Kremlinology 2012

The Last Waltz

After a week of soul-searching and post-mortems of "the revolution," the final anti-Putin rally felt like the closing chord of a long and ebullient improvisation.

MOSCOW – On a cold and sunny Saturday afternoon, thousands of Muscovites came out to protest the March 4 presidential elections in which Vladimir Putin swept to his third presidential term with more than 63 percent of the vote. It was not the huge, euphoric, smiling crowd that thronged the city's squares in December and February. But it was also not the angry, sullen crowd that had come out to Pushkin Square the day after the election.

Many hadn't come at all, either because they were tired of coming out -- this was the sixth large protest in three months -- or because they were out of town for a long weekend. Those who did show up seemed deflated. Gone was the electricity in the air, the witty posters. Many had come not because of a new, giddy sense of empowerment that fueled the initial protests, or even out of anger over a crooked electoral system, but because they felt they simply had to.

"If I didn't come today, it would mean that I deserve this government," Elena, a professor at Moscow State University, told me, adding that she was coming to the inexorable conclusion that she wanted to emigrate.

"Without steps to change and enforce the law, I don't see a point in these protests," said another Elena, a young lawyer who was there with her boss. He did not have much faith in the political reforms proposed by outgoing President Dmitry Medvedev -- gubernatorial elections and an easing of party registration rules.

"I think that it's important not to lose what we've gained in these months," a white-collar worker in his thirties named Petr said. And yet, he felt the momentum dissipating. "Of course, we're going to keep coming to these protests," he said of himself and his friends, who both work in state-owned television. "But I think this format is starting to feel a little old. I think the protest organizers need to think of something else."

The rally's organizers, for their part, seem to have heard their constituency. "I think that, with this, the three-month cycle [of protests] has ended," journalist and ring leader of the rallies' organizing committee Serguei Parkhomenko told the press. "There will be new events, without a doubt, but only when there is a need for them. We're not going to organize them automatically." Members of the organizing committee have spoken of flash mobs, like last month's Big White Circle, a smiling human chain around the 10-mile circumference of Moscow's Garden Ring road, and events with a more aggressive bent.

And indeed, after a week of soul-searching and post-mortems of "the revolution," the rally felt like the closing chord of a long and ebullient improvisation. Earlier this week, at a press conference held by the Voters' League, organized by several public intellectuals to help train election monitors, writer Boris Akunin -- another central figure in this winter's movement -- declared the "romantic" period of the protests over. A couple of days earlier, the police violently broke up a protest by a few hundred people who tried to stay on Pushkin Square after a permitted mass rally, and Putin congratulated the police on their "professional" behavior. "I think people have understood that they can't charge the OMON with white balloons and ribbons," Akunin said at the press conference, referring to the special police that enforce order at such events, and to the ubiquitous symbols of the protests. "Civil society will begin to develop along a different trajectory, along a trajectory of self-organization, and fighting for victory in local elections," Akunin added.

If past protests were organized around the vague demand of fair elections -- or new parliamentary elections -- and to chant the charged but useless slogan "Russia without Putin," Saturday's rally was centered on thanking election monitors. Tens of thousands of previously politically inactive people, riding the wave of the winter's giddiness, had signed up to monitor elections. More than 80,000 people in Moscow, and more than 130,000 nationwide volunteered for the tedious work of breathing down the necks of members of local election committees -- the cogs in the great machine that would keep falsifying the vote, even when Putin's press secretary declared that it was Putin, first and foremost, who was interested in a clean election. (When I traveled to Irkutsk in the weeks before the election, local party leaders told me the puzzling command from Moscow was victory for Putin in the first round -- that is, over 51 percent -- but no violations.)

Tens of thousands of these people, young and old, and, as one observer pointed out, used to comfort, stayed up till dawn on a Sunday night to make sure the votes were counted properly. Most of my Russian friends had signed up to be observers, many of them later bragged how many votes they had "saved" for one candidate or another. This winter, in other words, tedious but necessary political work has become not only a trend, but a necessity for a lot of these people.

At Saturday's rally, the microphone also went to the young hipster candidates who had run and won in the city's municipal elections (concurrent with the presidential vote). Vera Kichanova, a 20-year-old journalism student who won one such race, challenged the Kremlin's campaign to paint this movement as an Orange Revolution. "Did you see bodies in the street in Tbilisi?" she asked, referring to Georgia's 2003 Rose Revolution. "I think that local citizens understand their own needs far better than some bureaucrats," she went on, as the crowd began to chant spontaneously: "Good job! Good job!" When Parkhomenko spoke after her, he spoke not of the Duma vote or the evils of Putin's corrupt regime, but of the elections for Moscow city parliament (it is still unclear when those will take place). Putin's United Russia now has 32 out of 35 seats.

"We're at the beginning of a long and arduous journey," said Petr Shkumatov, of the Blue Buckets movement against abuse of VIP sirens, from the stage. "We have many kilometers and many years ahead of us, and we will trip a lot. But, one way or another, we have to complete this journey. We've already started, and no one, I don't think, can take a step back."

