The West imposed massive sanctions on Russia after the full-scale invasion of Ukraine in 2022. How has this impacted critical sectors of Russia's economy? Have these sanctions affected Russia's ability to wage its war? 

When imposing sanctions, the key question is: What is the goal? In this case, the goal started out ambiguous, operating within what could be done to punish Russia and hit its economy, and changed over time. But what is the ultimate goal? Is it to make it harder for Russia to pursue the war militarily, to hurt the economy so much that there are protests, or to undermine Putin's regime? It's clear that undermining Putin’s regime hasn't happened, but the sanctions have been serious enough to make it more difficult for Russia to wage the war. Though there has been a lot of criticism of the sanctions for not being effective, most of that criticism comes from people expecting too much. Sanctions will never, on their own, cause regime change. Critically, if we look at the sanctions themselves, they are the most intense sanctions to date that have ever been placed on a country, let alone a major power. These sanctions have targeted a wide range of individuals, including those close to Putin, important economic figures, and their families, but also particular industries and products, especially within defense and energy sectors. 

The sanctions directed at military production have been the most impactful given Russia’s heavy dependency on imported technology. As a result, Russia has had to resort to old stockpiles of lower-tech weaponry, seeking alternative suppliers and scrambling to develop domestic production capabilities in the meantime. Despite some successful attempts at sanction evasion and increased military collaboration with China and Russia, the sanctions have cornered Russia into reorienting its economy to prioritize military spending. The 2025 state budget increased defense spending by 25%, which raised security and defense expenditure to a combined 40%, the highest share since the Soviet era. 

The most challenging sanctions have been those on Russian oil and gas, given Europe’s extensive dependency on Russian energy. Though levying these restrictions on Russia has sparked Europe’s energy transition and diversified European oil and gas suppliers, some European states, notably Germany, undermine EU trade restrictions. While Germany’s direct exports to Russia have declined, shipments to neighboring countries such as Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Armenia and Georgia have surged, creating backdoor routes for goods that may ultimately reach Russia. This weakens the intended impact of the sanctions. Despite these loopholes, sanctions have not come without costs for Russia. One major sanction includes the oil price cap, which restricts vessels from carrying oil sold above $60 per barrel and prohibits G7 and EU companies from insuring and financing Russian oil purchased above the cap. In response, Russia has revived old oil tankers to transport the oil themselves, and though this workaround has kept some revenue flowing, it demonstrates the logistical burden and inefficiency imposed by sanctions. 

Inconsistent enforcement from sanctioning nations continues to weaken the impact. If European countries, particularly Germany, were more diligent in closing loopholes, the pressure on Russia would likely be even greater. For now, Russia's ability to exploit alternative routes through Central Asia and its alliances with countries like China allow it to stay afloat—but not without consequences. Even partial evasion distorts the economy and hampers Russia’s capacity to wage war effectively, demonstrating that while sanctions may not be airtight, they exact a meaningful price.

In what ways have the war and associated economic pressures exacerbated state repression under Putin's regime? Additionally, how have these developments influenced public dissent and the organization of political opposition within Russia? As you previously mentioned, some degree of resistance was anticipated under these circumstances—how has this expectation materialized in practice?

The war in Ukraine, along with the economic pressures that followed, has intensified state repression in Russia, driving Putin’s regime to new and unprecedented levels of control. While authoritarianism has long defined Russian governance, the invasion has ushered in an era of severe crackdowns, aimed at stifling dissent and dismantling opposition with brutal efficiency.

In the early stages of the conflict, protests emerged in response to the invasion, but the regime acted swiftly, arresting demonstrators for even minimal displays of opposition. Civil society organizations were labeled not only as “foreign agents” but also as “undesirable organizations,” rendering them illegal and blocking them from operating or holding bank accounts. Universities and lower-level educational institutions have also fallen under strict control, with educators dismissed for failing to align with the state’s narrative. In their place, a new military-patriotic curriculum has been introduced, reinforcing Kremlin-approved views.

