The fifth year of Russia’s full-scale war against Ukraine grinds on, with its unvarying backdrop of devastated Ukrainian cities and extensive casualties among the non-combatant population. Meanwhile the Russian authorities exploit the war as justification for constantly tightening the screws of their repressive policies at home.
In the last few years, criminal prosecutions for speaking out have become common, everyday occurrences. The definitions of “extremism” have become increasingly vague, and the pressure applied to the independent media and civil society initiatives has become systemic. Alongside these developments, another, less visible, but equally significant process has been gathering momentum: the restructuring of the digital environment in such a way as to induce people to modify their own behaviour themselves – frequently without even realising.
Six months ago a law came into force in Russia making it an offence punishable by law to search for extremist materials online. This law, which was widely publicised in the media, functions as a “bogeyman”. That is, the security men’s little lamp won’t light up if you have entered “Navalny” in Google, but if they confiscate your computer and discover a search query like that in it, you can be charged with a crime. In the news, however, they don’t tell you about fine details like that. In the news they simply say that those who search for extremist materials online will be punished and that is what remains imprinted on people’s minds – that googling anything against the authorities is prohibited.
For a long time, the Russian state’s approach to control of the internet was overt and unsubtle: ban a site, block a platform, restrict access. This didn’t work well. It annoyed people, provoked resistance and rapidly spawned solutions that bypassed restrictions.
But in the fifth year of a war which, in regions under attack by drones, is accompanied by constant interruptions to mobile internet services, a solution has been found. Whitelisting. The implications of the whitelist model are simple: stable access is only assured to services approved in advance by the state. All the rest can operate, but with outages or restrictions, and without any guarantees.
At the same time, Roscomnadzor (the Federal Supervisory Agency for Information and Communications Technologies) has decided to block calls via WhatsApp and Telegram – and this affects everybody. WhatsApp is the most popular messenger app in Russia, with 96 million users. People, especially the older generation, like it because it is simple. It’s good for everyday and family use, for off-the-cuff calling. Telegram is good for other things: it’s a connection to a field of information, news, politics and alternative points of view. They tried to block it as early as 2018, but when it became clear that direct prohibitions don’t work, the strategy changed. They no longer block apps completely but simply render them inconvenient. And to replace them they offer the “national messenger app” MAX. Celebrities who are loyal to the authorities advertise it on TV and urban billboards. “Great reception even in the car park,” a pro-government female rapper declares as she posts a MAX advertising video in stories, while the other apps beside it can no longer provide any access at all.
MAX is rapidly becoming the compulsory communications channel in schools and nursery schools, universities and colleges, state and municipal institutions, as well as in “house chats” for residents of apartment blocks, facilitated by the management companies. Its introduction is only rarely achieved by means of public command: in most instances it is a case of word-of-mouth instructions and surreptitious pressure – from warnings about “unpleasantness” to threats of disciplinary reprimands or dismissal.
MAX is whitelisted by definition. It is stable in situations where other applications are “temporarily unavailable”. MAX has to be preinstalled on all the mobile devices offered for sale in the country. But MAX is not attempting to become everyone’s “favourite” all at once. It is enough for it to become compulsory. There is no attempt to persuade people – they are simply transferred under the pretext of “convenience”.
MAX’s most crucial characteristic is its profound integration with the platform Gosuslugi (State Services). This is an individual’s digital profile: passport, taxes, fines, medical record, welfare payments. MAX can be used to confirm a person’s identity or age, and it can be used as a digital document – for instance when purchasing alcohol. This changes the very nature of the messenger app. It ceases to be a space for networking and socialising and becomes part of an ID system.
MAX’s very interface suggests that it is the Russian equivalent of the Chinese app WeChat. The Russian authorities are looking to China more and more nowadays – not as a model that can be copied point for point, but as proof that control can be built into everyday reality. The Chinese system doesn’t work by means of incessant prohibitions, but by virtue of people’s habituation to limits. They know in advance what the boundaries are and they act within them. And Russia’s digital policy is gradually leading people in the same direction.
However, WeChat was never designated a “national messenger app”, and people were not herded into it by the threat of being sacked: it defeated the competition on its own terms – thanks to its convenience, ecosystem of services and the early effect of scale. Initially it was simply a messenger app, then a payment instrument, and then a portal to municipal amenities, the media, taxis and state services. The process of habituation was organic, and the infrastructure of control was only constructed around already familiar elements.
MAX was immediately castigated for its aggressive gathering of metadata and wide-ranging requests for permissions – access to contacts, photos, call history, screen – and the absence of end-to-end encryption (E2EE) by default: this means that all messages are saved on servers in readable form, creating the risk of their being accessed by third parties or state agencies.
But it is not the technical details that are most important. The most important thing is the effect: the individual becomes accustomed to the idea that risk, not privacy, is the norm. That it is safer not to discuss anything superfluous. That it is simpler not to ask questions. In this way a new model of social behaviour is taking shape.
Despite the official declarations, MAX has not become massively popular by choice. People use it because they need to. Because otherwise it’s impossible to manage. This is a fundamental difference from messenger apps that have become integrated into life in an organic fashion.
And this is the point at which the most disturbing question of all arises. The war might come to an end, but will the blocking of the mobile internet also end? An infrastructure of social control is rarely temporary. When public money has been invested in it, when it has been built into schools, state institutions and people’s everday activities, it starts living a life of its own. New justifications for it will always be found: security, stability, new threats. Not coercion, but habituation. When social interaction becomes cautious, there is no longer any need for constant intervention by the censor. Censorship is already built into daily life.
In this sense, what is happening now resembles ever more closely Michel Foucault’s theory of the Panopticon – an “open prison” in which control is effected, not by means of constant surveillance, but by the possibility of surveillance. Individuals do not need to know that they are being observed at this moment. It is sufficient for them to be uncertain whether they are. In this system the walls become invisible and discipline becomes internal. A digital infrastructure organised.around whitelists, identification and unstable means of communication reproduces precisely the same logic: individuals start behaving cautiously, not because they are being punished, but because it’s simply safer that way.
It is also important to note that this behaviour does not remain within the ambit of the application. It is inevitably extrapolated to life offline – to conversations in public spaces, to spontaneous discussion, to the way in which people speak out loud. When communication in digital space becomes cautious and functional, the same model is gradually carried over into ordinary life. The open prison has no need of bars or guards: it inculcates the habit of self-limitation. And that is precisely why such systems remain stable long after the formal reason for their appearance disappears.
