Visitors to a sanatorium in Transnistria, which does not recognise the USSR's collapse.
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World on a wire: two books reveal the truth about life in modern Russia

Peter Pomerantsev's Nothing is True and Everything is Possible meets Rory MacLean and Nick Danziger's Back in the USSR.

Nothing Is True and Everything Is Possible: Adventures in Modern Russia
Peter Pomerantsev
Faber & Faber, 284pp, £14.99


Back in the USSR: Heroic Adventures in Transnistria
Rory MacLean and Nick Danziger
Unbound, 150pp, £19.99

If you want to understand Ukraine’s crisis, you have to understand Russia – or at least its modern incarnation. Peter Pomerantsev, a native Russian speaker, spent nine years in Moscow and ended up doing just that. He arrived in 2001. Unusually, he wasn’t a lawyer or a banker but a film-maker, a “stowaway on the great armada of western civilisation” that flowed into Moscow on a slick of abundant petrodollars.

The book is part Henry Fielding, part Dante: a Bildungsroman that morphs into something much darker. Pomerantsev begins life in Moscow as a naïf. He goes to work for TNT, a television channel aimed at the young and hip. The book’s theme is his journey through various circles of (a gilded) hell until he reaches a slow but complete awakening. Finally, he comes to understand Russia’s profound moral disorder, its world of “Maybachs and rapes and gangsters and mass graves and penthouses and sparkly dresses”.

For the first few years, everything was all right. Pomerantsev’s brief was reality TV and he was good at it. From the world’s heaviest boy and suicidal supermodels to the beautiful young girls attending academies that teach them to become the perfect mistress (“Today we will learn the algorithm for receiving presents . . .”), he filmed the strange stories emerging from this brave new world.

And there were plenty of stories. Russia is the world’s largest country. It has nine time zones and 144 million people, ranging from Bentley-driving oligarchs to village-dwelling peasants. TV, Pomerantsev explains, is the “only force that can unify and rule and bind this country”. The first thing President Vladimir Putin (only ever referred to here as “the president”) did on coming to power in 2000 was to seize control of it.

The move proved a wise one. TV has enabled the Kremlin to control its people in an age when death squads and the Gulag are no longer acceptable in a country seeking a global role. Authoritarianism is acceptable, especially when it is of the capitalist variety, but it must be packaged as something more palatable – Saddam Hussein and Idi Amin were so 20th century. TV gave the Kremlin everything it needed. It created puppet opposition parties so absurd that viewers (read: voters) could only conclude that, whatever his flaws, the president was the only sane choice. It allowed the government to combine propaganda with entertainment, dictatorship with ratings, totalitarianism with the language of democracy. Putin’s Kremlin internalised the single, greatest lesson from the failure of communist rule: never let TV get boring.

Pomerantsev eventually understands all of this. He has various moments of anagnorisis but perhaps the best comes drunkenly in a Moscow nightclub:

At 5am the music goes faster and faster and in the throbbing, snowing light, the cattle become Forbeses [rich men] and the Forbeses’ cattle [the girls chasing them], moving so fast now they can see the traces of themselves caught in the strobe across the dance floor. The guys and the girls look at themselves and think: “Did that really happen to me? Is that me there?”

It’s all there in the billowing, streaming syntax. Their dancing is Pomerantsev’s vertiginous world in miniature: the whirligig of modern Russia, where TV and politics are one and the president is the ultimate sugar daddy, where gangsters rue not running for parliament (“They use the same methods as us”) and where rich men are finally no longer discernible from the hard-bodied women out to ensnare them.

And why not? They all “clambered out of one Soviet world” to play their varying roles in the great scripted reality TV show that is modern Russia. It’s a dystopian nightmare (endless police checks make Pomerantsev unconsciously pat his passport dozens of times a day), only one’s face isn’t being stamped on by a boot; it’s watching a flat screen.

And reality TV, like everything else in Russia, is in effect directed from the top. Here enter the “political technologists”, Russia’s modern grand viziers, the most prominent of whom is Vladislav Surkov, a kind of Cardinal Richelieu for the digital age. One of the authors of the new Russian system, Surkov, or those like him, created Putin “from a no one, a grey fuzz, via the power of television”. Underlying Russia’s war in Ukraine are Surkov’s ideas. In his short story “Without Sky”, he writes of “non-linear war” – a new type of conflict for a new age in which most understood the war to be “part of a process . . . not necessarily its most important part”.