Since the war began, many prominent figures have been exiled, detained, or even killed, leaving the political opposition leaderless. Individual acts of defiance have taken the place of organized protests, as gatherings are banned and even small groups are treated as a threat. Some have resorted to creative resistance, including the “Malenkiy Piket” or “Little Picket,” where people leave small figures or signs—like clay sculptures in blue and gold—protesting the war in ways that avoid direct detection.

Protesters found creative ways to circumvent censorship—since calling the invasion a “war” is illegal, many turned to wordplay to avoid punishment. For instance, some replaced letters in the word “war” (“война”) with asterisks, while others used the similar-sounding word “вобла,” referring to a fish native to the Caspian Sea. Over time, the Vobla fish evolved into an anti-war symbol, with protesters displaying slashed images of fish as a subtle form of resistance. In some cases, even holding a blank piece of paper became a powerful statement, symbolizing the inability to speak freely. These creative acts of dissent were more visible in the early days of the war but have diminished over time as people grew exhausted and demoralized. 

The repression has taken a heavy toll, with organizations like Memorial—a now-banned NGO that commemorated Soviet-era repression and tracked human rights abuses—estimating that Russia currently holds around 700 political prisoners. The systematic targeting of opposition figures has also weakened organized resistance. The assassination of Alexei Navalny, the most prominent opposition leader, was a pivotal moment, shattering what little hope remained for organized resistance. Navalny’s death, just before the presidential election, was a clear signal from Putin’s regime: no opposition, no matter how prominent, is safe. Putin, who had never publicly uttered Navalny’s name before, addressed his death with unsettling indifference.

While Navalny’s funeral drew many mourners in what became a veiled protest, the regime kept the event tightly controlled. Other significant protests have been rare. In January 2024, around 3,000 people gathered in freezing temperatures in Bashkortostan to protest the sentencing of a local leader who had criticized the war. The demonstration, though initially sustained, was violently crushed, reflecting the regime’s zero-tolerance approach.

Despite these isolated moments of defiance, the broader opposition within Russia has been effectively silenced. The regime’s control over media and education ensures that most Russians either support the war or view it as a necessary fight against the West and NATO, rather than against Ukraine. Many Russians believe their country is acting to protect Ukrainian compatriots from an illegitimate government in Kyiv, seeing Russia not as the aggressor, but as the defender.

Public dissatisfaction with the war, where it exists, tends to focus on the loss of life and conscription of soldiers. When Putin announced a partial mobilization, thousands of Russian men fled the country, with long lines of cars at the Georgian border symbolizing a quieter form of resistance. However, this exodus reflects personal survival rather than coordinated opposition.

The regime has made it nearly impossible for political resistance to gain traction, leaving little hope that public pressure alone could destabilize the government. Although some resistance lingers, it is fragmented and disorganized. If the regime does falter, it will likely be due to elite power struggles within the Kremlin, rather than from grassroots opposition. For now, Putin’s grip remains firm, bolstered by fear, control, and the narrative of a defensive war against external threats.

How much do state-controlled education and media shape Russian attitudes toward Ukraine, and to what extent are these views the result of deliberate policies aimed at reinforcing Russian influence over Ukraine and other former Soviet states?

The Russian sentiment towards Ukraine is a result of current state propaganda, but it’s also a continuation of attitudes Russia has displayed toward the rest of the Soviet space for a long time. Remember, the Soviet Union emerged from the Russian Empire, and ethnic Russians have been at the center of that empire for hundreds of years. One way to think about Russia is that it is the last major empire still remaining in the world. Many Russian leaders—and ordinary people—talk about former Soviet republics as the "near abroad," refusing to fully acknowledge these nations as sovereign states. With Ukraine and Belarus, the paternalism is even stronger. Russians see these Slavic countries as part of their historical territory, viewing them not just as neighbors but as “little brothers” that need guidance.

