Confessions of a Russian Propagandist
12 min readIn mid-September,Russians at War, a documentary by the Russian Canadian filmmaker Anastasia Trofimova, was supposed to be screened at the Toronto International Film Festival. At the last minute, after protests from the Ukrainian community and the office of Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky, the festival first pulled the picture, only to return it to the program a week later.
What made the documentary so controversial was that, although many films have chronicled the devastation caused by Russia’s ongoing invasion of Ukraine, including the Oscar-winning 20 Days in Mariupol, Trofimova’s work focused on the invaders. The filmmaker, embedded with a Russian unit for seven months, humanized Moscow’s troops as lost, confused, and disheveled. The men joke, miss their families, and even criticize the Russian government, though they never speak against Putin. A love-on-the-front-lines plot trains the viewer’s sympathy on the soldiers, even while the film avoids any reference to atrocities committed by Russian forces in Ukraine.
So is Russians at War a propaganda film, as its Ukrainian critics argue? Financed in part by the Canada Media Fund and produced in partnership with Ontario’s public broadcaster TVO, Russians at War avoids the trope of “Russian savior liberates ancestral lands from NATO invaders” that is typical of Kremlin propaganda. But all of Trofimova’s previous documentaries, filmed in Syria, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and Iraq, were made for RT—the Kremlin’s global propaganda network. In an interview with Deadline, Trofimova claimed that she embedded with a Russian unit without any military authorization, and just “stuck around.” In a country where a Wall Street Journal reporter gets sentenced to 16 years for merely handling a piece of paper, an independent filmmaker roaming the front lines, filming military installations, and interviewing soldiers without facing repercussions raises questions. Trofimova did not respond to a request for comment for this article.
One thing that the confused response to Russians at War makes clear is that eight years after the revelation that Moscow attempted to influence a U.S. presidential election, most Westerners still don’t really know how Russian propaganda campaigns work. Americans have become familiar with AI botnets, salaried trolls tweeting in broken English about Texas secession, deranged Russian TV hosts calling for a nuclear strike on New York, and alt-right has-beens. But what to make of a French and Canadian documentary, tucked between Pharrell’s Lego-animated film and a Q&A with Zoe Saldaña, that seems cozy with the Russian military and blurs the line between entertainment and politics?
Here is a clue: The Kremlin’s information war in the West is reminiscent of the one it fought—and won—on the home front. I know this because I was in that earlier war, and, regrettably, I fought on the wrong side.
I began working for Kremlin-linked media during my junior year in college. At the time, the Russian government was apparently hoping that by leveraging high energy prices, it could regain a bit of the influence it had lost after the Cold War. The state called this being an “energy superpower.” In practice, high oil and gas prices abroad translated into more Michelin chefs, German cars, and Italian suits for the select few at home.
In 2005, a close friend introduced me to Konstantin Rykov, known as the godfather of the Russian internet and, later, the man who revolutionized digital propaganda in Russia. In 1998, he launched a website called fuck.ru, which included a provocative magazine and mixed Moscow nightlife, humor, and art. With a blend of pop culture and media savvy, Rykov built an empire of news websites, tabloids, and even online games.
Rykov’s latest endeavor at the time of our meeting was The Bourgeois Journal, a glossy luxury-lifestyle magazine aimed at Russia’s affluent class. He hired me to head up the St. Petersburg bureau, not because of my background in student journalism, but in large part because I grew up in Boston, meaning that I was fluent in English and, apparently, the ways of the West. During my interview (a sushi-and-vodka breakfast), the word Kremlin never came up.
Rykov made the Journal available, for free, only at the most exclusive restaurants, gyms, private clinics, and five-star hotels. Inside, between ads for Richard Mille watches and prime London real estate, were interviews with figures such as Vladimir Medinsky and Alexander Dugin—now the ideologues behind Russia’s war in Ukraine. In a single issue, you could read a review of a restaurant located in a 15th-century building in Maastricht, an essay about the West’s fear of a strong Russia, and a report from Art Basel. The Bourgeois Journal used luxury to mask propaganda aimed at Russia’s elite.
Like many people working in Russian propaganda at the time, I didn’t agree with the narrative that my publication was spreading. And, as most people in propaganda will tell you, I was simply doing my job. I was there a little over a year—selling ads, reviewing restaurants, and occasionally interviewing a Western celebrity. The tedious essays on Russia’s place in the world were outweighed by the benefits of running a magazine for the rich: private palaces, private parties, and escapes to the Caribbean sun—something that the birthplace of Dostoyevsky had little of.
After the success of The Bourgeois Journal, Rykov launched Russia.ru, the country’s first online television network, in 2007. Here, pro-Kremlin news ran alongside obscene reality shows, attracting nearly 2.5 million viewers a month. The network’s slogan, “Glory to Russia”—now a battle cry in Russia’s war in Ukraine—demonstrated just how seamlessly Rykov blended patriotism with entertainment to reach an enormous audience.
