Those who lived in Moscow in the late 1990's frequently encountered odd - and mostly incomprehensible - billboards. The first such billboard showed a young woman's face, but no bar of soap or bottle of perfume. No brand name, either. A short line said simply "I love you." Who loved this woman and why did he want everyone to know of his passion? Rumors had it that one of Russia's richest men wanted to impress his sweetheart.
Next came a billboard showing a man's face, with foreign coins flowing down upon it. The line read, "Roma takes care of the Family, the Family takes care of Roma. Congratulations! Roma found a classy place for himself."
There was never any public explanation for this message, either, just rumors - that "Roma" was Roman Abramovich (this was long before the tycoon bought the Chelsea football team, becoming a world celebrity), and that he had close ties with then President Boris Yeltsin's inner circle, known as "the Family." Even the few who claimed knowledge about Roma were unsure about who commissioned the billboard. It was simply taken for granted that what is supposed to be public space - the streets of Moscow - was appropriated for a vaguely menacing private message.
Such "private" billboards kept appearing for about a year with varying themes. The implications of this game, however, run deeper than the actual messages sent and received. The billboards with their private messages were able to occupy public space so easily because in Russia public space is virtually empty: there's very little, if any, communication between state and society, and barely any public debate.
Under Communism, public debate was confined to private kitchens. Everything beyond private space was state territory. Those who encroached upon it were punished.
Perestroika turned the country into one big public space. Streets and squares, newspapers and literary journals became the ground for free public expression. Newspapers published in gigantic numbers. Russia's people wanted to make a difference and amazingly they did: their energy and cohesion put an end to Communist rule.
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Of course, what Russia had in the late 1980's and early 1990's wasn't institutionalized democracy, but revolutionary excitement. It was expected that out of this sea of democratic emotion new political institutions would emerge. Instead, political life here has been reduced to mere formality. Although there's nothing like Soviet oppression, the alienation between state and society resembles that of Soviet days.
Unlike the Communist regime, the new Russian state doesn't treat its citizens like a flock of sheep. On the contrary, the state generally ignores its citizens - it is in no way accountable to the public, nor does it bother to explain what actually goes on inside the Kremlin.
With political parties driven into irrelevance, parliament turned into a rubber stamp agency, and national television networks taken under government control, public discourse has all but disappeared. Ideas may be voiced, but there's barely any audience, and these utterances don't resonate; they die away with no implications or consequences. Russian society is atomized, with no sense of cohesion, solidarity, or collective drive in any interest group, professional or social, big or small.
Big business won't stand up for the oil tycoon Mikhail Khodorkovsky, singled out by the Kremlin as a political enemy and imprisoned since last year. Instead, each businessman makes his own deals with the Kremlin to gain relative security.
The same lack of cohesion is found among journalists. No professional solidarity was shown back in 2001, when Russia's private national television network NTV was taken over by the government.
A considerable degree of freedom remains, but a submissive society freely gives ground to the state. Seven or eight liberal dailies publish critical opinion or even incriminating evidence against government officials. But their print runs range between 20 and 100 thousand copies, and their circulation is mostly limited to Moscow. With such small audiences, they are all but irrelevant.
Worse, the broad public isn't anxious to get a better idea of how important government decisions are made. The old Soviet mindset persists: they up there will take their own decisions regardless of us down below.
In this atmosphere of public silence, the virtually vacant public space is filled with odd voices that are not intended for public consumption. The billboards were "them" communicating in our common space, exchanging messages, as it were, over our heads .
In March, a high-quality Moscow business daily, Vedomosti, published a letter from Mikhail Khodorkovsky. It was a mystery how the letter was smuggled out of jail. Did Khodorkovsky write the letter, or had he merely signed it? If he was the author, was it his political manifesto or an act of repentance? In the murky atmosphere surrounding Khodorkovsky's case, it is impossible to discover which theory is true.
But the more relevant question is whom Khodorkovsky's letter aimed to address. Vedomosti readers may sympathize with Khodorkovsky's plight, but they account for only 60 thousand people. The public at large was basically unaware of Khodorkovsky's letter, because the state television networks did not report it. His missive was more likely an element in behind-the-scenes negotiations between Khodorkovsky and various Kremlin factions.
Khodorkovsky's letter may have appeared in the public space, but it was not intended for public consumption. Rather, it was like the "I love you" billboard. For the time being, Khodorkovsky's love remains unrequited.
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The escalating war in the Middle East must be understood in a broader context. The fact that the Iranian regime felt emboldened to risk a direct strike on Israel attests to a changing world order in which Western power is increasingly open to challenge.
considers the implications of Iran’s unprecedented decision to launch a direct strike on Israeli territory.
