Tag Archive for: Russia

Russia will honour Navalny some day

We may never know exactly how and why Alexei Navalny died in the remote Arctic penal colony where he was detained. The communiqué Russian officials issued within two minutes of the popular opposition leader’s reported time of death will never be believed, and the delay in releasing his body to his mother only adds to the suspicion.

Still, we can say for certain that were it not for the Kremlin, Navalny would be alive today. After trying to kill him with a sophisticated nerve agent a few years ago, President Vladimir Putin’s regime had been moving him to increasingly brutal prisons. With Russia holding a presidential ‘election’ this year, it seems Navalny was deemed too dangerous to keep alive.

I first met Navalny in early 2011, when I was invited to address a conference in Moscow honouring the memory of Andrei Sakharov, the father of the Soviet hydrogen bomb who went on to become an exponent of the liberal opposition in the late-Soviet era. In fact, Navalny was one of the main reasons why I made the trip. He had started to make a name for himself, and we arranged a breakfast that turned into a long conversation.

While the old dissident generation had fought the Soviet regime with pens and words, Navalny represented something different and new. His weapon was the documentary exposé. He went to great lengths to uncover the corruption and wealth of the ruling elite, then used those revelations to mobilise popular anger against a regime that was not only cementing its power but also brazenly enriching itself. His methods were those of an accountant or a lawyer: compiling the facts, following the money, exposing the schemes, and tracking the networks of corruption.

Some within the old opposition circles regarded him with suspicion. Their methods were nothing like his, and they never matched his ability to mobilise such broad swaths of the population. But listening to his determination and strategy, it was obvious to me that he had the makings of a future leader.

We met only a few more times in the years that followed. He wasn’t the kind of man who frequented international conferences or diplomatic gatherings. His life was spent inspiring people and organising across his vast country. Those efforts were punctuated by stints in prison on trumped up charges. But even then, he used his time, his charm, and his persuasive power to bring his jailers around to his view.

My contact with him was not popular with the authorities. After our first meeting, a paper close to the regime claimed to have come across a transcript of our breakfast. It published an attack on him, me, and Sweden, though without offering anything particularly sensational from the long FSB (Russian security service) intercept.

Our last meeting was the same. By then, Russia had taken a darker turn, and we had to make our arrangements with care, fearing FSB skullduggery (which had become a pattern). In the event, our plans worked well. We spent a long time discussing Russia’s political future and the danger of the regime’s obsession with Ukraine, and Navalny departed without any problems.

Three days later, however, Russia’s main Kremlin-aligned TV news channel opened its broadcast with photos from hidden cameras and another lengthy attack on me, Navalny, and our alleged plots against Russia. Since we had switched our meeting location just minutes before, the cameras and microphones had caught only glimpses of us disappearing into the new room. This may have made it look more suspicious than it really was. We would have gladly shared our views with the security services, but their incompetence prevented that.

Navalny could inspire and mobilise people like no other opposition leader in Russia. That is why the regime always went to such lengths to prevent him standing in any election. One occasion when he did make it on to the ballot was the 2013 Moscow mayoral election. Despite massive efforts by the regime to suppress the opposition vote, he received nearly one-third of the final tally. We will never know whether Navalny would have been elected president in a free Russia. But I have no doubt that he would have stood a good chance. He was the most talented politician in the country.

In a lengthy commentary he penned from prison, he made it clear that ending the war Putin had started against Ukraine—not even getting rid of Putin himself—was a precondition for the better Russia he sought. He attributed Russia’s current condition to a political system with an extreme concentration of power and outlined a vision of a Russia with an open parliamentary system of government. Only with a new political model, in his view, would Russia ‘cease to be an instigator of aggression and instability’.

Now Navalny is no more. But there is no doubt that his legacy will live on, haunting the regime as it hides behind the big walls of the Kremlin. One day, in another Russia, he will receive the honour he deserves.

 

The lonesome death of Alexei Navalny

Back in 2013, when Kremlin critic Alexei Navalny was facing bogus criminal charges, I recalled my great-grandfather, Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev, comparing Russia to a tub full of dough. ‘You put your hand down in it, down to the bottom,’ and ‘when you first pull out your hand, a little hole remains.’ But then, ‘before your very eyes,’ the dough returns to its original state—a ‘spongy, puffy mass.’ Navalny’s death in a remote Arctic penal colony more than a decade later proves that little has changed.

The prison where Navalny died is a particularly brutal one. Nicknamed ‘Polar Wolf,’ it is a freezing cold gulag for violent criminals. But Navalny—an anti-corruption lawyer and blogger—was not known for violence. In 2013, he was fending off trumped-up embezzlement charges, and the convictions that got him sent to Polar Wolf in 2021 were for parole violations, fraud, and contempt of court. While in prison, he accumulated more convictions on fabricated charges, including supporting extremism.

Navalny’s real crime, of course, was challenging President Vladimir Putin. From leading protests against the rigged parliamentary elections of 2011 to investigating the corruption of Russia’s elites, to seeking to unseat Putin (in a presidential election from which the authorities excluded him). He was relentless in his nearly two-decade-long campaign against Putin and his circle. The many legal proceedings were Stalin-style show trials—intended to give the illusion of justice, while getting a high-profile critic off ballots and television screens. But whereas the Stalin-era trials made liberal use of the death penalty (as well as gulags), no case against Navalny, no matter how trumped up, warranted it—at least not officially.

The Russian prison service claims that Navalny lost consciousness after a walk and could not be resuscitated, despite the best efforts of emergency medical workers. But Navalny did not seem ‘unwell‘ the previous day, when he took part in online court proceedings, or the day before that, when his lawyer visited him. This is not to say that Navalny’s death was definitely a direct hit, ordered by Putin himself. Life at Polar Wolf would destroy anyone’s health. But, directly or indirectly, it was Putin who killed Navalny.

