How, in their struggle for Western favor, Yulia Navalnaya, Dozhd, and Meduza are retransmitting Russian imperialist views

Disclaimer: There is a lack of hyperlinks for the publications of TV Rain and Meduza featured in the article. This is a deliberate and purposeful choice not to give an additional platform to replicate those messages to the new audiences. For a better references showcase, please check out the Ukrainian version. 

Projects, initiatives, and institutions that identify themselves as the “Russian opposition” are scattered across the globe, especially in capitals on both sides of the Atlantic. Their work spans a wide range. Some projects do not shy away from politics and promote dreams of a “free, democratic, greater Russia of the future” to foreign audiences. Others focus on sanctions policy or operate exclusively in the humanitarian and human-rights sphere. Also active within this ecosystem are the Anti-Corruption Foundation and Alexei Navalny’s wife, Yulia Navalnaya.

Alexei Navalny’s death on February 16, 2024, became a pretext for yet another “opening of doors” to the Russian opposition movement in the West. From Brussels to Washington, journalists, politicians, and activists looked for an “alternative Russian voice.” Navalnaya began receiving invitations to hearings, panels, and broadcasts where she could present her account of events in Russia and Ukraine. Her statements have already prompted responses in Ukraine, where she has been accused of amplifying an imperial narrative. The situation was further complicated by the emergence of different versions of Navalny’s memoir, Patriot, with notable discrepancies between the editions for Russian and foreign readers.

We examine the key points from Navalnaya’s recent appearances before foreign audiences, as well as how the story was covered by Dozhd (TV Rain) and Meduza—two media projects of the Russian “opposition.” As it turns out, they function as “echo chambers” for a certain audience, creating an emotionally comfortable, moralizing yet politically sterile information ecosystem in which oppositional humanism substitutes for decolonial reflection.

In the autumn of 2024, Alexei Navalny’s memoir was published. The international edition, titled Patriot, is substantially longer and concludes with Navalny’s prison diaries, in which he writes, among other things, about Russia’s war against Ukraine. The Russian-language edition turned out to be shorter. Given the disparity in length (496 pages in English versus 398–400 in Russian) and the fact that the late prison writings appear only in the international version, one can assume the material was released with different target audiences in mind.

For the Western market, readers are offered the full “evolution” and anti-war passages that resonate well with that audience; for the Russian market, a safer, abridged version is provided—one that does not provoke uncomfortable questions about collective responsibility or attitudes toward the occupation of parts of Ukraine. In this way, the anti-Putin project reproduces a technique of double meanings: one message for the outside world, another “for its own.”

The two opposition media outlets, Meduza and Dozhd, presented this as a matter of editorial approach rather than a political choice. Meduza, in particular, focused its coverage on technical differences and social-media disputes, downplaying the significance of the English edition’s preservation of the late anti-war entries, which the Russian edition lacks. Dozhd’s editor-in-chief, Tikhon Dzyadko, commented that he saw no intent in this and even questioned whether there was any need to include the prison letters and interviews in the book at all.

In our view, however, this selectivity is far from neutral—it blunts the political edge and replaces an honest conversation with one’s own society with a presentation tailored for external consumption. If the goal is to change Russian public opinion, why is Navalny’s anti-war stance available primarily to Western readers rather than to those who need it most—Russian-speaking readers?

The “Anti-Corruption Foundation,” led during Alexei Navalny’s lifetime by Navalny himself, uses the name Anti-Corruption Foundation abroad and, in materials for foreign audiences, employs two abbreviations—ACF and FBK. The organization has offices in Vilnius and New York. FBK generally presents itself as an initiative focused on advocating sanctions against Russia, conducting anti-corruption investigations, and campaigning against Russian budget expenditures for the war. Yet certain statements by Foundation representatives or figures linked to it (such as Yulia Navalnaya) somewhat contradict these overarching aims.

“Putin is not Russia,” and “millions want peace”—this is how nearly every major address by Navalnaya and FBK representatives begins. These points are repeated in foreign media and in government institutions across Europe and North America. They receive applause in parliamentary chambers, and in the corridors, deals are worked out to fund an “alternative Russia.” However, if one analyzes this rhetoric—and the way it is amplified by Russian exile media—one can see how closely it resonates with Russian state propaganda.

