"Putin's Plan"

From: The Hibernation by Michael Idov

Putin's historic achievement is the creation, in eight short years, of what the chief Kremlin ideologist Vladislav Surkov terms suverennaya demokratiya ("sovereign democracy") and what's been rechristened, in liberal circles, suvenirnaya demokratiya: "souvenir democracy." In brief, this system consists of a narrow executive silo--about 50 Putin insiders spread out among government agencies--through which all policy is funneled, and a collection of decorative Western-style institutions pivoting around it. The fat around Putin's lean machine includes a costly, tautological United Russia party structure, useless regional governments (since 2004, the president appoints governors directly), and an equally useless State Duma, the lower house of the parliament. Under the rules imposed just in time for last December's parliamentary election, voters now pick between parties, as opposed to individual delegates--and Putin's status as the head of United Russia happened to put his name at the top of every ballot. You thus voted not for parliamentary representation but for something called "Putin's Plan." A United Russia landslide ensued, helped along by epidemic poll fraud: The official ballot counts amusingly spike on every round number (70, 80, 90), a pattern possible only with furious rounding-up. By January of 2008, newspapers began dropping the name "United Russia" from articles. What Russia had was, once again, The Party.

In the absence of any real legislative work, United Russia delegates are often businessmen pursuing tiny goals--importers out to lower a specific tariff, radio-station owners with sights on a particular frequency--or absurd celebrities who have pledged loyalty to the party. A notorious photo of twentysomething gymnasts-cum-lawmakers Svetlana Khorkina and Alina Kabaeva depicts them cavorting in the chamber like bored schoolchildren in the back of a classroom. In the run-up to the December election, many seats were bought and sold for the attendant perks, which include an apartment in Moscow, immunity against criminal investigation, and five aide positions to fill as one wishes. At least two sources tag the price of a Duma seat at around $1 million, 50 percent of which is instantly recoupable: Those aide spots go at $100,000 a pop.

Besides corrupting older institutions, the party feeds superfluous newer ones like Nashi--a politicized "youth movement" with its own network of mildly brainwashing camps (and a sprawling website that disseminates newsflashes like "Garry Kasparov's SUV ran over a young fan"). It may sound sinister, and its name, meaning "Ours," is terribly unfortunate--Nashist sounds like both "Nazi" and "fascist"--but, in truth, Nashi is a deeply dopey fund-waster. A quick conversation with a participant in any of Nashi's many rallies (for "Putin's Plan," against Kosovo's independence) will invariably reveal that the students have been bused in under threat of a failing grade or harder community service. The morning after Medvedev's victory, on Pushkin Square, I joined a group of about 60 young Nashi men and women with government-issue flags huddled, under freezing rain, in front of an outdoor stage. A government-approved rapper, swaying in his best approximation of Jay-Z, delivered an upbeat refrain: U menya vsyo okei, u menya vsyo okei--"I'm just fine, I'm just fine"--periodically throwing in a misplaced shout-out to "South Bronx." The wet crowd looked utterly miserable. More than a few boys clutched beer bottles. A violet-eared militia officer was the only one bobbing his head to the beat: At least he was getting paid to be there.

The final leg of Sovereign Democracy is in what used to be the private sector. A de facto nationalization of Russia's most flush industries--oil and gas--provides the cushion that keeps the bureaucratic deadweight afloat. Both functionaries and dissidents, struggling to put this socioeconomic model into first-world terms, like to say that the new Russia is being run like a corporation. To an extent, it is a corporation, and that corporation is Gazprom--currently headed by Dmitri Medvedev. The government is unhealthily symbiotic with the gas concern, which provides at least 8 percent of the country's GDP, serves as an unsubtle diplomatic chip, and, dissidents allege, helps the principals funnel vast fortunes abroad. Per Medvedev, Gazprom should be worth $1 trillion by 2017, which will make it the world's largest company. The rest of its directors' board teems with government officials and Putin and Medvedev's fellow St. Petersburg mayor's office alums. It could, in a pinch, make a decent shadow cabinet. In the late 1990s, a jokey draft of a "Gazprom- State Unity Bill," circulated in the Russian Parliament hallways, stated that, "in case of Prime Minister's incapacitation, his duties shall be carried out by the Chairman of the Gazprom Board of Directors, and vice versa." Less than a decade later, it's no longer a joke.