And this was not even the first attempt. In the summer of 2020, Navalny was poisoned by the nerve agent Novichok—a Soviet creation—and was airlifted to Berlin to recover. He knew that returning to Russia would mean more politically motivated prosecutions, like those of former Yukos CEO Mikhail Khodorkovsky and punk-rock agitators Pussy Riot. He even knew that he could end up being killed, like Boris Nemtsov, Anna Politkovskaya, and countless others. But he chose to return to Russia to continue confronting Putin.

Navalny was arrested immediately upon landing in Moscow. The protests that ensued, with tens of thousands of Russians taking to the streets to demand his release, only reinforced the Kremlin’s view of him as a threat that had to be neutralised. In the show trials that followed, no government authority dared even to use his name, referring to him instead as the ‘German patient’. It was like living in the Harry Potter universe, where the feared Lord Voldemort is called ‘he who must not be named’.

When I wrote about the Navalny show trials in 2013, I suggested that Russia might have been evolving, albeit slowly. Little did I know that this period would later be remembered as ‘vegetarian times,’ when independent media were suppressed but not banned, public protest was punished but not with long prison sentences, and a high-profile enemy of the Kremlin like Navalny could keep running an anti-corruption foundation and speaking out against injustice. But since Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine in 2022, the Kremlin has become carnivorous.

Since the invasion, almost 300 cases have been initiated just for ‘discrediting the Russian armed forces’. Nowadays, all it takes to get your own show trial in Russia is to recite an anti-war poem. The tragedy of the despot is that the fight never ends. The more show trials a regime holds, the more it must hold to keep people in check. The more repression people endure, the more repression is needed to avoid a backlash. The more blood is spilled, the more blood has to be spilled.

There is no end point—no finish line—for an authoritarian like Putin. He must hold onto power today, and then do it again tomorrow. It is reasonable to assume, then, that in the run-up to Russia’s next sham presidential election next month, Putin’s tolerance for dissent is at an all-time low.

Yes, the election is expected to run smoothly, and Navalny’s death arguably has attracted more attention than his statements from prison ever did. It remains possible that the murder was indirect. But that same logic would have applied to the poisonings of Russian-British double agent Sergei Skripal and his daughter Yulia two weeks before the 2018 presidential election. Neither victim posed an imminent threat to Putin, and their deaths attracted a lot of negative international attention. But Putin needed to send a message: enemies beware.

And the dough refills the tub.

Germany’s dangerous alternatives

 

For years, German foreign policy was rarely a domain of fierce debate over fundamentally different alternatives. Since reunification (1989-91), Europe’s largest country and strongest economy has defined its foreign policy in terms of European and transatlantic relations, implying ever-deeper anchoring within the European Union and NATO. In practice, this meant outsourcing German security to the transatlantic alliance, disinvesting militarily, and concentrating on boosting the country’s economic power.

Postwar Germany’s highest priority has been to forge compromises with fellow Europeans, both deepening and enlarging the EU, which German leaders have seen as the single most important contribution the country can make to peace and prosperity on the continent. Not only is the goal of a stronger EU formally enshrined in the Basic Law for the Federal Republic of Germany, but the country’s economic model relies heavily on European integration and global market access. That reliance has only increased now that cheap energy from Russia no longer underpins the economy’s competitiveness.

But Germany’s party system is changing ahead of this spring’s European Parliament elections. Newer, radical parties are openly challenging the postwar consensus. Indeed, the far-right Alternative für Deutschland (AfD) is promoting an exit from the EU, an end to support for Ukraine and sanctions against Russia, and a reversal of the country’s decarbonization policies.

Two years into the current government’s tenure, support for the AfD has risen to 20% in national polls, and it polls nearly 30% in the three eastern German states that will hold elections this fall. Domestic intelligence authorities are on the watch and have already designated three regional AfD chapters as extremist groups.

Back in 2014 (a year after its founding), the AfD made a point of openly supporting NATO and the United States. But those commitments have faded. In recent years, according to the German investigative outlet Correctiv, AfD politicians have echoed Russian narratives and talking points, describing the US as a ‘foreign power’. Following Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine in February 2022, AfD politicians continued to travel to Russia and to Russian-occupied territory in Ukraine.

AfD members also continue to promote ties with the Russian-led Eurasian Economic Community and the China- and Russia-dominated Shanghai Cooperation Organization. And recently, the AfD incorporated the idea of a ‘multipolar world’—the battle cry of Russian and Chinese nationalists— into its party program.

These changes should do away with the founding myth that the AfD is a copy of the Christian Democrats of the 1980s, firmly anchored in Western values. Never has a party in the Federal Republic adopted a policy of embracing the Kremlin so strongly. The AfD’s strategic re-orientation toward Russia sets it apart even from many other right-wing parties in Europe, including those in Finland and Sweden. In Italy, the right-wing nationalist prime minister, Giorgia Meloni, has openly sided with Ukraine and criticised the AfD for its Russia ties.

Another radical party that has jumped to double-digit support in the polls is the Bündnis Sahra Wagenknecht (BSW), founded just last month by Wagenknecht, a longtime senior figure in Germany’s far-left party, Die Linke. Wagenknecht wants immediate ‘peace’ negotiations with Vladimir Putin and a resumption of cheap Russian hydrocarbon imports. When it comes to Russia’s war of aggression and internationally recognised war crimes against the Ukrainian people, she is largely silent. With Russian disinformation campaigns gearing up ahead of this year’s elections, her party has a good chance of entering German state governments and the European Parliament.

Support for the BSW and the AfD has come at the expense of the ruling coalition members: the Social Democrats, the Greens, and the pro-business Free Democrats. Their popularity is now at historic lows, with some eastern German chapters polling at levels below the 5% threshold to remain in parliament.