These very claims then give rise to political demands directed at the West. In a letter to EU institutions dated September 10, 2025, Yulia Navalnaya urged against imposing a total ban on tourist visas for Russian citizens, reiterating that “Putin is not Russia, and Russian citizens are not to blame for the war.” She also argued that pressure on all Russian citizens cannot influence the views of the country’s leadership and president—while ignoring the fact that any state’s policy is a function of its citizens’ will: their support, direct participation, or silent consent.

However, Navalnaya insists on the existence of a “democratic Russian society” with a conscious stance against the war, the statistics point elsewhere. According to a Levada Center poll, in April 2025 Vladimir Putin’s approval rating inside Russia stood at 87 percent, and approval of military actions in Ukraine reached 75 percent. Even allowing for respondents’ fear, self-censorship, and other peculiarities of Russian sociology, these figures indicate mass consent to the war and support for the country’s leadership in its aggression. Loyalty to the president and support for the war moves in parallel—contradicting Navalnaya’s claims.

The actual picture of support for Putin and the war should inform any consideration of requests for exceptions for Russians abroad. For example, take the September 3, 2025 letter to Canada’s prime minister from Yulia Navalnaya, Ilya Yashin, and Vladimir Kara-Murza, asking Canada to accept Russian opposition figures being deported from the United States. Yashin explained the appeal as follows: “The essence of our request is that Canada show humanity and begin accepting anti-war Russians who are being expelled from the U.S., informing the White House of its willingness to do so—so that people are not deported back to Russia, where prison cells await them, but to Canada, where they can find justice and refuge.”

Asking that a person not be returned to a place where they face torture is entirely natural and aligns with the principle of non-refoulement. The problem begins when a humanitarian gesture is framed as a consular exception rather than individual protection. When a special corridor is created for citizens of the aggressor state, decisions quietly shift from the realm of law into the realm of political preference.

Moreover, it is not only refugees who try to take advantage of this. A policy based on public letters from prominent figures rather than standard procedures risks bypassing essential security filters. This is unfair both to those who truly need protection and to the societies providing it.

An earlier request sought the reallocation of public funds in favor of Russian exile media. Speaking at the European Parliament on June 5, 2025, Yulia Navalnaya questioned the allocation of €5.5 million to Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty and asked why nothing comparable was earmarked for Russian-language outlets operating outside Russia. In doing so, she reframed a humanitarian measure as a demand to support opposition media at European taxpayers’ expense.

In contemporary Russia, “liberal” media and the political “opposition” perform a decorative function, helping the Kremlin simulate the existence of democracy. They create the impression of internal dynamism and movement, yet the idea of the so-called “Russian world” never disappears from opposition rhetoric—it merely sounds softer.

On the day of Putin’s re-election, Navalnaya organized a protest action titled “Noon Against Putin.” In a video address she urged her supporters to stand briefly in lines and then go home. It is difficult to call such an action an effective political move. Rather than effective politics, it amounted to a gentle gesture of visibility without consequences—one that fits neatly into the picture of high turnout and stability. The regime gets participation statistics, the opposition feels a sense of involvement, and the rules of the game remain unchanged. After the action, Navalnaya called all participants “winners” in a video message, thanking them for taking part.

This reflects the logic of competitive authoritarianism, in which institutions simulate the dynamics of democratic competition while the rules ultimately serve the ruling elite. The “opposition” is admitted precisely to the degree necessary to confirm the appearance of competition. In this light, “Noon Against Putin” is the ideal format for a system that seeks mass visibility without any risk.

Navalnaya addresses international audiences while bypassing those whose cities have endured shelling and Russian occupation. At the Web Summit in Lisbon, Ukrainian activists sounded an air-raid siren during her appearance. She was surprised that Ukrainians asked whether she supported the war against Ukraine and replied that they share a single enemy and should not seek an adversary in the Russian opposition.

This framing dilutes responsibility, leaving uncomfortable questions about Russian society’s support for aggression, de-occupation, and the 1991 borders offstage. Unity without nuance works as an emotional gesture, but it does not clarify what a just resolution should look like.

Crimea is one such question. Speaking at Suomi Areena in Finland this year, she said the peninsula legally belongs to Ukraine but is in fact controlled by Russia, calling the topic difficult even for the Ukrainian authorities due to mass Russian passportization. This formulation sidelines international law and reduces the issue of de-occupation to a set of technical obstacles. The two “liberal” Russian media projects mentioned above repeat the same theses when covering Navalnaya’s remarks.

But by talking about the “complexity” of the problem, they effectively normalize the status quo. If the core thesis is peace, then its content must be concrete: the 1991 borders, the withdrawal of Russian troops, justice, and reparations.

