Near the heart of Moscow, steps away from the Kremlin walls, dozens of Russian residents stand in an orderly line outside the presidential administration building. They have gathered not to protest openly, but to exercise one of the few legally permitted forms of civic action: submitting a formal petition urging President Vladimir Putin to roll back the Kremlin’s escalating crackdown on online access. What should be a routine act of democratic input, however, carries palpable risk in Russia’s increasingly authoritarian political climate. From across the street, uniformed security officers openly film both the petitioners and the reporting team documenting the event, a quiet but clear reminder that speaking out carries consequences. When asked if she feels afraid, Yulia, a small catering business owner waiting in the queue, admits openly: “Very scared. I’m shaking.”
The Kremlin has been steadily tightening its grip on Russia’s digital cyberspace for years, but recent weeks have seen sweeping new restrictions that have upended daily life for millions of users. Access to globally popular messaging platforms including WhatsApp and Telegram has been sharply limited, while widespread mobile internet disruptions and full blackouts have been reported across multiple regions of the country. President Putin has publicly acknowledged the connectivity problems, framing the measures as necessary “operational work to prevent terrorist attacks.” He has also issued formal instructions to officials to preserve “uninterrupted operation” for critical internet services, but stopped short of promising to roll back the broader crackdown.
For small business owners like Yulia, the restrictions are not just an inconvenience – they threaten her entire livelihood. Her catering operation runs entirely online, relying on global messaging apps to coordinate with clients and a public website to accept orders. “There were times recently when our website was not accessible. We couldn’t generate revenue,” she explained. “We are losing money every time there is a blocking of the internet, a blocking of Telegram and WhatsApp. Without internet access, my business in this form will not exist.”
Russian officials defend the curbs as a matter of national and public safety. They claim that mobile internet blackouts help disorient attacking Ukrainian drones, a justification critics point out is undermined by the fact that drone strikes have continued in regions where connectivity has been fully shut off. Authorities also accuse international messaging platforms of refusing to comply with Russia’s strict local data storage laws, which require user information to be held on servers within Russian borders. Alongside restricting global services, regulators have launched a crackdown on virtual private networks (VPNs), tools that thousands of Russians use to circumvent government censorship and access blocked content.
As the centerpiece of the Kremlin’s push for a “sovereign internet” – a closed, state-controlled network cut off from much of the global web – the government has aggressively promoted MAX, a new homegrown, state-backed messaging app. But the Russian public remains deeply skeptical of the platform. Many users worry the app is designed specifically to let security services surveil private communications, a concern echoed by opposition figures. “Many people think that this messenger is made especially by the government to check our messages,” said Boris Nadezhdin, a former member of parliament who was barred from running against Putin in the 2024 presidential election.
Across much of Russia today, only government-approved websites and services are accessible to mobile users. Opposition analysts warn that a digital equivalent of the Cold War-era Iron Curtain is being constructed around the country, designed to cut Russian citizens off from outside information and unapproved content. “The idea is to divide Russia from the outside world,” said Andrei Kolesnikov, a columnist with independent opposition outlet Novaya Gazeta. “This world is believed to be poisonous to the brains of Russians. Russia was always blocked, primarily from the West, which was the source of ‘bad, revolutionary, liberal ideas’. It was always like this.”
Unlike the Soviet era, however, generations of Russians have fully integrated the open internet into every part of daily life, making the new restrictions feel like a sudden and disruptive shock to routine. For many, the anger over the crackdown stems less from ideological demands for free speech and more from the loss of ordinary convenience that most people now take for granted. “It’s less to do with freedom of speech and more about habit,” explained Yulia Grekova, an activist based in Vladimir, a city 190 kilometers outside Moscow. “People have got used to paying for things and ordering taxis with their mobiles. They sit in the bus messaging friends. There are very few people who don’t use mobile internet for work, public services and to keep in touch with family. That’s why there’s such an angry reaction. Everyone’s affected.”
