My week inside the police state of Putin’s wartime Russia

In Brics summit city of Kazan, behind support for the invasion of Ukraine, lies hidden a strong undercurrent of unhappiness with the war

The mosh pit on the dancefloor of the underground nightclub in Kazan, central Russia, throbbed.
A crescendo of electronic music overlaid with rap was sending 80 or so partying young Russians into a joyous ecstasy. And then the release that they had all been waiting for, led by the band.
“Vladimir Putin, he’s such a great political leader! Vladimir Putin, he is such a great warrior!” they screamed at the top of their voices before bursting into laughter.
“Irony. It’s ironic,” explained a young partygoer later, with a wry smile. “We can’t go any further than that.”
Kazan, 550 miles east of Moscow, had been described as a “hardcore Z city” by a source in St Petersburg before the Telegraph flew in to cover Putin’s Brics economic forum where he was entertaining African, South American and Asian leaders.
A wall of pro-war sentiment was expected in this city of wide boulevards lined with Tsarist-era buildings and a fortress that dominates the confluence of the Volga and Kazanka rivers.
So strong is Kazan’s “Z city” status that the Kremlin has chosen it as the site of a new factory to produce Shahed kamikaze drones under licence from Iran. The letter ‘Z’ has become a pro-war symbol in Russia.
It was easy enough to chat with people who supported Putin’s invasion of Ukraine, but there was also a strong undercurrent of unhappiness, disgust even, with the war, although these frustrations had to be hidden. Russia is by any measure a police state set up for eavesdropping and surveillance.
Take Sveta and Dima, shopping in a supermarket just off Kazan’s central boulevard.
“There’s no way I can support this war. I want to study in Europe. That’s my dream. Sure, one or two of my friends might support the war but most of us don’t,” said Sveta.
Dima was more taciturn. He shook his head slowly when the war was mentioned. “We have to be silent,” he said.
This fear of criticising the war and Putin seeps through Russian society, even in hushed conversations. As he jerked his car through a three-point turn across four lanes of traffic with the confidence of a practised pro, thrilling for him but terrifying for his passenger, Boris insisted that he was “a driver of the First Class” and ruminated on the war.
“I can speak to you here because nobody is listening,” he said. “I don’t particularly support Putin and I definitely don’t support his war but we don’t have a choice.”
Boris gave a shrug, momentarily taking both hands off the steering wheel to more forcefully illustrate his point. “Lots of people have been killed. All the soldiers I know who have come back from Ukraine tell me not to believe the TV news because it’s far worse than they let on,” he said, swerving smoothly around a slower car.
In many ways Russia is a land of smoke and mirrors, an exercise in contorting reality to suit the Kremlin’s worldview and also to subdue and cow resistance.
Slick coffee shops, showrooms with Mercedes Benz cars and beauty salons selling make-up from France present a relaxed and modern front, but underneath, prices are spiralling, war and repression dominate.
Between sips of his fruit craft beer in one of several on-trend bars in Kazan, Mikhail summed it up neatly.“It’s Kafka here, full Kafka,” he said, comparing it all to bizarre surrealism.
At the Brics economic summit, Putin spent the week charming leaders from 35 countries in a tightly-scripted performance the Kremlin propaganda machine had designed to impress hundreds of pliant “reporters” from allied state news channels, knowing they would faithfully repeat its messages around the world.
But there are cracks. Last week, the Russian Central Bank jacked up interest rates to a high of 21 per cent in an attempt to dampen rampant inflation fanned by a military recruitment drive that needs to replenish Russian frontline losses in Ukraine of more than 1,200 soldiers every day.
This recruitment drive is obvious on the streets of Kazan. Adverts promising signing-on bonuses of £15,500, a huge amount in Russia, lined Kazan’s streets. Notices in shop windows promised war veterans discounts.
At one end of Kazan’s main pedestrian shopping street, a large display showed off local soldiers who had been decorated for bravery. A full-colour diagram also detailed how to “defeat” a US Abrams tank in Ukraine. Next to it was a life-sized photo of a Russian soldier in full combat kit with his face cut out. Children, and some adults, stuck their heads into the gap to pose for photos, pretending that they were the soldier.
A 15-minute walk away, Vanya and Natasha, two pensioners, were out for a stroll across Freedom Square. Overlooked by a statue of Lenin, wearing his trademark suit and overcoat, they explained that Putin had been right to invade Ukraine but grumbled about the soaring cost of living.
“What choice did he have? We are surrounded by Nato,” said Vannya. “It’s a shame but we are for the war.”
At one of Kazan’s Irish pubs, Denis had a similar message. He sipped his half-pint of Punk IPA from the Scottish brewery BrewDog which, like the decent-tasting Guinness, was still apparently getting through to Russian drinkers despite Western sanctions.
“Let’s not talk about the war. Prices, though, that’s a problem,” he said after listing all the Russian footballers who had played in the English Premier League since 1992.
If the verdict on Putin’s Russia wasn’t quite the Kremlin’s preferred version across Kazan, it most certainly was in the small coffee shop opposite the FSB security services headquarters, a large dark grey building with Palladian columns and mirrored windows.
There the sharply dressed Russian leant over a chess set, considered his opening moves and then, almost ruefully, confessed.
“I work in security but I can’t tell you any more. It’s a secret,” he said, suddenly giving the casual game of chess that the Telegraph had accepted a delicious edge.
The game ground on with an early queen exchange and sharp pawn play down the flanks, until, towards the end game, the FSB officer blundered a rook and, with grace, resigned.
“Well played, I surrender,” he said, as he buttoned up his tweed overcoat and quietly stood up to leave. “Enjoy your stay in Russia. We have everything here.”