The TV channel Dozhd, or TV Rain, positions itself as an independent Russian-language media outlet. In 2022, it had offices in both Amsterdam and Riga. Still, it ceased operations in Latvia after its license was revoked by the Latvian media regulator due to several violations, including displaying a map of Russia with Crimea and calling for help for Russians who were forcibly recruited into the army, which was deemed a threat to Latvian national security. Aliona Nesterenko from the Institute of Mass Information breaks down in detail all the controversies related to TV Rain, providing a full picture of the outlet’s reputation.

Since the publication of Navalny's memoirs and until October 16, Dozhd has published nine news items related to his wife or mentioning her name. All nine articles have a predominantly positive or positive-neutral tone. They portray Navalnaya as a moral leader who is “continuing her husband's work”; a courageous anti-Putin activist capable of “speaking on behalf of Russians who do not support the war”; and an influential figure in Western political circles. There is no critical analysis of her words, positions, or statements, even when they contain controversial or ambiguous statements about Ukraine.

The media positions itself as the voice of the Russian “liberal” diaspora and attempts to restore Russian subjectivity in the European public sphere after 2022. In its content, the TV channel consciously or unconsciously marginalizes the Ukrainian experience of war, focusing on “Russians who are against the war.”

Through framing, i.e., selective coverage of a particular topic or person, Dozhd constructs the following frameworks for perceiving Navalnaya:

Navalnaya appears regularly in Dozhd's materials, with an average frequency of 1-2 mentions per month in the news feed. This maintains her stable presence in the public sphere even in the absence of real political action.

These publications also employ certain information tactics and manipulations. For example, their authors use selective empathy, focusing on sympathy for Russians who oppose the war, but do not mention sympathy for Ukrainians who are victims of aggression. These materials euphemize the war, that is, they call it anything other than a war — for example, a conflict.

Meduza is an online media outlet that positions itself as independent and has its headquarters in Riga. The publication has been repeatedly criticized for its coverage and stance on Ukraine and Ukrainians. Specifically, this refers to a PR campaign using photos of Ukrainians affected by the war without permission, articles quoting Russian propagandists without proper safeguards, the use of Kremlin place names and country names, and compliance with Russian government requirements to continue operating. Despite this, foreign media write about both Dozhd and Meduza in a predominantly positive context.

In a selection of articles mentioning Yulia Navalnaya, Meduza has effectively described her as the main figure of the “new opposition” since the publication of Navalny's memoirs. In most of these publications, Navalnaya is portrayed as a consistent and “European” alternative to Putin, embodying “Russia's lost potential.”

This message has signs of imperialist humanism—a Russian political idea where “the real Russia” is contrasted with the “bad tsar,” but not with the very idea of Russian domination. Repeating the activist's words without question, the publication captures the idea of restoring an empire “with a human face.”

This message has signs of imperialist humanism—a Russian political idea where “real Russia” is contrasted with the “bad tsar,” but not with the idea of Russian rule itself. Repeating the activist's words without asking any questions, the publication captures the idea of restoring an empire “with a human face.”

In Meduza's 2024 articles, written after the publication of Navalny's memoirs, Yulia is portrayed as a widow who “continues her husband's work.” But a few months later, Meduza begins to construct a different narrative, in which the activist becomes an independent politician. Citing, for example, Navalnaya's words about her readiness to run for president of Russia, but “only in a free country,” Meduza shifts the focus from what is happening in Russia now to the prospects for a “normal Russia.” Both Navalnaya herself and the publication, through its coverage of her speeches, promote the idea that she is the “morally pure” elite who will make Russia “democratic.”

Most of Meduza's articles draw a clear distinction between “real Russia” (the people, the opposition) and “Putin's regime.” This rhetoric repeats the imperial pattern of a “sacrificial people” who are distanced from responsibility for imperial aggression. This is precisely where the structural contradiction of “opposition imperialism” lies: condemning violence without condemning its preconditions.

In the article “War” dated September 12, 2025, which does not directly concern Navalnaya, but which nevertheless mentions her, Meduza produced a long, emotional text without any criticism of the colonial nature of the Russian invasion—the war is portrayed as a “shared tragedy” rather than a systematic act of colonialism.