Building on this, Rykov introduced ZaPutina (“For Putin”), a movement designed to help Vladimir Putin secure an unconstitutional third term. The project included an online platform that aggregated news from various sources, including original reporting from its own correspondents; a ZaPutina campaign bus to take Kremlin-loyal bloggers across the country; and attractive women—proto-influencers—who attended press conferences, introducing themselves by name and their outlet (“For Putin”) before asking their questions.
My biggest contribution to Russian propaganda came in 2009. By then, Russia was positioning itself as an inventive, Western-oriented economy. Vladislav Surkov—an adman, a poet, a columnist, and a Kremlin ideologue—dubbed this period one of “managed democracy,” which will likely be remembered as the midpoint between Russia’s post-Soviet anarchy and its modern-day fascism. Political parties were numerous, but all controlled from the Kremlin, as was almost every form of media. Yet the country sought a veneer of freedom. That’s where Honest Monday came in—a prime-time talk show that I co-created, wrote, and co-produced.
Our remit was to reach the sorts of viewers who ignored the in-your-face messaging of broadcast talk shows. Each week, the Kremlin assigned these shows a topic it wanted highlighted, and most would comply in a very blunt fashion: Do this, vote for that, Russia’s great. With a young host and a flashy studio modeled on French TV, Honest Monday took a different approach. Every week, I wrote up a summary of the left, center, and right perspectives on the topic we were given; I also delineated a viewpoint that reflected the Kremlin’s stance on the matter and sketched a justification for why this view was better than the other three. The producers would then scour the country for guests whose views reflected each of the three perspectives. The three speakers—politicians, celebrities, or pundits—had to defend their stance to, say, a factory worker we flew in from Siberia whose experience was relevant to the topic we covered. The debates were real, many of them heated, and with views contradicting the Kremlin’s. Still, the house always won.
Toward the end of our first season, the ratings for Honest Monday dipped, and the Kremlin’s tolerance waned. The network introduced a new director. As I recall, he outlined for us his vision of the show’s future: “When the viewers tune in, the first thing they should do is shit themselves.”
The Kremlin instructed us to take aim at the powerless Russian opposition, and in a matter of weeks, the messaging turned into outright bashing of everything that stood against Putin. I resigned—publicly—by sanctimoniously calling the show’s producers and host “Kremlin shills.” A couple of years later, two people connected with the Russian propaganda machine lured me outside and assaulted me in broad daylight (one of them later tweeted that he was motivated by a personal issue rather than a political one). When I hit the ground, half a mile from the Kremlin, I was finally out of the game.
Perhaps Rykov’s greatest contribution to Russian propaganda remains his cadre of media managers and propagandists, who now grace Kremlin corridors (and U.S. Treasury sanctions lists). One such protégé was Vladimir Tabak. Formerly a producer at Russia.ru, he rose to prominence in 2010, when he organized a now-infamous birthday calendar for Putin, featuring 12 female students posing in lingerie and captioned with quotes like “I love you,” “Who else but you?,” and “You’re only better with age.” The calendar, designed to create buzz and cultivate Putin’s image, dominated the news cycle for weeks. In an interview with the model Naomi Campbell, Putin even commented on how much he liked it. Legend has it that Surkov personally approved the project.
Although Tabak’s initial endeavor may have seemed playful, his later efforts illustrate just how insidious his propaganda techniques have become. Since 2020, Tabak has led Dialog, a powerful, Kremlin-affiliated organization tasked with controlling and shaping all social-media narratives in the country. If someone uses social media to criticize, say, the mayor of a small town, Dialog knows about it. According to a joint investigation by the independent Russian outlets Meduza, The Bell, and iStories, the organization took on a significant role during the coronavirus pandemic, virtually monopolizing the flow of COVID-related information in Russia by launching the website Stopkoronavirus.rf as the primary source for daily pandemic updates (the investigation report notes that Dialog denies being associated with this site).
At the height of the pandemic, the Kremlin decided to hold a vote on constitutional amendments that would allow Putin to serve two more terms, and Dialog immediately shifted to encouraging people to go to the polls, downplaying COVID-19 concerns. Later, after the full-scale invasion of Ukraine, Dialog was reportedly tasked with spreading fake news about the war not just in Russia, but in Ukraine. Some of the narratives included Ukrainian soldiers selling their awards on eBay, high-ranking Ukrainian officials owning expensive property in the European Union, and Kyiv ordering the mobilization of women.
