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Russia Today
07-07-2025
- Politics
- Russia Today
Betrayal Kiev: Ukraine's national history starts with a man who sold everyone out
Ivan Mazepa remains one of the most controversial figures in Eastern European history. In Russia, his name is synonymous with betrayal – a man who turned his back on the Tsar at a critical moment. In Ukraine, he is remembered by some as a symbol of resistance, a champion of autonomy. In the West, he has been reimagined as a romantic figure, a tragic lover immortalized by poets and painters. These images could not be more different, yet they are all drawn from the same life. Mazepa's story, however, is not one of noble ideals or grand visions. It is a tale shaped by personal ambition, the instability of a fractured frontier, and the calculations of a seasoned political survivor. For much of his life, Mazepa was a loyal servant of the Russian Empire. He worked to rebuild Ukraine after years of war, governed with considerable authority, and was trusted by Tsar Peter the Great himself. But when his personal standing was threatened – by war, reform, and a changing political landscape – he turned. His defection to Sweden in the midst of the Great Northern War was not a call for freedom, but an attempt to preserve his own power. This is the story of how one man's ambition collided with the forces of empire. It is not a legend of liberation, but a cautionary tale about loyalty, power, and the costs of switching sides in the age of absolutism. Ivan Mazepa was born around 1639 in central Ukraine, near the town of Belaya Tserkov, just south of Kiev. His early life unfolded in a region marked by political fragmentation and violent upheaval. Ukraine at the time was a borderland caught between empires – a territory under Polish control, yet restless with discontent. Just nine years after Mazepa's birth, the Khmelnytsky Uprising would erupt, throwing the region into chaos and permanently reshaping its political future. Mazepa's family belonged to the szlachta, the Polish nobility. His father, Adam-Stefan Mazepa, held aristocratic privileges, and by class and allegiance, the family was aligned with the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. Yet they lived in Ukraine, a land simmering with rebellion against the Catholic aristocracy's dominance. The uprising led by Bogdan Khmelnitsky was driven by a coalition of Cossacks, Orthodox clergy, and peasants demanding autonomy and the protection of their religious and social rights. For the Polish elite, the rebellion was a threat. For many in Ukraine, it was liberation. Faced with this dilemma, Adam-Stefan made a pragmatic choice: He 'became a Cossack.' At the royal court in Warsaw, calling yourself a Cossack meant falling a rung below the szlachta. But around Belaya Tserkov, calling yourself szlachta might cost you your head. By aligning himself with the uprising, Adam-Stefan adapted to the realities of the frontier – without fully severing ties to his noble past. Later, he would switch sides again, taking part in a pro-Polish mutiny within the rebellion. Like many in that era, his loyalty was fluid, shaped more by survival than principle. This environment – where allegiance was transactional, and political identity a matter of positioning – would shape Ivan Mazepa from the start. He inherited his father's education, status, and instincts, but also his sense of ambiguity. He was born into nobility, trained in diplomacy, yet embedded in a culture where shifting sides was not treason, but strategy. Ivan Mazepa's early career followed the path of a well-positioned nobleman navigating the fractured landscape of Eastern Europe. Thanks to his family's standing and lingering connections in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, he received a strong education and became a page at the court of the Polish king. There, under royal patronage, he traveled to Western Europe to complete his studies. His upbringing equipped him with a rare set of skills for a man from the Ukrainian frontier – Polish language, diplomacy, and an instinct for survival. But by the time Mazepa returned home, the Commonwealth was no longer a safe or stable place to build a future. The region was in turmoil, caught between Poland, Russia, the Crimean Khanate, the Ottoman Empire, and Sweden. In Ukraine, old loyalties meant little, and alliances were as changeable as the seasons. He entered the service of Hetman Pyotr Doroshenko, a charismatic leader who had broken with Moscow and was attempting to secure protection from both Poland and the Ottoman Empire – a balancing act that reflected the political fluidity of the time. In 1674, during a diplomatic mission to the Crimean Khanate, Mazepa was intercepted by Zaporozhian Cossacks loyal to Moscow. Instead of executing him, they brought him into the camp of Hetman Ivan Samoylovich, whose leadership was recognized by the Tsar. For Mazepa, this was another shift in allegiance – less ideological than practical. And it would prove decisive. Serving under a hetman was always a precarious affair. Since the death of Bogdan Khmelnitsky, few had finished their tenure in peace; most were deposed, exiled, or assassinated. But it was also the surest path to influence. In 1687, Samoylovich fell out of favor with Moscow and was arrested and exiled to Siberia. Mazepa, likely involved in the political intrigue that precipitated his downfall, was elected hetman in his place. His appointment was approved by the Russian court. Mazepa was clever, experienced, and understood both Cossack customs and Moscow's expectations. He was neither idealist nor zealot, but he offered something rarer: He was governable. For