True, support for the coalition parties is higher nationally (the eastern states represent only one-fifth of the electorate), and even if the AfD or the BSW make it into regional governments, foreign policy would remain primarily a federal matter. Nonetheless, the AfD’s growing support has led established parties—especially the center-right Christian Democrats—to harden their positions on issues such as migration.

German business leaders are waking up to these developments as the country enters its second year of recession. One big worry is that if the AfD gains more ground, sorely needed high-skilled migrant labour may dry up and foreign investment may decline. Companies planning to set up shop in Germany —such as the chip producers TSMC and Intel—would have a hard time persuading their staff to move to a country with increasingly nativist politics. Corporate leaders are speaking up, realising that protecting Germany’s open society is an economic priority as much as it is a moral and political one.

Even more importantly, millions of Germans have taken to the streets following a report by Correctiv that AfD members had met with neo-Nazis to discuss mass deportations of immigrants and ‘non-assimilated citizens’. Even the French far-right leader Marine Le Pen has now distanced herself from the AfD.

Following these revelations, this year’s Holocaust Remembrance Day (January 27) and the promise of ‘never again’ acquired a newly poignant resonance. More people are recognising that far-right extremists could become a part of the government in the near future. The fragility of democracy, and the possibility that Germany—or even Europe—will return to the darkness of its past, cannot be discounted.

For now, Germany’s commitment to Ukraine holds. While the governing coalition is often criticised for late arms deliveries, it has just earmarked another €7 billion ($7.6 billion) worth of aid for Ukraine. Germany is now shouldering over half of all EU aid, even though it accounts for only one-quarter of the bloc’s GDP.

But with the prospect of a victory for Donald Trump in this year’s US presidential election, German Chancellor Olaf Scholz has made it clear that others must step up. Germany needs to invest billions into digitalisation, the green transition, its ailing military, transportation infrastructure, and education; but it cannot afford to weaken its European commitment. While the three governing parties have each become somewhat more restrictive on migration, they have doubled down on strengthening the EU.

That means the upcoming European elections will finally offer voters a real choice with far-reaching implications. Moderates will need to explain that a symbolic protest vote for radicals holds real dangers. As Scholz recently warned: ‘Nationalists act against national interest’. At a time when Germany and Europe must adapt to a new geopolitical environment, the danger is acute.

 

The enduring impacts of Russia’s 2008 war on Georgia

When contemplating various scenarios for how the conflict with Russia might end, Ukraine’s leaders can take clear lessons from Moscow’s brutal military campaign against another one-time Soviet state, Georgia.

The Russo-Georgian War of 2008 marked a significant moment in the geopolitical landscape of the South Caucasus, with far-reaching implications for Georgia’s territorial integrity and regional stability. But, in reality, that conflict did not start in 2008. Fighting began in 1992–93 instigated by militia groups set up by Russia using its infamous hybrid warfare toolkit in the Georgian regions of Abkhazia and Tskhinvali Region/South Ossetia.

Here, I examine the impact of Russia’s 2008 war on Georgia, the enduring hostilities in the region, the reasons behind Russia’s continued occupation of two large chunks of Georgian territory, and how the Georgian scenario influences the decisions of Ukraine’s leaders when considering a ceasefire with Russia.

The Russo-Georgian War was a watershed in the post-Soviet era, reconfiguring the political landscape of the region and reshaping its dynamics. Fifteen years later, its consequences continue to reverberate, offering critical insights into the enduring complexities of international relations.

The roots of the 2008 war can be traced back to the dissolution of the Soviet Union and the emergence of new, independent states including Georgia. Russian meddling in Abkhazia and the Tskhinvali region/South Ossetia had been ominous precursors long before 2008. These Georgian regions had historically been used first by the Soviet and then by the Russian regimes to pressure Georgia and influence its policy choices by fuelling disputes and hostilities within the country.

In the immediate aftermath of the 2008 war, Georgia lost control over Abkhazia and South Ossetia, with the Kremlin recognising these regions as ‘independent states’. That dealt a severe blow to Georgia’s territorial integrity and exacerbated the humanitarian crisis that had been building since the 1990s. Hundreds of thousands people were internally displaced, predominantly Georgians subjected to ethnic cleansing.

The conflict had profound and lasting consequences for Georgia. In response to the war, it pursued a path of political and economic reform while seeking closer ties with Western institutions, particularly NATO and the European Union. The unresolved conflict with Russia continues to shape Georgia’s national identity, its geopolitical orientation and its domestic politics.

Hostilities persist in the South Caucasus. Frequent skirmishes and tensions between Armenia and Azerbaijan over Nagorno-Karabakh underscore the fragile peace in the region. Despite Azerbaijan’s claimed total control of the disputed territory, tensions between these two states remain active. The unresolved conflicts in Georgia play a crucial role in these regional dynamics, influencing the behaviour of neighbouring states.

Russia’s continued occupation of Abkhazia and the Tskhinvali region/South Ossetia serves various strategic purposes and is emblematic of its revisionist agenda in the post-Soviet era. Progressive annexation continues daily, pushing the so-called border towards the very centre of Georgia. It gives Moscow leverage over Georgia and enables Russia to project power and influence in the South Caucasus.

Ukraine, another post-Soviet state, has closely watched the situation in Georgia. The 2008 war served as a stark reminder of the threat an assertive Russia poses. Ukraine had its own experience with Russian aggression, particularly in the annexation of Crimea and the ongoing conflict in the nation’s east.

The Georgian experience holds relevance for Ukraine when considering ceasefire negotiations with Russia. Ukrainian leaders must navigate complex terrain, balancing their commitment to preserving national sovereignty with the practical challenges of negotiating with a powerful and determined adversary. But as the conflict rages, neither side has sufficient tactical advantage to make ceasefire negotiations work.