Tabak’s organization has become a key player in Russia’s digital warfare abroad, including in its most recent campaign targeting Western audiences. On September 4, the U.S. Justice Department seized numerous internet domains allegedly involved in Russia’s Doppelganger campaign—an influence operation designed to undermine international support for Ukraine and bolster pro-Russian interests. The domains, many of them made to resemble legitimate news outlets, were linked to Russian companies, including Dialog. According to an unsealed affidavit, the goal of the operation was to spread covert Russian propaganda, manipulate voter sentiment, and influence the 2024 U.S. presidential election.
Doppelganger appears to be a sophisticated operation that used deepfakes, AI, and cybersquatting (registering domains designed to mimic legitimate websites). But the Kremlin’s real innovations were those it employed in Russia in the 1990s; in the West today, it is simply repeating the same playbook using new technology. Washingtonpost.pm, a fake news website created to spread Russian propaganda, was an evolution of the fake newspapers that circulated in Russia during the ’90s ahead of elections. The purpose of those outlets—made to resemble legitimate media but filled with kompromat, gossip, and propaganda—was to get the right people elected.
Since the start of the full-scale invasion of Ukraine, Russian propaganda has churned out absurd and repulsive lies, such as that Ukraine has biolabs where NATO scientists are working on a virus that targets Slavic DNA, and that Zelensky, who is Jewish, presides over a neo-Nazi regime. Yet, in a way, it has become honest with itself—at least for the domestic audience. There’s no longer a need for platforms like Russia.ru or The Journal, because the message is clear: This is who we are, and you’re either with us or against us. And yet, the entertainment aspect didn’t disappear. Rather, it was absorbed into the propaganda machine through the Institute for Internet Development.
Founded in 2015 with Kremlin backing, and currently under the direction of the former Journal producer Alexey Goreslavsky, the IID helps direct state funds toward producing everything from box-office releases to YouTube videos, blogs, and video games. With a yearly budget of more than $200 million, it dwarfs any private film studio or streaming platform in Russia.
Since the full-scale invasion of Ukraine, the institute has become the go-to hub for content. Initially, its output was dull and overtly propagandistic, but that has changed. Its catalog now includes 20/22, a TV series about a soldier fighting in Ukraine and his anti-war girlfriend, as well as A Thug’s Word, a 1980s period piece about a street gang, which became the No. 1 show in Russia and surprisingly popular in Ukraine—much to the dismay of the Ukrainian government. A Thug’s Word contains no politics, no war, and no Putin, yet IID—a propaganda organization—considers it its greatest success, because it legitimized the institute in the world of popular entertainment, which it fought so hard to break into.
One reason Russian propaganda is running circles around the West is that the internet was one of the few domains where the Russian state arrived late, forcing it to co-opt those who understood it. RuNet, the Russian segment of the World Wide Web, was created—and run—by people like Rykov: artsy 20-somethings, filled with cynicism, post-Soviet disillusionment, and a cyberpunk mentality. The collapse of the Soviet Union taught them that truth was whatever they wanted it to be, and that survival was the ultimate goal. The advertising executives, philosophy students, and creatives who once made video art, lewd calendars, and scandalous zines are the same minds who in 2016 said, “Let’s make memes about Hillary Clinton,” and in 2024 suggested using AI to flood X with believable comments. In many ways, this confrontation mirrors what’s happening in Ukraine: This time, however, the West is the massive, unwieldy force being outsmarted by a smaller, more tech-savvy adversary.
The good news is that the Kremlin is a graveyard of talent. In time, every gifted person I knew who went behind its brick walls was devoured by deceit, paranoia, and fear of losing one’s place in the sun. Konstantin Rykov was exceptional at his job, so much so that the Kremlin offered him a seat in the Russian Parliament when he was just 28. He accepted the offer. But being a member of the Duma Committee on Science and High Technologies and the Committee for Support in the Field of Electronic Media wasn’t the same as being the editor of fuck.ru. Despite being involved in some foreign influence operations, Rykov, now 45, hasn’t produced any significant work for Russian audiences since he joined Parliament.
Asked by an audience member in Toronto whether Russia was responsible for the war in Ukraine, Trofimova replied, “I think there are a lot of other factors involved. Yeah, like they are definitely sending troops in to solve whatever grievances there are.” Even if it wasn’t financed by Moscow, Russians at War reminds me of a Rykov production: slick, scandalous, and with a ton of free press. The message the film conveys is that war, not the country that started it, is bad in this scenario. Trofimova seems to portray Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, and the astonishing scale of the atrocities it has committed there, as something impersonal and inexorable, like a tsunami: We can only accept it and sympathize with the victims, including Russian soldiers.
I stopped working for the Kremlin long before the Russo-Ukrainian war, and whatever I did as the head of a magazine bureau and as a talk-show producer pales in comparison with what some of my former colleagues are doing today. Still, I know that in every bullet flying toward Ukraine—the country where my parents were born—there’s a small part of me. I wonder if Trofimova sees that she’s part of it, too.