No one expected Putin to relinquish power or to lose the presidential election; no one even expected new Duma elections. From where I sit, the fact that the opposition was not handed an easy victory is a good thing: things that are easily won are easily squandered. Broadening participation in the kind of grassroots, civic, local organization that people like anti-corruption activist and opposition politician Alexei Navalny or Blue Buckets have been doing for the last couple of years -- rather than quick and sweeping political change -- may be just what Russia needs.

The scary unknown, of course, is Putin's reaction to all this. He worked to largely eliminate civil society during his first two terms as president. Will he also work to make the lives of a new generation of civic activists difficult in his third term? Or will he simply dig in his heels and ignore them? This may be just as bad: it's hard to continue to give yourself over to tedious civic work when you're working full time as, say, a lawyer, and your political extracurricular activities reap little to no reward.

The fact that Putin is unlikely to not sabotage this movement and the fact that his is the last rally -- miting, in Russian -- for a while, means the obituaries of the winter's movement are premature. On December 5, a day after the disputed parliamentary elections, some 6,000 people had come out to protest -- 20 times more than most opposition protests ever gathered in Putin's era. That night, Navalny was arrested. By the time he came out, fifteen days later, protests were gathering ten times that. "I went to jail in one country and came out in another," Navalny told supporters when he left prison.

On March 5, Moscow's protesting middle class bemoaned the fact that, after all they had experienced this winter, Putin was still their president for the foreseeable future, that they didn't, as many put it, "wake up in a different country." Estimates of Saturday's rally attendance put the crowd somewhere between 25,000 (the rally's organizers) and 10,000 (the police). And yet, many bemoaned the fact that this was a small crowd, a sign in and of itself of how much times had changed.

The question now is not only whether Putin ignores them, but whether this crowd and their sympathizers in Moscow and, to a smaller extent, around the country, go back to sleep or or stay woken up in that different country.

ALEXANDER NEMENOV/AFP/Getty Images

Kremlinology 2012

'This Is How You Elect a F*cking President?'

Putin cracks down on Moscow's protesters before the victory tears are dry on his face.

MOSCOW — When Duma deputy Gennady Gudkov left Pushkin Square Monday night, the crowd -- estimated by the police at 14,000 -- was just starting to disperse. They had stood for two hours in sub-zero temperatures, not 24 hours after Vladimir Putin wept after sweeping to victory in Sunday's presidential race with 63.6 percent of the vote. They had listened to speeches from the whole gamut of the opposition -- the leftists, the nationalists, Alexey Navalny, Mikhail Prokhorov, all had their turn at the microphone. They chanted "Putin is a thief!" and "We are the power!" They weren't as cheerful as they'd been in past protests, but they were peaceful, despite the crowd of Putin supporters that had arrived from central casting.

Gudkov, who represents the Just Russia party and has been a central figure in this winter's opposition protests, made sure to talk to the police officer overseeing the whole operation before he left for his appearance on opposition channel RainTV. Ilya Ponomarev, another Just Russia Duma deputy who has been a key figure in the movement, had announced from the stage that he would meet with anyone who wanted to talk to him at the fountain in the center of the square, a sort-of impromptu town hall. Navalny, the anti-corruption activist who's become the opposition's most natural leader, and leftist activist Sergei Udaltsov had announced that they weren't leaving the square, period -- an unlikely prospect given the temperature. "He told me, fine, let them stay and shout for a few hours," Gudkov said, of the police supervisor.

It didn't quite go down like that. Gudkov and his son Dmitry, also a Duma deputy from the same party, left Pushkin Square with a clear conscience. Ponomarev climbed up on the granite fountain in the center of the square, where Navalny, Udaltsov and a few others joined them. A small crowd of supporters -- almost all male -- stuck around, too. When the police started shouting at them to clear out, Navalny's bodyguard commanded the crowd to form a tightly packed chain around him, and the young men at the bottom of that snow-filled empty fountain joined up. Riot police started to sweep the square and drag people into armored vans: holding pens on wheels. Then the police descended into the fountain, snatching links out of the human chain, one by one, and dragging them to the side of the fountain, and hurling them, like sacks of potatoes, over the red granite border. "Hey! Toss the next one!" one of the cops waiting up there giggled in delight.

They got Udaltsov, Navalny, opposition figure Ilya Yashin, a Western journalist, and Ponomarev, who stood shouting into a loudspeaker: "Police! Stop breaking the law! This is a peaceful meeting!" (They quickly released him.) All in all, they got 250 people, including Alena Popova, a glamorous young media consultant and e-government evangelist who has linked up to Ponomarev and the opposition movement. She wasn't so lucky, though: the police broke her arm.