Australia is a key actor in global security issues and politics and closely monitors developments in Eastern Europe, where it’s concerned about the potential spillover effects of Russian aggression and the broader implications for international security.

As a distant but engaged actor, Australia sees the Ukraine crisis as an example of unprovoked aggression by a powerful country against a less powerful neighbour and notes that Russia invaded Ukraine after multiple assurances that it would not do so.

Russia’s 2008 war on Georgia, unresolved conflict and Russian occupation have cast long shadows.  For Australia, the current Ukraine crisis has demonstrated the need for strong networks of alliances and sufficient levels of military capability to deter potential adversaries.

Saudi Arabia and Russia have the West over a barrel

At a time when the world is struggling to cope with high inflation, the rising cost of living, and the impacts of the Ukraine war and now the Israel–Hamas conflict, a 30–40% jump in the price of Brent crude per barrel since July entails serious economic, social and political consequences. The price per barrel is edging towards US$100. While that’s less than the US$130 a barrel reached in April 2022, it could still derail or prolong the global economic recovery. What has caused the price hike and who can moderate it?

Two oil-producing states from opposite ends of the political spectrum hold the keys to affecting the price of oil: Saudi Arabia and Russia. The former is supposed to be a US ally and the latter is a bitter US adversary. Yet the two countries have acted in concert in the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries—Plus (OPEC+) to reduce their oil production in the name of stabilising the market. The Saudis have cut back their output by nearly two million barrels a day from a height of 11 million and Russia has dropped its production by some half a million barrels per day in the past several months, causing a shortage of supply in the global market.

Undoubtedly, both actors are driven by a desire for more revenue, but their actions also underline an alliance of grievances against the United States. The de facto and power-ambitious Saudi ruler Mohammad bin Salman (widely known as MBS) has acted for domestic and foreign policy reasons. The prince, who wants more revenue to accelerate his vision of socially modernising his kingdom and turning it into an economic powerhouse, has been offside with the US since the advent of President Joe Biden’s administration.

MBS has, most importantly, resented the president’s early criticisms of him for human rights violations and the release of US intelligence findings that implicated him in the gruesome killing of Saudi dissident and Washington Post columnist Jamal Khashoggi in Istanbul in October 2018. He has ignored Biden’s request for Saudi restraint in any action that could increase oil prices and his overtures to return Saudi–US relations to their traditional status of close friendship.

The prince has subtly engaged in a process of diversifying Saudi foreign policy, not to completely debase the kingdom’s special bonds with the US as its main security provider, but to be in a position to deflect Washington’s pressure when required. He has opted for a mutual strengthening of relations with Russia and China. He has cooperated with President Vladimir Putin within the framework of OPEC+ and refrained from openly condemning Russia’s Ukraine aggression. He had very friendly interactions with the Russian leader at the G20 summits prior to the International Criminal Court’s issuing of a warrant for Putin’s arrest for alleged war crimes in Ukraine. Meanwhile, he has offered to mediate between Moscow and Kyiv. This must be disconcerting for Washington, which has sought to limit Russia’s revenue and isolate and punish Putin for his Ukraine adventure.

Under MBS, Saudi Arabia has strengthened its trade and economic ties with China—the largest importer of Saudi oil. Riyadh has been invited to join the BRICS (Brazil, Russia, India, China and South Africa) and has even indicated a willingness to join the China-led Shanghai Cooperation Organisation as a dialogue member. It has also restored ties with its regional rival, Iran, after China brokered peace talks between the two. And it has been looking to normalise relations with Israel—a US strategic partner and bitter foe of Iran—though that the Israel–Hamas war will likely confound that project.

Putin has been doing whatever possible to drive a wedge between the US and its allies. He needs more friends and money to fund the war in Ukraine and to deflect Western sanctions, while appreciating the cooperation of Saudi Arabia as the largest and therefore most influential producer in OPEC+. As long as the Saudi–Russian alignment of interests exists, the price of oil is unlikely to drop anytime soon, unless there’s a marked reduction in global consumption, which at this stage doesn’t seem to be on the horizon, despite China’s economic slowdown. Hard times for oil consumers lie ahead.

Is Myanmar about to go nuclear?

A front-page story in the Sydney Morning Herald in 2009 confidently predicted that within five years Myanmar would have its own nuclear weapon and be capable of producing one atom bomb every year thereafter, if all went according to plan. The story, by two respected Myanmar watchers, was based on the claims of a military ‘defector’, but followed years of rumours, gossip and speculation.

As history has shown, this prediction was spectacularly wrong. If Myanmar’s military government was ever contemplating a nuclear weapons program—and some observers still argue that it wasn’t—the scheme had barely reached the experimental stage. Following the Herald story, the International Institute for Strategic Studies wrote that Myanmar ‘has no known capabilities that would lend themselves to a nuclear weapons program’.

Two years later, the US government said that, despite concerns that North Korea might be willing to transfer sensitive nuclear technologies to Myanmar’s military regime, it saw no signs of a major nuclear weapons program. Other governments agreed, and there the matter seemed to rest. International concerns, where they existed, were assuaged further in 2011 by the transfer of power to an unexpectedly reformist quasi-civilian government.

Between 2015 and 2020, Aung San Suu Kyi’s government took important steps in this field. In 2016, Myanmar ratified the Comprehensive Nuclear-Test-Ban Treaty, which it had signed in 1996. The same year, it acceded to the Convention on Nuclear Safety and the Convention on the Physical Protection of Nuclear Material. In 2018, it signed the Treaty on the Prohibition of Nuclear Weapons. All these instruments made clear the National League for Democracy’s opposition to the manufacture, testing and use of nuclear weapons.

