The war in Ukraine has reignited debates about Russian neo-imperialism, but it remains unclear what is truly “neo” about it. A closer look at the history and experiences of non-Russian peoples within the Russian state reveals that colonialism continues to leave a lasting impact.
On July 25, 2024, Russian authorities designated 55 organisations advocating for Indigenous and national minority rights as ‘‘extremist’’, claiming they were part of the so-called ‘‘Anti-Russian Separatist Movement’’ that ‘‘threatens Russia’s territorial integrity and unity.’’
The Perspective spoke to three representatives of different Indigenous peoples to understand the existential challenges they face under Russian authoritarian control.
AL is a LGBTQ refugee and a populariser of the Chăvash* language and culture, now based in New York. Their path to the United States was driven by a need for safety, not by choice. Reflecting on this journey, they share, “I had no choice—I had to run. The bullying and the hardships back home were too much.”
*The Chăvash are an Indigenous people primarily residing in the Chăvash Republic, located in the Volga region of western Russia. Numbering over one million, the Chăvash make up around 64% of the republic’s population.
AL began their Instagram page @chavashdiaspora as a way to address the curiosity and surprise people often express about their background. “People would ask me about my ethnicity, and when I explain, especially to English-speakers, they get shocked,” AL shared. ‘‘Most don’t even know that Russia has Indigenous populations.” AL believes that it is important to educate, particularly within English-speaking communities. “There’s very little content in English. I wanted to bridge that gap and introduce people to who I am and the Chăvash culture.”
AL also tries to raise awareness about the endangered state of the Chăvash language, the last of its kind within the Turkic language group. Despite being raised in a Chăvash-speaking household, AL faced pressure to prioritise Russian. “My family warned me not to mention being Chăvash in public. They thought I’d have a better future if I focused on Russian, calling our language a ‘countryside language.’”
Growing up in Russia, AL experienced the social stigma of being Chăvash. “Terms like ‘Chuvashka’ were used as slurs. It was supposed to be embarrassing to be Chăvash,” they explained. “But now, I’m reclaiming my identity.”
On Instagram, AL conveys a powerful message:
“We want to share Chăvash* culture with the world. *aka Chuvash – we are decolonizing our spelling.”
This simple distinction is, for AL, a profound step toward reclaiming identity. “Colonisers bring their language, impose it, and ignore ours,” they explain. “Russians couldn’t pronounce certain sounds in our language, so they altered ‘Chăvash’ to ‘Chuvash.’ True respect means allowing people to be called by their own name. It’s a fundamental step in dismantling colonial influence.”
With an Instagram account focused on the Chăvash culture, AL has connected with followers worldwide, especially among Chăvash people living in the U.S. and Europe. “We had a gathering in New York with the Chăvash community,” AL shares, “but it was mostly about connecting, sharing stories, and just talking. Organising something formal is complicated because, coming from Russia and still having relatives there, a lot of us are still hesitant.”
AL explains that fear is also rooted in generations of repression. “In Soviet times, you could be jailed just for having Chăvash items like silver coins or traditional costumes. Neighbours would report it, and the government would confiscate them… Less than 100 years ago, every Chăvash family had their own costumes. These were family heirlooms, passed down through the female line, and now it’s rare to find them anywhere but museums. Today, that inheritance is nearly gone.”
Al has managed to preserve some traditional coins and is working to recreate a traditional costume with them. “It’s a challenging, lengthy process because we’ve lost so much of the craft, like embroidery and leatherwork. I don’t have much to show yet, but I’m hoping to complete it someday.”
For future Chăvash generations, AL encourages a flexible approach to cultural preservation. “I don’t think it’s just about preserving what already exists,” they say. “If you’re Chăvash, whatever you create—whether it’s art, music, or something else—will be inherently Chăvash…Chăvash culture is still valid if we bring our own twist to it, moving into the future in our own way.”
AITA (name changed) is a Sakha* activist who kindly agreed to answer a few questions regarding the issues her people face while being subjected to colonial dependence by the Russian state.
*The Sakha, also known as the Yakuts, are an Indigenous people primarily residing in the Republic of Sakha (Yakutia) in the Russian Far East. With a population of about 470,000, they represent approximately 50% of the republic’s total inhabitants. Alongside the Sakha, other Indigenous minorities such as the Evens, Evenks, Yukaghirs, Chukchas, and Dolgans also inhabit the Republic of Sakha. Together, these groups number around 35,000-40,000 people, though only a small portion of them retain fluency in their native languages, highlighting the critical challenges of preserving their cultural and linguistic heritage. The region is rich in minerals and accounts for about 30% of the world’s diamond production.
