Part I – The Collapse of Its “Near Abroad” Presence

Written by: Alkonyi Aurél Zalán

While the Kremlin’s state-controlled propaganda machine tries to present every step of the 39-kilometer advance to Pokrovsk — achieved over two years and at the cost of hundreds of thousands of Russian lives — as one of the greatest victories in Russian history for both domestic and global audiences, diplomatic and political realities prove that the imperial dream is disintegrating.

In 2022, the Russian Federation stood at the zenith of its power. Its troops were present throughout nearly the entire former Soviet space (except for the three Baltic republics), acting either as allies or as occupiers. Despite the ongoing national awakenings in Central Asia, no state in the region had yet significantly challenged the political and societal nexus that continued to revolve around the Russian language and culture — often even forming the connective tissue between the new states themselves. The 2020 revolution in Belarus was drowned in blood by Moscow’s ally Alyaksandr Lukashenka, while the unrest in Kazakhstan was neutralized by Tokayev with direct Russian backing. Russia was the only power in Europe that had successfully annexed territory in 2014, maintained a notable presence in the Middle East, and was regaining influence in Africa. At that point, Vladimir Putin was undeniably one of the world’s most authoritative leaders — if only by virtue of seniority. Though economically a dwarf, Russia was still a political giant in the global competition. Yet even then it had already outgrown the political and military capabilities that its economic base could realistically sustain.

In contrast, Russia’s current foreign-policy position is dismal. Contrary to the official narrative trumpeted by the Valdai Discussion Club, even hardline imperialists now openly acknowledge the need for a fundamental strategic reset. Aleksandr Dugin — whose domestic significance is often exaggerated in the West — has admitted that “Russia is rapidly losing even the few remaining loyal and friendly nations.”

The full-scale invasion of Ukraine launched in 2022 has proven to be an act of imperial overreach that collapsed under its own lack of preparation. Yet the war must be understood not primarily as a military failure, but as a political one — and through that lens, the fiasco appears even more severe. Russia today stands further from its original objectives than at any point since the war began. Ukraine’s long-term commitment to Western integration, as well as its irreversible effort to marginalize Russian cultural influence, have become facts of history. The very existence of this war between two peoples so close in culture and history was every Euro-Atlantic Russophobe’s “wet dream,” and it has now become a reality that will shape Ukrainian national identity for generations — defining itself above all through opposition to Russia.

Beyond identity politics, the diplomatic loss of prestige is equally evident. Kyiv no longer considers any model acceptable in which Moscow would offer “security guarantees” in exchange for neutrality. In the Ukrainian perception, such a framework would merely postpone, not prevent, renewed Russian occupation.

Yet Russia’s failure in Ukraine reaches far beyond Ukraine itself. The war has shattered what remained of Moscow’s sphere of influence: from the Caucasus to Central Asia, and from the Baltics to the Middle East, one can observe imperial retrenchment and a profound crisis of trust. Russia has become increasingly reactive rather than proactive — a state still speaking the language of empire but already stripped of the empire’s instruments.

In the Baltic states, hostility toward the Russian language, culture, and population — fueled by the war — has led to a series of tough measures. The institutional rollback of the Russian language is a clear trend, with the main battlegrounds being education policy (where the gradual but complete phasing out of Russian has become an explicit objective) and the public sphere. Alongside the blocking of Russian media outlets, restrictions have even been imposed on Russian opposition media.[1]

The ban on public Victory Day celebrations, the removal of Soviet monuments, and the disenfranchisement of non-citizens in local elections in Estonia are all deliberate and open efforts to marginalize Russian culture. The list could be extended further — for instance, travel bans, or prohibitions on vehicles with Russian license plates, among other measures.

In the Caucasus, Azerbaijan, having sensed Moscow’s military quagmire in Ukraine after an initial phase of caution, seized the initiative in asserting its own regional interests with remarkable confidence. Backed by Turkey, Baku had already pursued an openly multi-vector foreign policy even before the war — it never joined the Collective Security Treaty Organization (CSTO) — and in 2023 it resolved the Karabakh conflict unilaterally. Russian peacekeepers were killed in the fighting. Since then, tensions between the two countries have escalated steadily. Noteworthy incidents include the shooting down of an Azerbaijan Airlines aircraft, the closure of the Russian cultural center, a wave of mutual arrests, and espionage scandals.

Armenia, meanwhile, was abandoned by Moscow not only in the Karabakh issue, but also when Azerbaijani forces advanced into de jure Armenian territory during the so-called “one-day war.” This betrayal — justified in Moscow by Yerevan’s alleged “disloyalty” — further alienated the Armenian public and severely undermined the credibility of the CSTO. As a result, Armenia has begun an unmistakable pivot toward Western integration channels such as the European Union and NATO. Although scarcely reported in Hungarian media, it is telling that Armenia has effectively suspended its membership payments to the CSTO, and by the summer was already openly hinting that it was considering withdrawal from the Russian-led military alliance.