Despite all these measures, however, the spectre of the world’s first ‘Buddhist bomb’ still hangs over Myanmar. It has been given impetus by the coup in February 2021 and the military regime’s increasingly close relations with Russia. More to the point, perhaps, fears of a new clandestine nuclear weapons program are being stoked by pro-democracy activists, who are keen to blacken the junta’s name and garner additional international support.

Once again, the situation in Myanmar demands careful analysis of the available information and sober judgements.

Myanmar’s military leadership has long been attracted to the idea of nuclear energy. In 2000, for example, it was announced that Myanmar planned to purchase a small reactor from Russia ‘for peaceful research’. The deal collapsed in 2002, but in 2007 Russia signed an agreement with the ruling State Peace and Development Council to build a nuclear studies centre comprising a 10-megawatt reactor and two laboratories. It would also provide training in Russia for Myanmar technicians.

A memorandum of understanding to this effect was signed in 2015, but no reactor was ever built, contrary to the claims of activists that as early as 2010 construction had actually been completed on three reactors in Myanmar’s north.

From 2003, however, it was Myanmar’s shadowy relationship with North Korea that raised the most concerns regarding the transfer of nuclear technology. These fears were fuelled by claims made by a few ‘defectors’, some ambiguous ‘evidence’ and a flood of tendentious reporting on the subject. Despite signs suggesting that any nuclear program was in its early stages, and was being badly mismanaged, some observers were prepared to believe the worst. This led to the dramatic Herald story in 2009.

Since the 2021 military coup, the junta has clearly considered its nuclear options. When Commander-in-Chief Min Aung Hlaing was in Russia in July 2022, he reportedly discussed ‘the peaceful use of nuclear energy’ with his Russian interlocutors. In February, the junta signed an agreement for Russia’s Rosatom State Atomic Energy Corporation to build a small modular reactor in Myanmar. In June, the two countries signed a preliminary agreement to cooperate in the peaceful use of nuclear energy.

Interestingly, the junta has called upon China to share its advanced nuclear technology. This was reportedly to assist in various civil fields. The junta has also re-established ties with North Korea, which were downgraded by Aung San Suu Kyi’s government, probably in response to US pressure. Inevitably, both moves have been seen by some as nuclear-weapons-related, but so far no credible evidence has been offered to sustain such a view.

While the goal of Myanmar’s nuclear program has never been clear, there have always been public references to Myanmar’s increasing energy consumption and need for more reliable power generation. Given the country’s ample gas reserves and potential for hydroelectricity, that rationale has never been persuasive. References to the use of nuclear technology in the agricultural and health sectors have been equally vague. The lack of an adequate explanation for a nuclear plant has left the field open to accusations that the junta has more nefarious plans.

Indeed, a recent news story reported that ‘Myanmar’s political opposition and military analysts have expressed concern that the [Russian nuclear] technology could be leveraged militarily’. Such warnings need to be kept in perspective. How nuclear technology might be used in such a fashion has not been spelt out, and already the imagination of some commentators is running well ahead of the situation on the ground.

It is not enough to say, as some activists have, that the junta is inherently evil and has already demonstrated a readiness to do anything to stay in power, and then leap to the conclusion that it plans to build a nuclear weapon. Also, it has yet to be explained how a nuclear weapon could possibly assist the junta to defeat its enemies, almost all of whom are based in Myanmar itself, and pose the kind of threats that can’t be removed by possession of such a device.

It has been suggested that a nuclear weapon would help the military regime keep its foreign enemies at bay and win various concessions, as North Korea has done for many years. Yet, the junta doesn’t face a significant threat from the international community. Most of the sanctions imposed to date are largely symbolic, and no country is going to invade or use military force to support the opposition movement. In any case, if pressed, the junta could always turn to Russia and China for support.

Having said all that, the question must still be asked: why is the junta expending precious resources on a nuclear reactor of arguable utility when it is already struggling with a costly civil war, an economy in dire straits, the collapse of government services and widespread poverty and hardship? Status and a wish to strengthen relations with Russia may be elements in the mix, but they alone are unlikely to account for the measures taken to date.

International responses to the junta’s nuclear deal with Russia have been relatively muted. The US has expressed its concerns, but they are more about the support being provided to the regime than about the nuclear aspects. The attitudes of other countries aren’t known but most seem to be watching and waiting to see what, if anything, eventuates. The International Atomic Energy Agency has yet to reveal whether the proposed new reactor will be built under its customary safeguards.

Significantly, no government or international organisation has raised the bogey of a Myanmar nuclear weapon. They have doubtless learned the lessons of the past, and are reluctant to leap to any conclusions, particularly when evidence for such a program is lacking. That hasn’t stopped activists and popular pundits, however, from sounding warnings which, from an analytical viewpoint, must be seen as premature, at least.

The axis of outcasts

Russian President Vladimir Putin had obvious reasons for hosting North Korean dictator Kim Jong-un at Vostochny, Russia’s new spaceport in eastern Siberia, this month. Owing to his illegal war of aggression in Ukraine, Putin is running low on both friends and ammunition.

The Vostochny spaceport has a troubled history. Intended to replace the Baikonur facility in Kazakhstan, its construction was plagued by repeated delays and allegations of corruption and mismanagement. Now, it is rarely used—though it did launch the high-profile Luna-25 mission that crashed into the moon recently.

Russian–North Korean relations have a similar backstory. Once upon a time, the bond between the Kremlin and the Kim regime was tight. After all, communist North Korea was essentially a Soviet creation, and it relied heavily on Soviet support for decades. But following the collapse of the Soviet Union, Russian leaders saw more to gain by developing relations with booming South Korea. The Kremlin effectively switched sides, joining the (unsuccessful) international effort to prevent the hermit kingdom from developing nuclear weapons.