This attitude is even more pronounced toward Central Asia, where Russia’s imperial and paternalistic mindset continues to shape power dynamics. Through a multipolar lens, Putin views Russia as one of the few global poles alongside the United States and China. In this framework, each pole has a defined sphere of influence, and Russia believes the countries around its borders naturally fall within its own. The notion is that these countries—especially Ukraine—belong within Russia’s sphere, and any external involvement, like Ukraine pursuing EU or NATO membership, is seen as illegitimate interference.

This mindset appeals to great powers like Russia, China, and, to some degree, even the United States. But it denies the countries in these so-called spheres any real choice or sovereignty. For example, Ukrainians may wish to join NATO or the European Union, but under Russia’s view, they shouldn’t have the right to do so because it would conflict with Russia's sphere of influence. As a result, scholars from Ukraine, Central Asia, and the Caucasus are now increasingly focused on the need to “decolonize” Russian studies and reframe how their nations’ histories and cultures are understood. They question why Russian remains the dominant language of business and culture in their countries—viewing this as part of an imperial legacy they are working to undo.

This shift in thinking is reshaping how these countries view Russia. Not only has Ukraine become more anti-Russian, especially after the invasion, but traditional allies like Armenia are now questioning the value of their close ties with Russia. Even Central Asian countries, which historically relied on Russia economically and strategically, are beginning to explore alternatives. Armenia’s changing stance is a prime example. For years, Armenia relied on its relationship with Russia for protection, particularly in conflicts with Azerbaijan over Nagorno-Karabakh. But when Russia failed to support Armenia during recent escalations, the alliance began to crumble. Armenians are now asking, “What good is this relationship if Russia won’t protect our interests?”

The fallout from this shift has broad implications. Armenia recently pulled out of the Collective Security Treaty Organization (CSTO), reflecting frustration with Russia’s inaction. This disillusionment isn’t limited to Armenia—across the region, there are growing doubts about the benefits of remaining aligned with Russia, not just strategically but economically and culturally.

Russia’s invasion of Ukraine led to millions of refugees fleeing to neighboring states. What are the long-term implications of this population transfer of Ukrainian citizens?  Why have EU states been welcoming of Ukrainian refugees since February 2022, given the recent, strong objection to taking in refugees in Europe in 2015?

Regarding refugees, the numbers are staggering. The latest figures from the UNHCR show nearly 7 million people have fled Ukraine, the majority to Europe, especially Germany and Poland. However, it’s difficult to get an accurate count, as many Ukrainians move back and forth depending on how the war progresses. This fluid movement makes it likely that some individuals have been counted more than once. Still, the scale of displacement is enormous.

One of the key questions is whether these refugees will return to Ukraine. Unlike many other refugee populations, most Ukrainians express a strong desire to go back home. Whether that will remain realistic if the war drags on is unclear, but for now, many continue to hope for a return. If large numbers of refugees do not go back, however, the consequences for Ukraine could be severe. Many of those who left are women and children—vital to rebuilding the country after the war—raising concerns about how Ukraine will recover if they settle permanently abroad.

Another important point is why European countries have been more accepting of Ukrainian refugees, particularly when compared to their response to Syrian refugees in 2015. Part of the answer lies in cultural proximity. European leaders and citizens generally view Ukrainians as more similar to them, both culturally and ethnically. Another factor is the expectation that Ukrainian refugees will return to their country once the war ends, making their stay appear temporary. However, even within Europe, there has been some resistance to the influx of Ukrainian refugees, especially after the initial wave of support.

In Poland, for instance, where relations with Ukraine have historically been complicated, support for Ukrainian refugees is largely driven by opposition to Russia rather than a deep desire to help Ukraine. It’s a case of “the enemy of my enemy is my friend.” Yet, as the war drags on, even Poland has seen political pushback against refugees, with some parties campaigning to prioritize resources for Polish citizens. While Poland’s recent elections have shifted sentiment in favor of supporting refugees, the longer the conflict continues, the more resistance is likely to grow—just as it did with Syrian refugees in 2015.