Medusa systematically uses three main techniques to legitimize Navalny. First, it uses quotations for emphasis, i.e., the authors put direct quotes from the activist in the headlines and first paragraphs of the relevant materials. This is done to create the impression of direct access to the “authentic voice” of the opposition. Medusa also presents Navalnaya as a figure of international importance by publishing news about her speeches at the Munich Security Conference, her appearance on the American evening show The Late Show with Stephen Colbert, and her receipt of the Magnitsky Award. This creates an image of her as an internationally recognized leader. At the same time, Meduza, like Dozhd, uses emotional positioning in its articles about Navalnaya, portraying her as a victim: Navalny is the moral heir to her late husband, which turns her loss into a source of legitimacy. Again, Meduza's publications mostly do not criticize Navalnaya's statements, even when she reproduces traditional Russian imperial motifs about “our people.”

After Alexei Navalny's death, Meduza makes his widow a symbol of moral, feminine, and emotional strength that is supposed to unite “good Russians.” This image is presented not only as political, but also as messianic. It is not just a political position, but an ethical and religious narrative in which Navalnaya becomes a martyr widow.

After Ukrainian activists disrupted Navalnaya's speech in Lisbon, Meduza presents her reaction as “peaceful.” The phrase with which she responded to the incident — “we have only one enemy” — is one of the forms of the Russian assertion about “brotherly peoples.” It blurs the distinction between aggressor and victim, turning the war into a “tragedy that has befallen everyone.” This framing is not simply apolitical—it is colonial: it does not recognize Ukrainian subjectivity, and ‘peace’ is presented as the restoration of a “shared space.” And that is why Meduza, despite its opposition, reproduces the same logic as state propaganda, only with a different tone.

Meduza also reprinted Navalnaya's interview with Dozhd. In this interview, Yulia Navalnaya combines a personal narrative (about her life with Alexei, his hunger strike, her children's reaction to their father's death) with political views (her attitude toward the war, her idea of a just end to the war, her attitude toward Putin, her position on internal discussions within the opposition). Medusa reprinted the interview in the form of “key quotes.”

In this interview, Navalnaya positions herself simultaneously as a member of a family that has experienced loss (for emotional identification with the audience); as a politician who negotiates and meets with leaders (for legitimacy on the international stage); and as a moral commentator on the war (to mobilize the Western community). This multifunctional position allows her to address both the Russian diaspora and the Western public. However, the interview contains neither questions nor answers about the activist's detailed political program — there is nothing about reforms, reparations, or the status of Crimea. As a result, the emotional nature of the interview masks the absence of her anti-colonialist vision.

The FBK, Navalnaya, Dozhd, and Meduza, as integral elements of the Russian opposition ecosystem, form a coherent ideological narrative in which humanism and anti-Putinism conceal the absence of genuine anti-imperialism. This discourse allows the liberal part of society to preserve its sense of morality without reflecting on or changing the imperial essence of Russia. The idea of “another, good Russia” becomes a continuation of the old imperial logic, only in a wrapper that appeals to foreigners.

Both Russian “opposition” media resources operate within the same moral and political paradigm. This paradigm determines the basic principles of coverage of Russian issues: who is quoted in the materials (Russian figures, rather than Ukrainian analysts or colonial critics), what is discussed (morality, pain, freedom, but not responsibility), and what the tone of presentation is (empathetic toward Russians, distanced from the Ukrainian position). The result is a closed information environment where all participants—journalists, experts, and readers—mutually reinforce each other's belief that “the real Russia” is not an aggressive empire, but a victim country.

Medusa, Dozhd, opposition politicians (Navalnaya, Yashin, Kara-Murza), and their audience form a mutually reinforcing ecosystem. In it, the above-mentioned figures are quoted as “the sole voice of conscience,” and these same figures quote these media outlets as “the voice of truth.” The audience consumes this content and reproduces it, ignoring alternative (in particular, Ukrainian or postcolonial) points of view. Only those voices that are consistent with the position of Navalnaya and her associates are mentioned, while the voices of critics of imperialist and colonial Russia are too few in the content of Dozhd and Meduza.

This ecosystem also serves a psychological function: after the defeat of the opposition within Russia and the start of the war against Ukraine, Meduza and similar media outlets create an emotionally safe space where the “liberal” audience can feel that they are on the right side of history. This is a form of collective lulling, but not the political reflection that is so necessary in this case. As a result, these media outlets reproduce old imperial patterns more subtly—they have simply become humanized, Europeanized, and morally acceptable. That is why the influence of such rhetoric is sometimes more dangerous than outright propaganda.

The illustration on the main page was generated by artificial intelligence based on an idea by Oleksandra Manishyna.