— How radically do you think the rhetoric of Russian authorities has changed since 2022?
— In my opinion, the authorities have set a course toward building a new kind of language. Something that existed only in embryonic form before 2022. Even before the Saratov incident, we saw signs of what’s called a “new sincerity” among officials. Like when they said things such as “The government didn’t ask you to give birth” (Olga Glatskikh, head of the youth policy department in Sverdlovsk Oblast), or when they rudely called people “riffraff” (former Arkhangelsk governor Igor Orlov). A utilities worker in Bryansk once told a woman complaining about road conditions, “I’ll smack you in the face right now.” Authorities no longer pretend to care about people. They say exactly what they think. Before 2022, we also saw informational euphemisms like “a pop” instead of “explosion,” or “flooding” instead of “flood.” But since then, there’s been a move toward constructing a language system where words mean whatever the government wants them to mean. War? It’s no longer a war between Russia and Ukraine. It’s now a “special military operation.” And the term “war” itself is now used to describe Russia’s conflict with NATO or the fight for traditional values. The danger of this hermetically sealed language reality is that people begin to internalize the meanings assigned to words by the state. — I also remember the Ministry of Economic Development talking about “fragmented growth.” That’s when there’s decline in nine areas, growth in one — so technically, growth exists. I assume the press office coined that term?
— I wouldn’t be surprised if someone came up with that phrasing just to obscure what’s really going on. One function of euphemisms is to make something unpleasant seem more palatable like when we refer to bodily functions in vague, polite terms. Another function, as I mentioned, is to downplay the seriousness of events. To say it’s not a fire, just “smoke.” This has become one of the tools of Russian propaganda. — When I was analyzing the case of the police officer in Saratov, I noticed how people reacted on social media. There were quite a few comments from those who were shocked or disturbed. But there were even more from people who didn’t bat an eye. They were telling others to drop it as if nothing could be changed anyway. Why has that kind of normalization happened?
— The mechanism is similar to being surrounded by people swearing when you don’t swear yourself. Eventually, the profanity just becomes background noise. I remember the first time I went to a play in Ukraine based on a script by Les Podervyanskyi, who’s known for using heavy profanity in his work. At first, I didn’t know where to look. The characters were swearing non-stop. But then you get used to it. It starts sounding like normal speech. It’s a fascinating psychological effect. It’s the same with the “new sincerity” of officials. When you keep hearing rude statements from them year after year, you start thinking: We’ve heard it all before. Their rhetoric becomes familiar, routine. I live in the United States now, and I remember how shocking Donald Trump’s statements seemed at first. But once he started speaking daily, it just became background noise even a source of jokes. — Do you think officials' language has begun to resemble military commands? Can you sense the infiltration of wartime language into everyday life?
— I wouldn't say it's the language of commands. Commands are direct, but in the rhetoric of Russian officials we see a move away from straightforwardness. Their speech is aimed at concealing, omitting, or introducing vague terms like “fake news” or “discrediting the army.” Both terms are used broadly, but we still don’t know what exactly qualifies as “discrediting the army” or what counts as a “fake.” Even a blank sheet of paper can be interpreted as discrediting the army. The authorities use these bubble-terms however they want, depending on the situation, and fill them with whatever meaning suits them at the moment. This started even before the war. Remember how the government avoided the word “quarantine” and came up with “non-working days” so as not to scare people. We know how that ended: people didn’t realize it was a lockdown, not a holiday, and went out to parks and barbecues and cases surged. — With the start of the full-scale invasion of Ukraine, the language became more authoritarian. Where are we now in the development of that language? How close are we to calling things by their real names. For example, saying “executions” instead of “repressions”?
— That process has already begun. A good example is the word “informant” [do-nos]. In the Soviet era, it carried a purely negative meaning. But today, thanks to the authorities, it’s being reframed positively. There are hotlines and reporting centers where people are encouraged to inform on neighbors, coworkers, even family members. There’s a serial informant under the pseudonym “Anna Korobkova,” who was unmasked by [social anthropologist] Alexandra Arkhipova and her colleagues. This “Korobkova” openly wrote: I’m an informant, and I believe that’s a good thing. So, if the word “execution” were to enter everyday usage, it too might take on a positive connotation within the state’s vocabulary in the special dictionary of Russian power. — Speaking of language, how does the current moment compare to Stalin’s era or the late Soviet period?
— Modern propaganda and official language heavily borrow from Soviet speech. Terms like “enemies of the people,” “national traitors,” and the division into “us” vs. “them,” the righteous vs. the deviant. All of that comes from the Soviet era. So do phrases like “decaying West,” “tighten your belts,” or “you can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs” — the latter often associated with Stalin, implying that sacrificing people is justified for a greater cause. There were euphemisms in Soviet times too, but today their use has become wildly excessive. A defining feature of today’s political language is its disconnect from actual language. Alexandra Arkhipova has a brilliant term for it: “necro-speech.” People come up with meaningless phrases from “fake news” and “discrediting the army” to brand names like “Tasty — Period” (Vkusno i tochka). That name is long, awkward, can’t be declined grammatically, and it contains aggression. It insists that the food is tasty, period. Maybe someone finds it tasteless, but they’re told: Eat what you’re given. No discussion. What sets today’s language apart from the Soviet one is its chaotic mix of styles. Even Anglicisms are allowed, despite the regime's official stance against them. For example, “fake news” is totally fine, because it helps put people in jail while innocent English words are banned. — What’s happening with language online? Is there still freedom of speech for Russians on the internet?
— I think so to some extent. Although on social media, we’re already seeing the same patterns that dominate official speech, television, and propaganda media. Many propagandists run their own Telegram channels and pages where they reuse familiar phrases. Inside Russia, expressing oneself is increasingly difficult. People post cautiously, keep their profiles private, write under lock. And unfortunately, the language of lies and hatred promoted by the authorities is seeping into everything. I would say sarcasm is becoming part of this encrypted communication. In fact, there’s a whole “secret language of protest”. It’s even been featured in exhibitions in Europe. How can people who oppose the war express themselves inside Russia? They have to make their messages visible so others notice them but also invisible. So they don’t get arrested. That’s why this coded language emerges. We saw this at the beginning of the war: the phrase “No to war” was treated as subversive, and people were arrested for it. One woman replaced some letters with asterisks and told police it said “No to vobla” (a type of dried fish). They punished her anyway. These codes are for insiders not to persuade opponents, but to signal to allies: This is how I think. You’re not alone. It’s a way to reduce personal risk. There’s less protest language in Russia now, simply because the war is dragging on. It still surfaces, but it’s hidden and only emerges when something triggers it. | 