Grekova has firsthand experience of how the Kremlin responds to public pushback against the internet restrictions. She recently attempted to organize a public rally in Vladimir to protest the curbs, but authorities blocked the event through a series of procedural stalling tactics. When she submitted applications for 11 different potential rally locations, officials rejected every site claiming street cleaning was scheduled for the requested date. City hall offered an alternative venue, only to reverse that approval a short time later, citing the risk of a Ukrainian drone attack. Grekova was later visited at her workplace by three police officers who served her a formal warning prohibiting any unsanctioned protest. “They filmed me signing the official warning from the prosecutor. I felt like some kind of terrorist,” she said. Similar attempts to hold protest rallies have been rejected across dozens of Russian cities, with authorities offering a range of absurd justifications, from scheduled roller-skating classes to residual COVID-19 restrictions.
During a visit to central Vladimir, the impact of the crackdown was immediately visible: state media sites and domestic taxi apps functioned normally, but Google searches failed to load, and all independent news sites were completely inaccessible. Local residents described constant small disruptions that have upended ordinary routines. “It’s much harder to communicate,” said Maria, who was out walking with her infant child. “We want to keep across the latest news and trends. Instead, we’re lagging behind.” For some, the restrictions have compounded existing fatigue over the ongoing war in Ukraine. “In the past, when there was no internet, the world seemed a brighter place, because we knew less,” Maria said. “I try to avoid news about the war. I don’t want to fill my head with it. We’re tired of news about people being killed.” Other residents described far more practical disruptions: “Today I couldn’t pay for petrol. And my satnav is glitching,” said local resident Denis. Small business owners have been hit hardest, said Alexander, another local resident: “People are annoyed. Especially those with small businesses. They lose customers when they can’t access the internet.” For Grekova, the crackdown feels like a deliberate step backwards into a pre-digital era. “It feels like we’re going backwards, sliding back to the past,” she said.
Kremlin spokesperson Dmitry Peskov defends the restrictions as a temporary necessity driven by the current security environment. “In the current situation, security considerations dictate the need for certain measures,” Peskov told reporters in Moscow. “These are being taken and most of our citizens understand the need for them. It’s clear that internet restrictions inconvenience many people. But this is the period we’re in. Once the need for such measures disappears, services will be fully restored and return to normal.” But critics warn that the new restrictions have already become the permanent new normal, and that the Kremlin will only continue to ramp up controls rather than roll them back. “I don’t think that this regime is ready to go back,” Kolesnikov said. “They can only go forward in terms of more repressions. What is bad for the authorities is an accumulation of discontent and it could play out in the future. We don’t know in what shape. But it is evident that irritation and discontent are accumulating.”
That discontent is already starting to bubble into public view. In recent weeks, a viral video posted to Instagram by prominent Russian celebrity blogger Victoria Bonya criticizing the internet crackdown has amassed tens of millions of views. While Bonya did not directly blame Putin, she told him directly: “There is a huge, thick wall between you and us, the ordinary people.” Under growing public pressure, Putin acknowledged last week that he could not ignore the connectivity problems facing Russian citizens, and instructed security officials to find ways to accommodate the “vital interests of citizens.” But the statement stopped far short of a policy reversal, with no mention of ending the broader restrictions.
Public opinion polling suggests that Putin’s approval ratings have fallen to their lowest level since Russia launched its full-scale invasion of Ukraine in 2022, with internet restrictions just one of multiple sources of growing public unease. Russians are also facing rising food prices, strained public services, and growing war fatigue. “People begin to understand there is a direct connection between their everyday problems, like healthcare, food prices, problems with internet, and the politics of Vladimir Putin,” Nadezhdin said. “And this is a new situation in Russia.”
After submitting her petition outside the Kremlin, Yulia has returned to work baking bread at her catering company, already planning how to adapt to the new online restrictions. Like many Russians, she says her family has a long history of adapting to massive political and social upheaval. “My great-grandfather was wealthier than average. In a Soviet village that was considered a sin. His property was taken away from him and he was moved to Siberia. But his family adapted. My parents went through the collapse of the Soviet Union: they adapted to a market economy. Now it’s my turn to adapt. Then it will be my daughter’s turn.” When asked what she expects for the future, Yulia says long-term planning has become impossible. “The future is not even mentioned in day-to-day conversations with friends and relatives. It’s like: what are we doing in three days, in a week, in a month? Nothing more than a month.” Across Russia, as restrictions tighten and daily life grows more unpredictable, a deep, pervasive sense of uncertainty is quietly rising.