When asked about Russia’s colonial legacy in Yakutia, it was clear that the word “legacy” felt confusing to her. “Russian colonisation has been ongoing for 400 years since the Russian Cossacks first invaded our lands arriving in search of fur for the Tsar’s treasury’’, she clarified, emphasising that the process is not a relic of the past. She highlighted that even today “most of the revenue from mineral resource extraction goes to Moscow.”
Aita believes that “for the Sakha, as for other peoples (meaning indigenous peoples of Russia), the main goal is to begin and go through the process of decolonisation. This involves gaining the right to self-determination, restoring historical truth and justice, achieving equality, and obtaining historical, political, and economic equity.”
In discussing the impact of the war in Ukraine on the Sakha people, Aita emphasised the disproportionate forced recruitment of indigenous communities in the region— including small-numbered peoples like the Yukaghirs—whose population is only ‘‘about 1,600’’. “Studies show that the likelihood of dying in the war is many times higher for indigenous peoples than for ethnic Russians,” she noted. Members of ethnic minorities are often assigned to assault units, where mortality rates are alarmingly high.
Aita also highlighted Free Yakutia‘s anti-war activism, noting the group’s leadership in organising the largest regional anti-war protest and opposing mobilisation in September 2022.
When asked what message she would share with the younger generation of Sakha, both in Russia and abroad, Aita emphasised the importance of cherishing their culture, passing it on to future generations, supporting those far from home, and standing together to preserve the unique identity and strength of their people.
TEMBULAT, a Circassian* residing in Turkey—the home to the world’s largest Circassian diaspora—shared with me the burden of stories marked by resistance, suppression, and a steadfast commitment to identity. “Every form of national expression is scrutinised,” he explains, detailing the tensions and hardships that define life for many Circassians.
*The Circassians, an Indigenous people of the North Caucasus, primarily live in Adygea, Karachay-Cherkessia, and Kabardino-Balkaria, with large diasporas in Turkey, Jordan, and beyond. They faced centuries of conflict, including mass forced displacement to the Ottoman Empire during the 19th-century Russian-Caucasian War.
“Today, in all regions of the North Caucasus totalitarian conditions have been created,” Tembulat explains. “Control over the activities of absolutely any organisation, even those focused solely on preserving identity, is under total state supervision,” Tembulat explains. National and cultural events such as the Circassian Flag Day or annual commemorations of the May 21 Circassian Genocide are routinely disrupted or prohibited outright.
One striking example of state interference is the suppression of even modest cultural traditions — the monthly performance of traditional Circassian dances in the town square of Nalchik was officially prohibited. Such bans ‘‘became even stricter after the start of the Russian-Ukrainian war,’’ Tembulat explains. ‘‘Authorities now frequently use the war or the threat of terrorism as an excuse to justify restrictions on public gatherings, while simultaneously organising their own state-controlled events, such as concerts on March 8 (Women’s day).’’
Activists are intimidated, arrested, or forced into exile. Tembulat told us a story of Circassian intellectuals, who tried to defend their native language and introduce bilingual education systems within legal frameworks, but faced severe persecution.
During our conversation with Tembulat, he made a striking point about the Russian government’s deliberate support for interethnic conflicts in the North Caucasus. According to him, “The federal centre consistently maintains a state of simmering tension in interethnic relations.” He explained that whenever civil society organisations, formed by representatives of different ethnic groups, try to resolve disputes collaboratively, these initiatives are immediately suppressed.
Tembulat also emphasised the double standards in handling provocations. “Instigators of interethnic unrest cannot be identified,” he said, “yet those who fall for provocations often face severe consequences, including imprisonment.” This selective enforcement, according to him, only fuels the cycle of conflict and mistrust between communities.
“Since the times of Imperial Russia,” Tembulat explained, “the federal centre has taken on the role of arbiter in all interethnic disputes, even as it actively fosters this tension.” He pointed out how the distortion of historical facts and redrawing of borders have long been used to exacerbate divisions.
Tembulat revealed that deep-rooted pride is a part of Circassian identity, which often deters people from seeking help or assuming a “victim” stance. Yet he feels that the Circassian people are at a breaking point. ‘‘We are struggling to manage on our own,” he admits. “If the global community does not take notice, we risk becoming like so many before us—relegated to a romanticised image of riders in literature and history books’’.
By Lera Lindström
November 29, 2024
