Owen Matthews

As rebel tanks trundled up the highway towards Moscow yesterday morning, Vladimir Putin labelled the mutinous mercenary leader Yevgeny Prigozhin a ‘traitor’ – and vowed to crush him. But hours later Putin capitulated, allowing Prigozhin to retire to an honourable exile in Belarus and pardoning the 25,000-strong Wagner force which had spent the day in open, armed rebellion against the Kremlin’s authority. For Putin, who had built his image as Russia’s strongman protector, the particular humiliation of allowing an armed general to cross back over the Rubicon unscathed must have stung deeply.  Of course, things could have ended far worse for Putin.

Civil war broke on Russia like a thunderstorm, replacing weeks of mounting political heat with a deluge of fire and fury. The sound of rifles and mortars echoed around Rostov-on-Don hours after mercenaries of the Wagner private military company took over the headquarters of the Russian Army’s Southern command. Wagner troops were filmed placing anti-tank mines on intersections in downtown Rostov. In Voronezh, Russian army KA-52 attack helicopters rocketed a tank park, apparently to stop the armoured vehicles falling into the hands of the rebels, as a burning oil refinery outside Rostov sent flames hundreds of feet into the air. A column of Wagner tanks on low-loaders was filmed heading up the M4 highway from Voronezh to Moscow, 420 kilometres to the north.

Some Turks voted for the devil they knew. More voted for the hero they knew. Either way, Recep Tayyip Erdogan’s re-election in the most fiercely contested election of his career last Sunday was a victory for fear over hope, for security over uncertainty, and of the past over the future.  Erdogan has, over the last five years, seen the economic miracle he helped create collapse into runway inflation, cronyism and gross economic mismanagement. Yet despite a litany of failures that would have demolished the career of any western European politician, it’s easy to see why over 52 per cent of Turks voted to stick with Erdogan. His opponent, the avuncular economist Kemal Kilicdaroglu, may have been the united opposition’s candidate.

Belarus’s president Aleksandr Lukashenko has been missing from public view since being taken ill during a Victory Day parade in Moscow on 9 May. If Belarus’s dictator dies or is incapacitated Vladimir Putin – his neighbour, patron and only regional ally – will have a vast, even existential, problem on his hands. It was mass protests in Belarus’ capital Minsk in August 2020 after an election widely seen as stolen by Lukashenko that prompted Putin to decide that the West was irrevocably hostile to the Kremlin and was hell bent on fomenting regime change across the former Soviet Union – including in Russia itself.

In modern Turkey, as in ancient Byzantium, the factions and passions of the stadium crowds are a key bellwether of the people’s true mood. Last month the terraces of Istanbul’s Sukru Saracoglu stadium – home to the Fenerbahce team of which Turkey’s President Recep Tayyip Erdogan has been a proud member for 25 years – echoed with chants of ‘Erdogan, resign’ and ‘Lies! Lies! Lies!’. The same weekend, the home crowd of another major Istanbul club, Besiktas, had filled the pitch with a heartbreaking, minutes-long hail of soft toys thrown from the stands in memory of the thousands of children who lost their lives in the devastating earthquake of 6 February.

On the face of it, the protests that rocked the Georgian capital of Tbilisi last week looked a lot like recent regional history repeating itself. Just as in Georgia’s own Rose revolution in 2003 or Ukraine’s Orange and Maidan revolutions of 2004 and 2014, vast crowds waving EU flags took to the streets to demand democratic change, to be met with police baton charges, tear gas and water cannons.  The cause of last week’s protests was a law passed by Georgia’s parliament requiring non-governmental organisations that received funding from abroad to register as ‘foreign agents’ – a requirement that looked uncomfortably similar to a longstanding Russian law which has been used by the Kremlin to crack down on civil society organisations and political opposition.