Hearing about this, the Gudkovs raced back to Pushkin Square from the television studio. By the time they arrived, the riot police and the OMON special police had formed a chain and started to push everyone out of the square. There was plenty of room and not many people, but they managed to get into such a formation -- a reverse cowherd -- that people, many of them journalists with press badges in full view, started falling and getting trampled underfoot.

Gudkov tried to stop them in their tracks. "I'm a deputy of the Federal Duma!" he said. "I'm a Duma deputy!"

The police kept pushing. 

"What the fuck?" Gudkov exclaimed, as the police nearly bowled him over. "Do you hear me? I'm a Duma deputy!"

Dmitry wasn't having any more luck, even when he flashed his Duma ID. 

"Motherfuckers," he grunted as the police shoved him forward. "This is how you elect a fucking president?"

"Where is Gennady Yurievich?" the elder Gudkov growled when the pushing abated for a minute, demanding to see the police supervisor who had upended the contract. "Who is the commanding officer here? Who?" 

The police were mute.

When Dmitry Gudkov tried to get through the line to find this commanding officer, he was immediately detained, but released when the officers waiting for him in the police van saw who he was.

Why did the police show such disregard for a government official, ostensibly a reprentative of the people, even when he showed them proof of his identity -- and stature?

"Because we haven't abided by the law here in ages," Dmitry Gudkov told me afterwards, angrily adjusting his shearling. "I was just in Astrakhan, monitoring the vote. They wouldn't let me into the polling stations. I was climbing over fences to get in, even though, as a Duma deputy, I have the right to walk into any government office without impediment."

It was all a strange echo of the night of Dec. 5, when thousands of people came out to Chistye Prudy in central Moscow to protest the fraudulent parliamentary vote the day before. That night's protest was peaceful and the cops stood respectfully by until a small faction tried to march down to Lubyanka, the headquarters of the FSB. That's when the batons rained down and bodies were dragged kicking to the arrest vans, and the police made the colossal mistake of arresting Navalny, instantly turning a blogger into a leader of the movement. And instead of turning people away, the violence seemed to galvanize people: Five days later, a crowd of 50,000 showed up to Bolotnaya Square to demand free elections and the respect of their government.

On the eve of the presidential election, I wrote that, when faced with two options in a tense political atmosphere, Putin tends to pick the absolute worst option. The days since -- from his paranoiacally armored, tear-filled victory speech when only a third of the votes were counted, to Monday's crackdown-- seem to continue to bear that theory out. Instead of letting the stragglers shout in Pushkin Square until they could no longer stand in ankle-deep snow, to let the protest fizzle away into the very insignificance that Putin claims they represent, the command come down to arrest the sons of bitches -- and mint some new martyrs. (One lesson they did seem to learn from Dec. 5, when they jailed Navalny for 15 days: This time, they released him after charging him with a petty offense -- organizing a protest, maximum fine $70.)

"It's not clear what to do with the protests," Masha Lipman, a political analyst with the Moscow Carnegie Center, told me a couple days before the election. "On one hand, they're probably thinking, ‘enough leniency, let's crack down.' But if they do crack down, then the press is filled with images of contorted faces and police batons, and it's a very unpleasant picture of Putin's first day after the election." 

And Putin, it should be noted, cares about his image in the West. At an investor conference this fall, he courted Western capital and went on at length about what a European country Russia was.  One of the last things he did before the election was to invite the editors of some of the most important European newspapers to his dacha for an interview, partly to talk to them about how Russian foreign policy would continue to be friendly -- and business friendly -- toward the West during a third Putin term. In May, three weeks after his inauguration, Putin will go to Chicago for the G-8 summit. How good can an alpha dog feel if his victory -- which he clearly saw as an emotional, historical milestone -- is marred by some roughed-up hipsters?

Already, the chidings are pouring in. Prokhorov, who had just met with a very welcoming, encouraging Putin Monday morning, issued a statement condemning the violence. "I'm outraged by the use of force against people who had gathered to express their civic position," he said. "I am positive that the use of force and arrest of opposition politicians could have been avoided." "Troubling to watch arrests of peaceful demonstrators at Pushkin square," tweeted Michael McFaul, the new U.S. ambassador to Russia and close advisor to President Barack Obama, with whom Putin is to have a tête-a-tête in Chicago.

By 11 p.m., four hours after the protest on Pushkin Square had started, there were few people left. Dmitry Gudkov was trying to find out the whereabouts of Ponomarev, Navalny, and the others who had been arrested. A shocked Gennady Gudkov stood talking to a scrum of journalists -- who had themselves been roughed up -- when a cop with a megaphone walked by.

"Go to the metro," the cop droned. "Stop your illegal actions."

Gudkov did a double take.

"What illegal actions?" he said. "I'm standing in the square, talking to people. I'm not even shouting political slogans!"

I asked him how tonight's crackdown looked for Putin, so jubilant and generous in his victory.

"Party's over," Gudkov sighed. "Party's ruined."

Oleg Nikishin/Epsilon/Getty Images