In Georgia, although the ruling Georgian Dream party’s leadership remains heavily influenced by Moscow — largely because the business elite behind it maintains strong interests in the Russian market — anti-government protests have become a constant feature of public life, and their anti-Russian tone is unmistakable. The combination of grassroots resistance and the ongoing Russian occupation of Abkhazia and South Ossetia makes open Russophilia politically untenable in Georgia, forcing the ruling elite to disguise it behind more ambiguous narratives.

In Central Asia, the most striking trends are the decline of Russian cultural influence and the erosion of Moscow’s diplomatic prestige — all the more remarkable since, after the collapse of the Soviet Union, these states showed the greatest openness to preserving the Russkiy Mir (“Russian world”), and here the ethnic dimension had to bridge the widest gap on the path toward genuine nation-statehood.

“We demand respect. Nothing more. Respect.” This was how Emomali Rahmon, the president of Tajikistan, captured the essence of the regional mood as early as October 2022.

In general, none of the Central Asian governments seek a dramatic or openly hostile break with Moscow — but neither do they support its imperial ambitions. The distancing is subtler, expressed through quiet realignments. One telling indicator is the imprisonment of Kazakh citizens who fought in Ukraine as Russian mercenaries (with Uzbekistan being even more zealous in jailing its own returnees who served in Russian ranks).

The region’s states are broadly following the lead of Kazakhstan, the most powerful among them. President Kassym-Jomart Tokayev has avoided an open rupture with Moscow yet has made a series of seemingly minor but strategically important moves signaling both distance and opportunism. Astana views the war in Ukraine as an opportunity: it has boosted Kazakhstan’s relevance as a transit country and accelerated the development of the Middle Corridor linking China and Europe.

Together with its Central Asian neighbors, Kazakhstan has also demonstrated enthusiastic openness to new U.S. investments, a direction underlined at the recent C5+1 Central Asia Summit in Washington — emphasized there by U.S. Secretary of State Marco Rubio. Notably, by 2025 the Russian president found himself having to openly plead with Central Asian leaders for deeper economic commitment toward Moscow — a sign that Russia is fully aware of its declining influence in the region.

Meanwhile, China’s economic presence and political prestige have both expanded dramatically across Central Asia in recent years, largely at Russia’s expense. Kazakhstan, for instance, is officially preparing to transition from the Cyrillic to the Latin alphabet for the Kazakh language — a move motivated by both nation-building goals and a symbolic break with the Soviet-Russian legacy.

Other Central Asian states are striving to emulate this strategy of diversification, fighting their own battles to broaden their sovereignty. In Uzbekistan, these shifts often take the form of independent protests and public criticism, and the tone of official statements — especially regarding the treatment of Uzbek citizens abroad — has become far more assertive. The same is true of Tajikistan, where issues of citizens’ rights have become particularly sensitive focal points for emerging anti-Russian nationalism.

Some security frictions are also visible in Kyrgyzstan, where this spring authorities arrested an employee of a “Russian state agency” accused of recruiting Kyrgyz nationals. However, Bishkek, for its part, perceived the EU’s sanctioning of two local banks (over Russian ties) as an act of one-sided Western pressure.

Finally, Moldova also deserves mention: the ruling party has chosen a pro-Western integration path, recently reaffirmed by voters. Due to the lack of direct geographic access, Moscow has no means to punish Chişinău militarily, though it retains a limited armed presence in the Transnistrian region and some residual social influence.

In summary, the war launched in 2022 has triggered not only a military collapse but also a civilizational and political disintegration, whose contours are becoming increasingly clear with time. Beyond the war itself, it is now evident that Russia’s current imperial strategy has suffered a lasting defeat, and any attempt to rebuild its former positions will take years — if it succeeds at all.

The very pillars of Moscow’s regional dominance — the concept of the Russkiy Mir, the notion of a “near abroad”, the integrating power of the Russian language and culture, and the informal hegemony of the Kremlin — have all weakened dramatically in every direction. The imperial dream remains dubious even if Russia were to win the conventional war militarily. Though not impossible, the prospect of total victory is drifting ever farther away — along with its potential significance. Even if Moscow managed to seize new territories, pacifying them would require vast resources, as conventional warfare would inevitably continue in the form of terroristic people’s resistance.

The only post-Soviet state where Russian influence still operates without limitation is Belarus. Yet since the 2020 revolution, its political system has lost domestic legitimacy, and the ensuing Russian quasi-occupation has stripped it of foreign-policy autonomy. The current calm is deceptive — beneath the surface apathy, deep resentment simmers within Belarusian society.

The next installments of this series will explore how the process of imperial retreat manifests in Russia’s global positions, as well as examine the growing dangers of dependence on China and the nature and scale of Russia’s internal instability.

¹The restrictions imposed even on Russian opposition media have surprised some observers — as they are, in fact, counterproductive to NATO’s own information war against Kremlin propaganda. Yet it is difficult to interpret these measures as merely attempts to curb Russian disinformation. Rather, they seem aimed at marginalizing Russian-language media altogether, and, by extension, at pushing the Russian language itself into the background.