Now the situation has changed once again. Putin’s attempt to erase Ukraine from the map of Europe has made Russia an international pariah—just like North Korea. Most of the world’s developed economies have signed on to comprehensive sanctions against Russia, and the UN General Assembly has issued several resolutions condemning Putin’s war of aggression. The very few countries that have sided with Russia constitute an international rogues’ gallery: Eritrea, Syria, Nicaragua, Belarus, Mali and, of course, North Korea.

Meanwhile, many countries that have abstained from these UN votes have increasingly made known their objections to Putin’s war. At the recent G20 summit in New Delhi, for example, the final joint declaration included a clear affirmation of the principle of territorial integrity—an obvious reference to Russian aggression and the Kremlin’s misbegotten strategic objectives.

Putin expected a quick victory when he launched his war in February 2022, but Russian forces have since lost roughly half of what they captured during the initial invasion. After nearly 600 days, they are bogged down and struggling to defend themselves against an independent, democratic Ukrainian polity that is determined to defend its freedom.

Under these conditions, when Putin needs every friend he can get, North Korea is suddenly back in the Kremlin’s favour. With its thoroughly militarised society and abundant stocks of old Soviet-standard artillery ammunition, Kim’s regime looks like a lifeline for Russia’s flailing war effort.

Putin therefore had little choice but to roll out the red carpet for the North Korean dictator. Though the details of the Vostochny dealmaking will remain undisclosed, it’s safe to assume that Russia will get ammunition in exchange for various essentials that North Korea desperately needs, not least food and energy. Beyond that, there has also been talk of Russia assisting North Korea in developing and deploying satellites, an area in which it has been singularly unsuccessful.

Whatever the details, there can be little doubt that the deal violates the UN Security Council’s sanctions against North Korea, which were originally put in place with Russian support. In claiming that the North Korea sanctions regime is a UN matter, not a Russian one, Russian Foreign Minister Sergei Lavrov is being dishonest in the extreme.

We are witnessing the emergence of an axis of outcasts: countries united in their willingness to violate international law by starting wars, developing nuclear weapons and violating sanctions. This list also includes Iran, where Russia has been acquiring kamikaze drones with which to attack Ukrainian cities and civilians.

But make no mistake: reaching out to a country like North Korea is a sign of profound weakness. China and India might not openly condemn Russian aggression, but nor have they endorsed it or done much to help Putin’s war effort (other than purchasing Russian hydrocarbons). And whatever support Belarus, Eritrea, Syria or Mali is capable of offering, it will not help the Kremlin achieve the aims of its ‘special military operation’ in Ukraine.

Nonetheless, these outcasts, driven by desperation, will deepen their cooperation, introducing new risks to regional stability and the global order. For example, if Russia furnishes North Korea with the technologies it needs to advance its missile or nuclear program, it is bound to have repercussions for Northeast Asian security.

Russia and North Korea may be failing in their space efforts. But their sanctions-busting and rule-breaking here on earth are sure to have a destabilising effect on the international order.

‘Defending democracy’ a losing strategy against authoritarian narratives

Not so long ago, the consensus around defending democracy on the internet was nearly a settled matter. A sort of de facto understanding held that to fight disinformation and defend democracy, we should resist the impulse to try to control information or the behaviour of authoritarians we oppose.

The statement of values, though, does little to blunt the power of illiberal narratives on the democratic imagination.

If anything, Elon Musk’s takeover of Twitter (now X) highlights the folly of approaches that rely on simply policing social media—because what happens when the mind of one of those policing (in this case, the platform’s owner) is won over by the Kremlin’s narratives on Ukraine?

Musk’s invocations of ‘free speech’ actually make the platform more accommodating to the sorts of voices that embrace Kremlin propaganda with gusto.

But X is just one platform among a growing array of communication options.

And it’s across this galaxy that the Kremlin, its proxies and its friends level accusations at Western democracy (‘imperialism!’), frame events (‘NATO expansionism!’) and draw ominous conclusions (‘deep state-controlled propaganda media!’). Opponents are told we’re ‘Russophobic’ and that our values threaten their ‘traditional’ civilisations.

Likewise, the People’s Republic of China racialises political debates, accusing critics of xenophobia. This muddies the real issue of racism in democracy, while falsely presenting the Chinese Communist Party as a spokesperson for the racially vilified.

These influences point back to a well-established conundrum for liberal society: how do we ensure that our own freedoms aren’t used by adversaries to undermine our society and its interests?

Classifying these views as ‘disinformation’, as has become the custom, isn’t entirely accurate. Many of these ideas have their origins in democracies, or at least find an audience here.

We need to think less about how to police content on networks to ‘defend democracy’ and consider how to defend our minds and political culture against the arguments, views and ideas that dismember and neutralise liberal democracy’s values.

Ideas rarely stand alone; they are inevitably linked to other ideas.

So, when the Russian foreign ministry claimed last year that Russia would be ‘forced to take retaliatory steps’ if Finland joined NATO, Slovenian philosopher Slavoj Zizek correctly noted that the ‘decision appears “forced” only if one accepts the whole set of ideological and geopolitical assumptions that sustain Russian politics’.

Similarly, by defending against the accusation of ‘Russophobia’, Westerners accept the possibility that racism towards Russians is our motivation, rather than the reality that Western states (and Ukraine) are responding to the state activity of Russia.

At every turn, Russian narratives seek to introduce a dissembling logic that inverts our democratic reasoning.

Part of why Russia can reach so deeply into democracies is its fluency with Western liberal culture. Much of the Russian political class see themselves as speaking from a moral high ground on contested issues, perpetually ‘misunderstood by the West’, perpetually under attack and perpetually justified in responding.

As the Australian National University’s Kyle Wilson notes, Russians’ view of Russia, as formulated by the regime-controlled media, is as a ‘repository of superior values’. The Kremlin’s view of Russia, he says, can be summarised as: ‘We are different, we are unique, we are superior and we are under attack.’

