Foreign Policy26%
Putin’s War Comes Home to Russia 23%
By Alexey Kovalev32%
7/15/2026, 11:45:39 AM
Keywords: Authoritarianism, Homepage Regional Europe, Oil, Russia, Ukraine, Ukraine Russia, Vladimir Putin, War, Weapons
BS Summary: This article contains 29 faulty reasoning types, including Biased Writer Voice, Negativity Bias, and Unattributed Quote, with Hasty Generalization as the most egregious example at 19.3% saturation with 335 hits. Analysis detected 3,039 faulty-reasoning hits from 1,734 analyzed words, generating a BS Score of 36.3% and a BS Rank of 23% (12,345 of 15,985 articles). This article is better (less manipulative) than 77.20% of the article peer group.
In Chita, a city in Russia’s Transbaikal region roughly 3,700 miles from the front, a man spent 39 hours in his car waiting in line for fuel late last month.
When he finally reached the pump, a reporter asked him what he made of it.
The man did not blame the Kremlin’s invasion of Ukraine, which is now bringing the war home to Russians by striking fuel depots and oil refineries.
Instead, he blamed the Russian government for being “too soft” on Ukraine, adding that Russia needed to “start acting seriously”—which is a widespread Russian euphemism for attacking Ukraine more ruthlessly.
In other words, the man who had just lost a day and a half of his life to a shortage caused by his country’s war concluded that the appropriate response was not a cease-fire and peace negotiations but yet more war.
For four years, many Western observers have entertained the hope that enough human and economic pain might eventually undermine popular support for Russian President Vladimir Putin and his invasion of Ukraine.
A war gone bad, so this line of thinking goes, often turns a population against the leaders who started it.
The Chita interview is only an anecdote, but it encapsulates how Western hopes are likely to be disappointed—and why.
By early July, fuel shortages, rationing, or restrictions were reported in nearly all of Russia’s 83 federal regions.
Officials prefer to stay silent about the actual damage, so the clearest picture of the scale of the crisis comes not from any ministry but from the market itself.
Meduza’s data desk examined 118 days of trading records on the St.
Petersburg commodity exchange—more than 65,000 individual transactions—and found that between January and June, national exchange volumes for gasoline and diesel fell by 47 percent, while the average price rose by 46 percent.
By Meduza’s own count, every one of Russia’s largest refineries had been struck by early July, most recently the sprawling Soviet-era behemoth in Omsk, 1,200 miles from the front.
It was the last one left.
In agricultural regions, chronic fuel shortages are putting this season’s harvest at risk.
One combine harvester consumes 300 liters of diesel per shift, while many gas stations now have limits of 100 to 200 liters per commercial vehicle—if they have any fuel at all.
Even the Kremlin no longer disputes the situation, only the severity: In a televised address on June 28, Putin acknowledged lines at gas stations but dismissed the situation as “not critical.”
Ten days later, Mikhail Razvozhaev, the Russian-installed governor of Sevastopol in occupied Crimea, told Putin in a public meeting that the price of premium gasoline in his region had reached 197 rubles per liter, more than double the national average and more than three times pre-war prices.
Some reports mention prices as high as 450 rubles per liter.
Crimea’s crisis is even worse than Russia’s due to its increasing isolation as Ukrainian drones take out Russian fuel tankers trying to resupply the peninsula by sea.
Even if Ukraine were to cease its strikes tomorrow, the fuel shortages would last.
Unlike destroyed storage tanks, an oil refinery’s complex catalytic and hydrocracking units are difficult and slow to replace.
Reuters and Associated Press reporting suggests that it could take not weeks but months or even years for some of the damaged refineries to be restored, complicated by the Western sanctions that limit access to foreign parts.
This is exactly the kind of “kinetic sanctions” that Ukraine has said it wants to inflict: to degrade Russia’s material capacity to wage the war, refinery by refinery.
Jade McGlynn, an analyst at King’s College London, told the Kyiv Independent that ordinary Russians’ anger about the fuel crisis was “corrosive”—but not “explosive” in the sense of threatening the regime.
If today’s Russians are angry at the Kremlin, it doesn’t necessarily mean a spike in anti-war sentiment or willingness to pressure Putin to negotiate and make concessions.
And it’s still unclear how many can make the direct connection between the crisis and Putin’s invasion.
One of the most popular social media genres at the moment are rants recorded by panicked and often crying drivers waiting for gas.
They seem to be completely blindsided by the turn of events, demonstrating their cluelessness with questions along the lines of “Why is this happening to us?”
and “What did we do to deserve this?”
But even if Russians do conclude that it’s their war that has caused the crisis, it’s worth drawing the parallel to how Germans reacted when their cities were bombed during World War II: The U.S.
Strategic Bombing Survey, compiled from more than 3,700 interviews with German civilians immediately after the war, found that Germans generally accepted that their suffering was the result of the war their country had started and wanted that war to end.
