church Motyl, Alexander, 16–17, 142–43, 170, 234 Movement against Illegal Immigration (DPNI), 104, 123. See Belov, Aleksandr multiculturalism, 21–22, 132 multilateralism, 190, 131 Munich Agreement, 50, 76, 139, 165 Mussolini, Benito, 3, 17, 75, 103, 144, 158. See Fascism Mutti, Claudio, 122, 133 myth, 3, 6–8, 13, 43–48, 55, 59–60, 139, 145, 159, 161 Narochnitskaia, Natalia, 132, 135, 152 Naryshkin, Sergey, 74, 131, 151 Nashi (pro-­presidential youth movement), 18, 46 Nasledie predkov (The Heritage of Ancestors, newspaper), 113, 123 nationalism: as a heuristic, 13; apropos fascism, 13–15, 18; and Bolshevism, 115, 120, 122, 157; in Rus­sia, 34, 39–42 National Bolshevik Party/ Limonovtsy, 35, 54, 58 102, 103, 118, 131. See Limonov, Edward Nazism: in cinema, 33, 37–39; Hitlerjugend, 18, 39, 117; Mein Kampf, 32, 35, 51, 144; national socialism, 36, 39, 58, 91, 102, 104, 116, 120, 140; Nazi youth movement, 18; palinge­ne­tic ultranationalism, 12, 18; propaganda, 33–36 neoliberalism, 6, 164 Nicholas II, 36. See Tsar/tsarism Night Wolves Club, 110–111, 154 non-­conformism, 41

254 Index

North Atlantic Treaty Organ­ization (NATO), The, 63, 72, 78, 80–81, 89, 135, 149, 156, 164–165 Nuremberg ­trials, 3, 31, 72–75 Obyknovennyi fascism (documentary), 32. See Romm, Mikhail Ochsenreiter, Manuel, 126, 133 oprichnina/oprichniki, 93, 117 Orbán, Victor. See Hungary Orwell, George, 5, 142 Panfilov division, 55 parafascism, 24–26, 157, 158 paramilitarism, 152, 153 Parvulesco, Jean, 121 Patriotism, 29, 88, 109–110, 140, 146 Pauwels, Louis, 38 Paxton, Robert, 148 Perestroika, 52, 77, 86, 90, 106, 113–114, 141, 160; and revisiting history 30, 33, 44, 56 Peskov, Dmitrii, 55 Peter the ­Great, 59 pluralism, 14, 88 Podberezkin, Aleksandr, 92 Poklonnaya Gora, 44 Poland: Andrzej Duda, 1; Auschwitz–­Birkenau, 1; illiberalism, 139; Nazi propaganda, 34; Night Wolves (biker club), 111; on Stalinism and Nazism, 70–71; and its relationship to Rus­sia, 1–3, 131; in Second World War, 76 Politburo, 33, 40. See Communist Party of the Rus­sian Federation (CPRF) Po­liti­cal Capital Institute, 131 Popov, Gavriil, 52–53 pop­u­lism, 22–23, 27 Poroshenko, Viktor, 69. See Ukraine Portugal, 12, 70, 140, 142 postcolonialism, 138, 148, 149, 159 Presidential Administration, 26, 74, 84, 86–89, 95, 98, 111, 118, 131, 135, 157. See Kremlin Prokhanov, Aleksandr, 89, 93–94, 118. See Izborsky Club propaganda: cultural studies, 13; definition of, 6; Nazi propaganda, 33–34; Rus­sian propaganda, 17, 19, 105; Soviet propaganda, 31, 54–55 punk ‘Nazi chic,’ 39 Pushkov, Aleksei, 3, 90, 131 Pussy Riot, 108 Putin, Vladimir, 76–79, 158; anti-­Putinism, 55, 103, 105, 108; Bolotnaya protests (2011–2012), 87; and military industrial

