The drone strikes that lit up the skies over St Petersburg this week were more than a military manoeuvre. They were a statement. As the city prepared to host Russia's premier economic forum, the SPIEF, the Kremlin’s carefully curated image of stability shattered. For the delegates sipping champagne in the ExpoForum convention centre, the whir of drones overhead was a chilling reminder that the war in Ukraine has come home.
On the streets, the mood is one of quiet anxiety. Locals, once inured to the low hum of propaganda, now speak in hushed tones. The strikes hit Vasilyevsky Island, a residential area known for its winding canals and student population. No major casualties, but the symbolism is potent. The same city that witnessed the birth of the Russian Revolution is now a stage for Ukraine's defiance.
For Vladimir Putin, the timing could not be worse. The St Petersburg International Economic Forum is his annual showcase, a chance to project Russia as a bastion of stability in a chaotic world. This year, the guest list was sparse. Western investors are gone, replaced by delegates from China, India, and the Gulf states. The chatter in the corridors is not about deals, but about survival. Sanctions are biting. The rouble is volatile. And now, the drones.
What does this mean for the average Russian? In the cafes of Nevsky Prospekt, the conversation has shifted from the war's progress to its consequences. The economic forum, once a symbol of aspirations, now feels like a relic. The human cost is becoming impossible to ignore. Young men dodge conscription. Families struggle with inflation. The state's narrative of a 'special military operation' is wearing thin.
Class dynamics are shifting, too. The elite, those with connections and hard currency, can still access Western goods via back channels. But the middle class, the backbone of Putin's support, is feeling the squeeze. They are the ones who filled the streets in 2011, demanding fair elections. Now, they are silent, but their patience is finite.
The cultural shift is palpable. Russians are rediscovering a sense of vulnerability. The strikes are a reminder that no city is safe, not even the imperial capital. There is a grim humour in the air. 'We used to go to the dacha for the weekend,' one Muscovite told me. 'Now we go to check if it's still standing.'
Yet, the regime endures. The security apparatus is efficient. The opposition is crushed or exiled. But the cracks are visible. This is not 1917, but it is not 2014 either. The drones over St Petersburg are a sign that Putin's grip, while still strong, is no longer unassailable. The question is how much further it can weaken before the edifice crumbles.
