In a stunning development that has left the Kremlin’s PR machine sputtering like a Lada with a dodgy carburettor, Steve Rosenberg reports that an oil refinery on the outskirts of Moscow has been attacked. Yes, you read that correctly: an attack on the very heart of Russian petroleum production, the lifeblood of their war machine. It seems the war has finally come home, and the Russians are reacting with all the surprise of a man who discovers his trousers are on fire while he’s still in the middle of a very important meeting with his mother-in-law.
The attack, which allegedly involved drones, has set ablaze not just a few storage tanks but also the carefully curated narrative that this war is something happening in a faraway land, a sort of unpleasant holiday in Ukraine that the Russians can observe from a safe distance while munching on their favourite pirozhki. Now, with the smoke rising over their own backyard, the Kremlin finds itself in a bit of a pickle. How do you spin a story where the war you started has decided to pop round for an unexpected visit, like an inebriated uncle at a wedding?
Let us paint you a picture. Imagine a Russian citizen, say Ivan, who has been merrily watching state television, which has been telling him that the special military operation is going swimmingly, that the West is a pack of hysterical lunatics, and that the only thing to worry about is the price of pickled cucumbers. Ivan wakes up one morning, opens his window, and sees flames licking the sky from the direction of the refinery. He scratches his head, pours himself a stiff one (because it’s always five o’clock somewhere in Russia), and wonders if maybe, just maybe, the war might be having a slight impact on his daily life after all. The cognitive dissonance is so thick you could carve it into a statue of Vladimir Putin riding a bear, which I’m sure is already being produced in some underground workshop.
The Kremlin’s response has been predictably predictable. They’ve blamed Ukraine, because of course they have. But this particular cock-up cannot be brushed under the carpet with a few choice words about Nazi conspiracies and NATO aggression. When your own oil is burning, the people might start asking some rather awkward questions, like: why did we invade Ukraine again? And where did all that money go that was supposed to be spent on defence? And, most importantly, can we still get our petrol for the dacha?
This attack is a masterstroke of psychological warfare, the kind of thing that would make Sun Tzu nod in appreciation while muttering something about stinky Tofu. It demonstrates, with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, that Russia is not immune to the consequences of its actions. It’s a reminder that war is not a video game, no matter how many times the state media shows grainy footage of precision strikes on Ukrainian infrastructure. Building collapses in Mariupol? That’s just collateral damage. A few barrels of oil set alight in the motherland? That’s a crisis, a crisis that demands a swift and ruthless response.
But what can Russia do? It can’t invade the drones, or complain to the UN about the unfairness of it all. It could, I suppose, threaten to cut off gas supplies to Europe again, but that’s like threatening to cut off your own nose to spite your face, especially when your nose is already covered in burning oil. The reality is that Russia is now facing a war on two fronts: the one in Ukraine and the one trying to pretend that the one in Ukraine isn’t actually that bad. Good luck with that, comrades.
Meanwhile, the Russian people are left to ponder their place in the universe. The same universe that gave us borscht, ballet, and a leader who seems to be channelling the ghost of Rasputin. The war has come home, and it smells like burnt hydrocarbons and broken dreams. It’s enough to drive a man to drink, but then, most Russians were already there. Here’s to you, Ivan. Keep calm and carry on, but maybe invest in some fire insurance. And a good vodka. You’re going to need it.