Faced with Russia’s particular complaints, we should recall an idea underpinning liberal democracy—universality. Understanding our own instinct for universality is the foundation of a strategy for pushing back against authoritarians: it can help democratic citizens understand their worldview and how its impact doesn’t and shouldn’t end at the jurisdiction of a state.

Russia’s (and increasingly China’s) stock in trade in the internet era is to identify voices and events inside democracies that can be co-opted to advance authoritarian narratives. Black Lives Matter protests, for example, are framed not as emphatic calls for reform, but as emblems of an irredeemably unjust society. Coordinating state messaging from overseas with the agitation of democratic citizens is a sort of card trick that authoritarian nations are adept at.

When ‘free-speech advocates’ agitate against US foreign policy positions, their words are picked up in Russia’s or China’s state-sponsored reporting. Protesters in democracies are fed a steady diet of carefully chosen images and arguments amplified by authoritarian state-backed media and social media networks. Consequently, democracies are continually allowing their language to be shaped by illiberal voices.

This is why the defence of democracy cannot be accomplished through piecemeal removal of specific content across digital networks. Nor can it be achieved through better disinformation research.

Instead, citizens need their own narrative framings that ensure the language we use to describe the world reflects the world we want to live in, not the language proffered by Russia or China. When democracy is attacked, citizens shouldn’t have to grasp futilely for evidence, examples or arguments in favour of our system of politics; we should be readily armed.

Author Peter Pomerantsev noted that the Kremlin, through its contradictory, false narratives, is assaulting the link between facts and justice. Technology makes the rupture easier.

When truth on the internet is under attack, we need to rely on our minds as a backstop.

Rather than defending democracy by waiting for evidence of digital manipulation that can be ‘called out’, we should generate content from a set of assumptions that sustain democracy and compete for the attention of the global public.

The first step would be to raise the volume of the debate on issues like human rights and limits on power, and raise it to a level that holds Russia and China to their own rhetoric in international affairs.

Both countries cite the UN charter, for example. Both are UN Security Council members. Where are the robust voices demanding that they heed the principles of that agreement and body?

To mount these arguments, democracies must be able to articulate their position in terms the global public can understand.

‘We must become better—and more agile—at explaining ourselves in terms and principles relevant to others’ circumstances, rather than assuming that everyone is sold on “Democracy 101”,’ said former Australian ambassador to Russia Peter Tesch.

With that achieved, the public would then learn how to better counter, contextualise or ignore the proliferation of various Kremlin narratives.

Recent revelations that a subeditor at Radio New Zealand was adjusting copy to conform to the Kremlin’s worldview show that there will always be people in liberal democracies who are willing to accept the ‘putinoid’ view of the world.

If the universality of our liberal ideals is understood, discussed, shared more widely and reflected across our institutions, such outbreaks of Kremlin counternarratives are less worrying. Facing a cascade of detail and complexity, the human mind can lean on these ideals for guidance.

We can also take some comfort that this situation isn’t new. Liberal nations have always struggled in the pursuit of a system that embraces freedom of thought and expression.

In the immediate aftermath of World War II, democracies found to their shock that their ally of convenience, the Soviet Union, had, with no notice, turned its propaganda and espionage energies once again back against them. In those days, the stakes of a great-power contest didn’t need to be explained to a public that had experienced decades of intermittent war.

In that era, American diplomat George Kennan sketched out what became the US policy of ‘containment’ to support countries ‘resisting attempted subjugation’ by Moscow. Contrast that with today, when components of our society—in politics, security, business, the economy—have to be roused from a neoliberal dream to face the uncomfortable fact that a US–Russia–China great-power contest is happening, won’t go away and requires a whole-of-nation defence.

Today, like in 1946, there is a need for a containment strategy. But this time, in addition to helping contain attacks on countries like Ukraine, democracies need to contain the subjugation of their liberal ideas and language. If we can do that, the battle against Russia’s and China’s messaging can move from the domain of governments to the imagination and will of the public.

Once that happens, democracy will have a fighting chance against the narrative power of Moscow and Beijing in the networked age.

Conflict in Ukraine tests NATO’s borders

While the conflict in Ukraine is mostly concentrated in the east along the country’s border with Russia, the borders of NATO members to Ukraine’s north and west are increasingly being tested. Mercenaries from Russia’s Wagner Group have moved into Belarus, and Russia has been striking Ukrainian port facilities on the left bank of the Danube, just across the river from Romania.

This week, I travelled by car from Warsaw to Vilnius, the Lithuanian capital, through the Suwalki Gap, the 100-kilometre-long border between NATO countries Poland and Lithuania that is sandwiched between Russian ally Belarus and Kaliningrad, the Russian enclave on the Baltic Sea. The most direct route between the two cities goes through Grodno in Belarus, which would have made the trip 60 kilometres and 40 minutes shorter, but that route was closed due to increased tensions in the region.

In early July, Poland began moving more than 1,000 of its troops from the west to the Belarusian border in the east because Wagner fighters were expected to arrive in Belarus following the failed mutiny by the group’s leader, Yevgeny Prigozhin. Last Saturday, the Polish prime minister announced at a news conference that around 100 Wagner troops in Belarus had moved closer to Grodno and the Suwalki Gap.

Then, on Tuesday, Poland claimed that Belarusian military helicopters had violated its airspace, and the defence ministry announced that it was sending ‘additional forces and resources, including combat helicopters’ to the border region. While there may have been an element of political grandstanding in this move with Polish parliamentary elections to be held before the end of this year, the concern is nevertheless real.

However, the security of the Suwalki Gap is of even greater concern in Lithuania and the other post-Soviet Baltic states, Latvia and Estonia. It has been assumed that in any conflict with NATO, Russia, with cooperation from Belarus, would move quickly to occupy the short stretch of land to cut off a NATO land bridge between the Baltic states and western European NATO members.