Those who lived in Moscow in the late 1990's frequently encountered odd - and mostly incomprehensible - billboards. The first such billboard showed a young woman's face, but no bar of soap or bottle of perfume. No brand name, either. A short line said simply "I love you." Who loved this woman and why did he want everyone to know of his passion? Rumors had it that one of Russia's richest men wanted to impress his sweetheart.
Next came a billboard showing a man's face, with foreign coins flowing down upon it. The line read, "Roma takes care of the Family, the Family takes care of Roma. Congratulations! Roma found a classy place for himself."
There was never any public explanation for this message, either, just rumors - that "Roma" was Roman Abramovich (this was long before the tycoon bought the Chelsea football team, becoming a world celebrity), and that he had close ties with then President Boris Yeltsin's inner circle, known as "the Family." Even the few who claimed knowledge about Roma were unsure about who commissioned the billboard. It was simply taken for granted that what is supposed to be public space - the streets of Moscow - was appropriated for a vaguely menacing private message.
Such "private" billboards kept appearing for about a year with varying themes. The implications of this game, however, run deeper than the actual messages sent and received. The billboards with their private messages were able to occupy public space so easily because in Russia public space is virtually empty: there's very little, if any, communication between state and society, and barely any public debate.
Under Communism, public debate was confined to private kitchens. Everything beyond private space was state territory. Those who encroached upon it were punished.
Perestroika turned the country into one big public space. Streets and squares, newspapers and literary journals became the ground for free public expression. Newspapers published in gigantic numbers. Russia's people wanted to make a difference and amazingly they did: their energy and cohesion put an end to Communist rule.
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Access every new PS commentary, our entire On Point suite of subscriber-exclusive content – including Longer Reads, Insider Interviews, Big Picture/Big Question, and Say More – and the full PS archive.
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Of course, what Russia had in the late 1980's and early 1990's wasn't institutionalized democracy, but revolutionary excitement. It was expected that out of this sea of democratic emotion new political institutions would emerge. Instead, political life here has been reduced to mere formality. Although there's nothing like Soviet oppression, the alienation between state and society resembles that of Soviet days.
Unlike the Communist regime, the new Russian state doesn't treat its citizens like a flock of sheep. On the contrary, the state generally ignores its citizens - it is in no way accountable to the public, nor does it bother to explain what actually goes on inside the Kremlin.
With political parties driven into irrelevance, parliament turned into a rubber stamp agency, and national television networks taken under government control, public discourse has all but disappeared. Ideas may be voiced, but there's barely any audience, and these utterances don't resonate; they die away with no implications or consequences. Russian society is atomized, with no sense of cohesion, solidarity, or collective drive in any interest group, professional or social, big or small.
Big business won't stand up for the oil tycoon Mikhail Khodorkovsky, singled out by the Kremlin as a political enemy and imprisoned since last year. Instead, each businessman makes his own deals with the Kremlin to gain relative security.
The same lack of cohesion is found among journalists. No professional solidarity was shown back in 2001, when Russia's private national television network NTV was taken over by the government.
A considerable degree of freedom remains, but a submissive society freely gives ground to the state. Seven or eight liberal dailies publish critical opinion or even incriminating evidence against government officials. But their print runs range between 20 and 100 thousand copies, and their circulation is mostly limited to Moscow. With such small audiences, they are all but irrelevant.
Worse, the broad public isn't anxious to get a better idea of how important government decisions are made. The old Soviet mindset persists: they up there will take their own decisions regardless of us down below.
In this atmosphere of public silence, the virtually vacant public space is filled with odd voices that are not intended for public consumption. The billboards were "them" communicating in our common space, exchanging messages, as it were, over our heads .
In March, a high-quality Moscow business daily, Vedomosti, published a letter from Mikhail Khodorkovsky. It was a mystery how the letter was smuggled out of jail. Did Khodorkovsky write the letter, or had he merely signed it? If he was the author, was it his political manifesto or an act of repentance? In the murky atmosphere surrounding Khodorkovsky's case, it is impossible to discover which theory is true.
But the more relevant question is whom Khodorkovsky's letter aimed to address. Vedomosti readers may sympathize with Khodorkovsky's plight, but they account for only 60 thousand people. The public at large was basically unaware of Khodorkovsky's letter, because the state television networks did not report it. His missive was more likely an element in behind-the-scenes negotiations between Khodorkovsky and various Kremlin factions.
Khodorkovsky's letter may have appeared in the public space, but it was not intended for public consumption. Rather, it was like the "I love you" billboard. For the time being, Khodorkovsky's love remains unrequited.