complex, 84, 86, 90–94, 108, 148; on Molotov–­Ribbentrop Pact,  16, 29–30, 33, 50–51, 57, 70, 76–77, 83, 116, 139, 165 raciology (school), 113, 123 Red Army, 1, 31, 48, 50–52 Reductio ad Hitlerum, 4, 10, 20–21 regime theory, 142–144 Republic of Lokot, 54. See Voskoboinik, Konstantin Reshetnikov, Leonid, 97–98. See Rus­sian Institute for Strategic Studies (RISI) Rodina, 91–93, 98, 119, 122, 126–128, 134–135, 152 Rodionov, Igor, 90, 117 Rogozin, Dmitri, 127, 132, 135, 151 Röhm, Ernst, 116 Romm, Mikhail, 32. See Obyknovennyi fashizm (documentary) Roo­se­velt, Theodore, 44 Rozanov, German, 32 Rus­sia: (neo)paganism, 34, 41; article 354.1 of the Penal Code “On the Rehabilitation of Nazism,” 75; characterized as “evil,” 164; Chris­tian­ity, 34, 41, 56, 102, 113, 129, 162–163; conservatism, 26, 27, 88–94, 145, 157, 166; exceptionalism (Rus­sian), 14–19, 24, 149, 155; feminism, 136; gay pride parade, 108; heroism, 29, 56, 82; Kremlin, 3–4, 17, 27, 45–46, 62, 66, 76, 85–101, 118; May 9th, 44–48, 62–66, 76, 81, 92; militia subculture, 112, 138, 154–155, 159; othering, 19, 21; patriotism, 109–110, 140, 146–147; pluralism, 14, 88; post–­Soviet Rus­sia, 6, 14–15, 30, 91, 101, 107, 114–115; Pravda (newspaper), 32; quasi–­fascist regime, 17; revanchism, 85; Rus­sian Orthodoxy, 3; Rus­sian Spring, 81, 89, 105 111, 119, 146; Russophobia, 40 Rus­sian conservatism, 88–92, 157, 166 Rus­sian Image, 105 Rus­sian Imperial Movement, 96, 105, 111 Rus­sian Institute for Strategic Studies (RISI), 97. See Reshetnikov, Leonid Rus­sian Marches, 46, 104, 106, 151 Rus­sian National Unity (RNU), 101–105, 111, 115. See Barkashov, Aleksandr Rus­sian Orthodox Church, 108–109, 121, 128–129, 165. See Moscow Patriarchate Rus­sian Party, 40, 94, 113 Rus­sian World, 18, 132, 149, 156 Russkie, 105, 111

Index

Salvini, Matteo, 23, 131, 133. See Lega Slavophilism, Slavophiles, 3, 88, 113, 162 Sambo, 109, 154 Saveliev, Andrei, 93 Schmitt, Carl, 117 Second World War, 1–4, 16, 20–21, 28, 33, 46–60, 62–81, 116, 130, 134, 161, 165–166. See ­Great Patriotic War Serbia, 45, 98, 124, 131, 134 “Seventeen Moments of Spring” (Semnadtsat’ mgnovenii vesny), 37–40. See Stierlitz, Max Otto von Shchegolev, Igor, 97 Shekhovtsov, Anton, 115, 133 Shenfield, Stephen, 14–15 Shimanov, Gennadii, 34 Shlosberg, Lev, 4 skinheads, 103–106 Skurlatov, Valerii, 41 Slovakia, 67, 71, 131 South Africa, 12, 88 Snyder, Timothy, 16–19, 139; On Tyranny, 19; on Ilyin, 140–141; arguments for Rus­sia as fascist, 16–19 Socialism, 6, 25, 31, 129 Solzhenitsyn, Aleksandr, 54, 140, 164 Sonderweg, 15, 116, 136 Sorok Sorokov, 108–109, 111–112, 186, 222, 225 Soviet State, 29, 31, 35 Soviet Union: International Congress on the Evaluation of Crimes of Communism, 65–66, 70–76; Iron Curtain, 22, 63, 121; national anthem, 44–45, 83, 91 SS Black Order, 35, 115 Spain, 12, 18, 70, 116, 122, 140, 142, 153 St. George’s Ribbon, 47–48, 60, 81 Stalin: Stalinism, 3, 29, 33, 34–35, 38, 40, 62, 67, 103; comparison with Nazism, 16–17, 32, 54, 58, 70–73, 76, 113, 139, 142–143; mystical Stalinism, 25–26, 91, 92–94, 120, 157; neo-­Stalinism, 85, 142–143, 164–165; Rus­sian debates on, 44–54, 78, 89 Stierlitz, Max Otto von, 38, 59. See “Seventeen Moments of Spring” Strach, Heinz-­Christian, 131 strategic narrative: fascism, 5–9, 161–163 Strauss, Leo, 20 Steuckers, Robert, 122–123 Surkov, Vladislav, 87, 89, 118 swastika, 17, 25, 31, 36–39, 80, 81, 94, 101, 104, 108, 110, 111 Syria, 129, 134, 163