Finland joining NATO has therefore been a huge relief to the Baltic states. Helsinki lies only 80 kilometres north of Tallin, the Estonian capital, across the Gulf of Finland and boasts a formidable navy. Once Sweden joins NATO, it will provide significant strategic depth in the area and limit Russian movements in the Baltic Sea in any future conflict, providing an alternative route for reinforcements for the Baltic states.

Kaliningrad and Belarus together comprise around half of Lithuania’s land borders, making Vilnius understandably one of Kiev’s most enthusiastic supporters. Ukrainian flags hang from apartment windows and balconies across the Lithuanian capital and the ticker on public buses alternates between the route’s destination and ‘Vilnius loves Ukraine’.

Lithuania sees the Wagner Group in Belarus as a threat and indicated this week that it would not make its border security measures public, but nor has it completely closed the Belarusian border.

Meanwhile, the Ukrainian port city of Izmail, near NATO’s European border in Romania, was hit by Russian drones on Tuesday night, damaging grain and port infrastructure and sending global wheat prices several percentage points higher as a result of concerns over supplies. Footage taken from the Romanian bank of the Danube showed how close the attack was to NATO’s borders.

While it’s extremely unlikely that Russia will directly attack NATO members, the edging of the Ukrainian conflict towards NATO borders raises other potential concerns. The first possibility is that some form of hybrid threat emerges along the Belarusian border, such as manufactured refugee flows or Wagner fighters, or otherwise unidentified ‘little green men’, breaching the border with activities that offer the Russian government plausible deniability. The other possibility is that missile or drone attacks aimed at Ukrainian territory cross over into NATO territory by mistake.

While the likelihood of significant incursions into NATO territory is very low given current scenarios, the hybrid nature of Russian actions in Georgia and in Ukraine in 2014 indicates that that is Moscow’s preferred modus operandi. The longer the Ukrainian conflict continues, the more likely it is that some breach of NATO borders will occur.

NATO must be ready to respond in a firm but measured manner. Russian President Vladimir Putin sees hesitancy in the West as weakness. The lack of a unified and strong NATO response to Russia’s 2014 annexation of Crimea and associated hybrid warfare in the Donbas directly contributed to Putin’s calculations in deciding to launch a full-scale invasion of Ukraine last year.

Could Russia deliver on the threat to cut the US and Europe off from the internet?

Last week, as Ukraine’s counteroffensive against Russia was gaining pace, former Russian president Dmitry Medvedev said that Russia could destroy the undersea cables connecting Europe and the US to the internet in retaliation for the West’s alleged involvement in blowing up the Nord Stream gas pipelines last year.

While it remains unclear who was responsible for pipeline attack, recent media reporting has suggested that the US was made aware in advance of the operation—which was allegedly carried out by Ukrainian forces—and passed that intelligence on to Germany and other European countries. In response, Medvedev, now deputy chair of Russia’s security council and a close ally of President Vladimir Putin, declared in posts on Telegram and Twitter that Russia no longer faced any barriers, even on a moral level, to destroying undersea cables.

While that might not seem as big a deal as Putin’s repeated allusions to using nuclear weapons, it’s a threat that shouldn’t be dismissed.

Undersea cables, also known as submarine cables, are the physical infrastructure that connects the digital world. Hundreds of fibre-optic cables, some no thicker than garden hoses, are laid out across the ocean floor, enabling the real-time global transmission of data and communications signals. These cables facilitate around 99% of internet traffic as well as the telephone calls, data transfers and other telecommunications that enable modern life to function. The first undersea telegraph cable was laid in 1858; today, there are almost 400, most of which are commercially owned and operated.

While Medvedev’s threat may have just been sabre-rattling, if Russia followed through on it and cut undersea cables, the consequences would be immediate and widespread.

An attack could suspend access to phone calls, messages, videos and streaming services. Health and emergency services would lose contact with each other and with the public, in many cases making them unable respond to calls for assistance, let alone coordinate to respond to or monitor major crises.

Payment systems and ATMs would be down. Trillions of dollars would be wiped off the European and US economies as banks were unplugged from the global financial system, with economic effects felt across the world. Workplaces and businesses that rely on the internet would also go down. Educational institutions would struggle to conduct online learning, impeding students’ education and limiting access to knowledge and resources.

E-commerce would take a hit too, exacerbating disruptions to supply chains and shortages of essential goods. Brick-and-mortar stores would be cut off from communication with suppliers, limiting access to food and other essential supplies.

Broader critical national infrastructure, from power grids to transportation networks and water networks, would be down too, since they rely on the real-time transmission of data through undersea cables.

Fixing the damaged cables would take some time, testing the social order of countries as public frustration mounted while essential services continued to be unmet.

NATO is taking this threat seriously.

Shortly after Medvedev’s comments, NATO announced the establishment of a new centre in the UK to monitor and protect against the threat of Russian sabotage to critical internet infrastructure. Russian ships have been actively mapping undersea cabling around Europe and investing in subsurface naval capabilities to target them for some time. The good news, however, is that Russia likely lacks the capability to carry out undersea cable attacks at a catastrophic scale. Undersea cables are spread out across the globe in international waters, meaning it would be difficult to completely cut off Europe’s and the US’s access to the internet.

Yet with the modern world so reliant on the digital connectivity that undersea cables facilitate, the reality is that even a targeted or crude Russian attack on a number of critical cables or a regional choke point could cause significant disruptions across Europe and the US.

Any Russian attempt to damage undersea internet cables would constitute a hugely disproportionate response to any alleged Western involvement in the Nord Stream explosions.

Such a move would not only undermine regional stability, but also propel the world perilously closer to the brink of an all-encompassing conflict.

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