And so it has proved in Ukraine, where Russia is accused of sending its hardware across the border to bomb and kill. No war has been declared and Moscow clearly has little interest in defeating Kyiv militarily (which it could do easily). Instead, the most vicious battles are conducted on TV and online as Putin seeks to promulgate a narrative: Ukrainians are evil, the west is decadent, Russia is holy and strong. He counts his victories not in casualties but in viewing and polling figures. It is war as political theatre: a truly postmodern conflict.

“All media,” said the Canadian philosopher Marshall McLuhan, “are extensions of some human faculty – psychic or physical.” During the many weeks I spent in eastern Ukraine, it was as if Putin’s central nervous system were on display. The people I spoke to parroted fantastical mantras about Ukrainian fascists and Kyiv’s desire to persecute Russian speakers that existed only on Russian TV: that is to say, in the Kremlin’s imagination. The brilliance of Pomerantsev’s hauntingly perceptive and beautifully written book is his understanding that in modern Russia, as in its war with Ukraine, reality is malleable.

Nowhere is this more true than in another of Russia’s borderlands: Transnistria, the breakaway Moldovan republic that is the only “country” in the world not to have recognised the fall of the USSR. The author Rory MacLean and the photographer Nick Danziger tour this geopolitical oddity with “New Soviet Man” as their guide, a shady businessman, typical of the new breed of hyper-capitalist that has emerged since the USSR’s collapse. A man who studies “profit margins instead of the Great Path of the Party”, he is Homo Sovieticus reimagined as Donald Trump.

And so the book roams across this surreal statelet, with beautiful photographs throughout. Its tone is jaunty and breezy – it grates somewhat. Laboured alliteration competes with strained comedy, most egregiously in the descent into the mock-heroic (“Workers of Transnistria! Struggle for the further development and strengthening of our progressive alcohol industry!”).

The book’s subject, however, is serious. Russia supports Transnistria by buying its main produce, alcohol, and supplies it with gas and large amounts of cash. It has 2,000 “peacekeeping” troops stationed there. Near the frontiers of the EU and Nato, it is of crucial geopolitical importance to the Kremlin, which perceives it as a bulwark against a hostile west. Putin is trying to make eastern Ukraine another Transnistria. It’s not just a Soviet throwback; it’s the future of Russian foreign policy.

As Russian-backed separatists now shell the eastern Ukrainian city of Mariupol, the prospect of a land corridor from Russia to the Crimea and into Transnistria is starting to look real. It would destroy the post-cold-war order. It barely seems imaginable but this is the post-Soviet space, where nothing is true and everything is indeed possible.

This article first appeared in the 06 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, An empire that speaks English

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The Brexit Beartraps, #2: Could dropping out of the open skies agreement cancel your holiday?

Flying to Europe is about to get a lot more difficult.

So what is it this time, eh? Brexit is going to wipe out every banana planet on the entire planet? Brexit will get the Last Night of the Proms cancelled? Brexit will bring about World War Three?

To be honest, I think we’re pretty well covered already on that last score, but no, this week it’s nothing so terrifying. It’s just that Brexit might get your holiday cancelled.

What are you blithering about now?

Well, only if you want to holiday in Europe, I suppose. If you’re going to Blackpool you’ll be fine. Or Pakistan, according to some people...

You’re making this up.

I’m honestly not, though we can’t entirely rule out the possibility somebody is. Last month Michael O’Leary, the Ryanair boss who attracts headlines the way certain other things attract flies, warned that, “There is a real prospect... that there are going to be no flights between the UK and Europe for a period of weeks, months beyond March 2019... We will be cancelling people’s holidays for summer of 2019.”

He’s just trying to block Brexit, the bloody saboteur.

Well, yes, he’s been quite explicit about that, and says we should just ignore the referendum result. Honestly, he’s so Remainiac he makes me look like Dan Hannan.

But he’s not wrong that there are issues: please fasten your seatbelt, and brace yourself for some turbulence.

Not so long ago, aviation was a very national sort of a business: many of the big airports were owned by nation states, and the airline industry was dominated by the state-backed national flag carriers (British Airways, Air France and so on). Since governments set airline regulations too, that meant those airlines were given all sorts of competitive advantages in their own country, and pretty much everyone faced barriers to entry in others. 