255

Tatarstan, 147 Third Way, 103, 116, 170, 229, 231 Tikhon (bishop), 95–98, 108, 125 Time of Trou­bles, 46, 178 totalitarianism, 11, 16, 58, 103, 138, 142–144. See Arendt, Hannah transitional justice, 64, 184, 249 Trump, Donald, 17, 19, 23, 129 Tsar/tsarist, 14, 31, 36, 47–48, 55, 65, 92, 108, 170; nostalgia for, 25–26, 35–36, 40–41, 55, 94–98, 120. See Nicholas II Turkey, 19, 119, 162, 206, 223, 234; Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, 143 Ukraine: Holodomor (famine), 66–67, 183–84, 211, 230, 241; Orange Revolution, 47, 66–67; Yalta Conference, 74, 93, 151, 176; press (“Putler”), 3 Ukrainian–­Russian conflict of 2014: Crimea 19, 106, 141, 165, 163–65, 204, 207, 212, 225–28; interpretation of the annexation/reintegration of 47, 55, 75, 78–79, 110–111, 147; paralleled with Anschluss, 3–4, 14, 16, 141, 149–50; tensions with the West over, 87, 133, 150, 163 Umland, Andreas, 15, 24, 91 Union of ­Bearers of Orthodox Banners, 96 United Kingdom: Churchill, Winston, 4, 44; Conservative Party, 136; punk culture, 39 United States: anti-­Americanism, 88; anti-­Russian policy, 79; Bannon, Steve, 135; CIA, 59; Cold War, 80; conservatism, 87; conspiracy theory, 104; exceptionalism, 139; far right, 132, 137, 150; liberal order, 161–162; nuclear doctrines, 148; presidential election (2016),129; pop culture, 107; rejection of 2009 United Nations General Assembly resolution, 73; Roo­se­velt, 44; slavery and segregation, 100, 134 Victory Day, 28–30, 43, 45–46, 56, 69, 73, 111, 117, 173, 177, 235 Victory Parade, 1, 167, 238 Vio­lence: Soviet Union, 49, 60, 72, 77–78; Stalinist, 53; Islamist, 57; fascism, 58; against Ukrainian ­people, 67; committed by skinheads, 105–106 van Herpen, Marcel, 18 Viatrovych, Volodymyr, 69 Victory Flag (znamia pobedy), 45 vigilantism, 26, 106–107 Vlasov, Andrey, 50–54, 81. See Collaborationism

256 Index

Volgograd (formerly Sta­lin­grad), 44 Voskoboinik, Konstantin, 54. See Republic of Lokot Waffen-­SS Division Galizien, 68–69 Weber, Max, 11, 114 Weimar Germany, 14–18, 107 White Power movement, 39, 96, 104–105 White Rus­sia, 100, 123, 130 White émigré culture, 85, 94–99 White Guard Class, The, 40 White supremacy: alt-­right, 23, 132 (see also alt-­right); Ku Klux Klan, 96, 104, 108, 122, 132 (see David Duke) Wilde, Oscar, 6 World Congress of Families, 129 xenophobia, 73, 120, 127, 155, 163

Yakunin, Vladimir, 96–97, 130, 132, 135. See Dialogue of Civilizations Yalta (order), 64, 83, 141, 165–166 Yeltsin, Boris, 14, 44 Yevgenii, Ikhlov, 4 Yushchenko, Viktor, 67–68. See Ukraine Yuzhinsky (Golovin) Circle, 35–36, 115 Zeitgeist, 100, 160 Zelensky, Volodymyr, 1 Zhirinovsky, Vladimir, 14–15, 58, 79, 90–91, 118, 124–125, 134–135, 152. See Liberal-­ Democratic Party of Rus­sia zionology, 40 Zubov, Andrei, 17, 54, 55