But their dissatisfaction and anti-war sentiment had nowhere to escape under the Gestapo’s surveillance and brutal repression.
That is the more useful frame for Russians’ reactions to empty gas stations than any theory about a peculiarly Russian naivete or tolerance of hardship.
What’s more, many of the most visible reactions by Russian civilians to the crisis are not spontaneous but rather carefully managed by state authorities.
One such mechanism is diversion through scapegoating.
In late June, Lipetsk region Gov.
Igor Artamonov told residents that the shortage was due to their own panic-buying, comparing them to the hoarders emptying supermarket shelves during the COVID-19 pandemic.
Two weeks later, with harvest season underway and long lines stretching overnight outside closed stations, Artamonov zeroed in on the oil companies instead, posting on Telegram that it was “impossible to accept” a situation in which company executives promised adequate supply in their public statements while residents could see the opposite unfold at the pump.
On July 6, the scapegoating reached the federal level: Russia’s competition ministry opened formal cases against six independent gas station operators in the Moscow region and three in Orenburg for “simultaneously” raising prices on fuel they were struggling to source in the first place.
The second mechanism is a more direct deflection of blame from the regime.
On June 28, Putin described the strikes on energy infrastructure as part of a Ukrainian “information campaign” to sow self-doubt among Russians.
He did not dispute that refineries were burning but reframed that fact and the resulting fuel scarcity as a psychological problem to be resisted mentally rather than a policy failure to be addressed in the real world.
The only real fix that Putin has offered so far is a law that permits Russian producers to stretch supplies by blending lower-grade Euro-3 gasoline, which contains 15 times the sulfur content of the current Euro-5 standard.
(Never mind that Euro-3 gas causes serious damage to modern passenger car engines.)
The third mechanism is the least obviously coercive and, for that reason, the most interesting: Frustrated energy is being rerouted into cooperative problem-solving rather than collective political action.
Mediazona’s data journalism unit scraped 45,400 gas station reviews on Yandex Maps and 2GIS between mid-June and early July and found comment volume in Moscow jumping fivefold after the Ukrainian strikes on the city’s main Kapotnya refinery.
There was real, measurable anger, expressed entirely within the bounds of a consumer review, a channel nobody has ever been arrested for using.
On Max, the state-enforced messenger service that is now mandatory for accessing many government services, users coordinating with one another to find open gas stations adopted code words to survive the platform’s censorship filters.
Premium gasoline became “gold,” regular “platinum,” and fuel in general “water.”
Old Soviet-era samizdat practices to circumvent the state’s all-watching eye have resurfaced from collective memory—not to protect a forbidden opinion but to solve the practical problem of finding a functioning gas station.
Russian users also crowdsourced an independent, anonymous map called GdeBenz (“where’s gas”), covering more than 20,000 stations nationwide.
On July 8, Yandex formalized the improvised coping apparatus into an official feature, opening its previously taxi-only fuel-and-queue data to the public in Moscow and St.
Petersburg.
None of this should be mistaken for organizing.
It looks, superficially, like true ingenuity and grassroots solidarity: drivers helping other drivers.
But users are treating the shortage as a logistical problem to be solved with better information, not a policy failure to be addressed by holding anyone responsible.
It is the digital-era version of Soviet-era trading tips about which shop had sugar that week.
Then as now, it is a more effective release valve than outright denial because it gives people something absorbing to do with their frustration that isn’t asking why the sugar or gasoline is in such short supply.
Even while the state’s own polling shows the corrosion in public opinion, the numbers are too small to alarm anyone.
WCIOM, the state pollster, recorded Putin’s approval rating sliding for three straight weeks through the worst of the crisis, from 70.4 percent in mid-June to 66.0 percent by July 5—nothing there resembles a collapse.
Meanwhile, the most consequential policy response rumored to be under discussion in Moscow isn’t about changing course on the war but whether the crisis gives the government a formal pretext to invoke “heightened readiness” nationwide—a kind of state of emergency previously invoked during the COVID-19 era that has already been introduced in some regions.
Another rumor is that September’s State Duma elections might be postponed.
There is a clear pattern to all of this: Even the most dramatic possible consequence allegedly on the table is an administrative maneuver decided from above, not a concession wrung from below.
None of this means Russia’s fuel crisis is inconsequential.
Ukraine’s stated theory of victory is to degrade Russian air defense, refining capacity, transport, and fuel supply until the state’s capacity to sustain the war, not the population’s willingness to tolerate it, becomes the binding constraint.
On the evidence, that theory is working but on a timeline measured in months and years rather than weeks, at a cost the Kremlin is still willing to absorb in order to avoid admitting that its war is unsustainable.
But a second theory of victory sometimes voiced in the West—that inflicting increased pain on Russia’s economy and society will eventually produce a public reckoning from below—has almost no empirical support of how a security state functions.
Conflating the two theories sets an expectation that the man waiting for fuel in Chita has already answered.
Analysis
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