The EU changed all that. Since 1994, the European Single Aviation Market (ESAM) has allowed free movement of people and cargo; established common rules over safety, security, the environment and so on; and ensured fair competition between European airlines. It also means that an AOC – an Air Operator Certificate, the bit of paper an airline needs to fly – from any European country would be enough to operate in all of them. 

Do we really need all these acronyms?

No, alas, we need more of them. There’s also ECAA, the European Common Aviation Area – that’s the area ESAM covers; basically, ESAM is the aviation bit of the single market, and ECAA the aviation bit of the European Economic Area, or EEA. Then there’s ESAA, the European Aviation Safety Agency, which regulates, well, you can probably guess what it regulates to be honest.

All this may sound a bit dry-

It is.

-it is a bit dry, yes. But it’s also the thing that made it much easier to travel around Europe. It made the European aviation industry much more competitive, which is where the whole cheap flights thing came from.

In a speech last December, Andrew Haines, the boss of Britain’s Civil Aviation Authority said that, since 2000, the number of destinations served from UK airports has doubled; since 1993, fares have dropped by a third. Which is brilliant.

Brexit, though, means we’re probably going to have to pull out of these arrangements.

Stop talking Britain down.

Don’t tell me, tell Brexit secretary David Davis. To monitor and enforce all these international agreements, you need an international court system. That’s the European Court of Justice, which ministers have repeatedly made clear that we’re leaving.

So: last March, when Davis was asked by a select committee whether the open skies system would persist, he replied: “One would presume that would not apply to us” – although he promised he’d fight for a successor, which is very reassuring. 

We can always holiday elsewhere. 

Perhaps you can – O’Leary also claimed (I’m still not making this up) that a senior Brexit minister had told him that lost European airline traffic could be made up for through a bilateral agreement with Pakistan. Which seems a bit optimistic to me, but what do I know.

Intercontinental flights are still likely to be more difficult, though. Since 2007, flights between Europe and the US have operated under a separate open skies agreement, and leaving the EU means we’re we’re about to fall out of that, too.  

Surely we’ll just revert to whatever rules there were before.

Apparently not. Airlines for America – a trade body for... well, you can probably guess that, too – has pointed out that, if we do, there are no historic rules to fall back on: there’s no aviation equivalent of the WTO.

The claim that flights are going to just stop is definitely a worst case scenario: in practice, we can probably negotiate a bunch of new agreements. But we’re already negotiating a lot of other things, and we’re on a deadline, so we’re tight for time.

In fact, we’re really tight for time. Airlines for America has also argued that – because so many tickets are sold a year or more in advance – airlines really need a new deal in place by March 2018, if they’re to have faith they can keep flying. So it’s asking for aviation to be prioritised in negotiations.

The only problem is, we can’t negotiate anything else until the EU decides we’ve made enough progress on the divorce bill and the rights of EU nationals. And the clock’s ticking.

This is just remoaning. Brexit will set us free.

A little bit, maybe. CAA’s Haines has also said he believes “talk of significant retrenchment is very much over-stated, and Brexit offers potential opportunities in other areas”. Falling out of Europe means falling out of European ownership rules, so itcould bring foreign capital into the UK aviation industry (assuming anyone still wants to invest, of course). It would also mean more flexibility on “slot rules”, by which airports have to hand out landing times, and which are I gather a source of some contention at the moment.

But Haines also pointed out that the UK has been one of the most influential contributors to European aviation regulations: leaving the European system will mean we lose that influence. And let’s not forget that it was European law that gave passengers the right to redress when things go wrong: if you’ve ever had a refund after long delays, you’ve got the EU to thank.

So: the planes may not stop flying. But the UK will have less influence over the future of aviation; passengers might have fewer consumer rights; and while it’s not clear that Brexit will mean vastly fewer flights, it’s hard to see how it will mean more, so between that and the slide in sterling, prices are likely to rise, too.

It’s not that Brexit is inevitably going to mean disaster. It’s just that it’ll take a lot of effort for very little obvious reward. Which is becoming something of a theme.

Still, we’ll be free of those bureaucrats at the ECJ, won’t be?

This’ll be a great comfort when we’re all holidaying in Grimsby.

Jonn Elledge edits the New Statesman's sister site CityMetric, and writes for the NS about subjects including politics, history and Brexit. You can find him on Twitter or Facebook.