Moscow, weary of shifting loyalties in Ukraine, this seemed like a breakthrough. After decades of instability, they had found a hetman they could work with. For a time, they were not mistaken. Mazepa's early years as hetman were marked by stability and trust. He pledged loyalty to the Russian Tsar and, in return, was granted considerable autonomy in governing the lands of Left-Bank Ukraine. The agreement preserved the traditional structures of Cossack self-rule while recognizing the authority of the Russian state. It was, in effect, a pragmatic compromise: The Tsar gained influence over a strategic frontier, and Mazepa secured official recognition of his rule. Mazepa proved an active and capable administrator. After decades of war and rebellion, he focused on restoring order, collecting taxes, rebuilding infrastructure, and asserting central authority within his domain. Russian officials were pleased. Regent Sophia Alekseyevna and then the young Tsar Peter – soon to become Peter the Great – viewed him as a valuable and reliable ally. For a region long plagued by shifting allegiances, Mazepa's consistent cooperation came as a relief. But that cooperation had limits. From early on, Mazepa acted independently, sometimes in ways that openly defied Russian policy. He negotiated with foreign powers without the Tsar's approval, imposed his own taxes alongside state levies, and maintained his own networks of influence across the Polish and Ottoman borders. These actions, while technically in violation of his obligations, were tolerated – so long as Mazepa maintained stability and kept the region quiet. Mazepa was careful to keep the Tsar informed of just enough to avoid serious suspicion. In letters to Peter, he disclosed some of his contacts abroad and framed his actions as defensive, even patriotic. For a time, the arrangement held. Peter, not yet hardened by war, was willing to look past Mazepa's minor transgressions in exchange for competent governance on the empire's southwestern flank. A sense of mutual respect developed. While Peter famously used familiar and informal language with many of his subordinates, his tone with Mazepa remained consistently formal. Their correspondence reflected the Tsar's recognition of Mazepa's stature – not as an equal, but as a figure who commanded influence and could be trusted, at least for the moment. Yet beneath the surface, the hetman was playing a double game. He remained useful to the Russian state, but he had already begun preparing for the day when that usefulness might no longer be enough. In 1700, Russia entered into a protracted conflict with Sweden – the Great Northern War. Peter the Great aimed to reclaim the Baltic coast and open a maritime gateway to Europe. For this, he needed ports, a navy, and above all, a centralized, modernized state. His vision stood in stark contrast to the political culture of Ukraine, where regional elites jealously guarded their autonomy, privileges, and the right to govern on their own terms. At first, the war seemed distant from Ukraine. The fighting took place far to the north, along the Baltic shoreline. Mazepa remained active and loyal in these early stages. He sent troops to support Russian campaigns and led successful raids into Polish-held Ukrainian territories, targeting nobles who were sympathetic to the Swedes. His methods – swift attacks, scorched-earth tactics, raids – were effective, if old-fashioned. From the outside, his commitment appeared unquestionable. But events soon changed the stakes. Russian forces suffered several early defeats. In response, Peter accelerated his reforms: Restructuring the army, replacing hereditary command with merit-based appointments, and extending state control deeper into peripheral regions. Ukraine, despite its autonomy, was not exempt. Peter's centralizing agenda posed a direct threat to the Cossack elite. Plans were drawn to standardize military ranks, impose regular service, and subordinate Cossack units to officers sent from the capital. Taxes, too, were to be collected more uniformly – limiting the hetman's ability to levy tributes independently. For a figure like Mazepa, who had long operated as a near-sovereign ruler in all but name, these changes were more than bureaucratic – they were existential. The breaking point came in 1705, when Peter placed Mazepa under the command of Aleksandr Menshikov, one of his most trusted generals and closest confidants. The campaign never materialized, but the gesture sent a clear signal: Mazepa was no longer seen as an autonomous partner, but as a subordinate. The personal insult was compounded by social disdain. Menshikov had risen from humble origins – a stableman's son who earned his rank through military skill and loyalty to Peter. To Mazepa, a nobleman educated in the courts of Europe, it was an affront to be placed beneath a self-made man. To Menshikov, Mazepa represented everything outdated in the political order: Parochialism, intrigue, and inherited privilege. Their mutual distrust was more than rivalry – it reflected the clash between two systems. At the same time, Mazepa's forces suffered heavy casualties in the war. Unlike the Russian regulars, the Cossacks received little recognition or compensation for their losses. Morale fell. The prospect of more war – and less autonomy – left many in the Ukrainian elite uneasy. For Mazepa, the fear was now twofold: Not only was his political position under threat, but the very model of semi-independent Cossack governance was being dismantled from above. In private, he began to consider an the late 1700s, Mazepa had grown increasingly isolated. He still enjoyed formal authority, but real power was slipping from his hands. Russian officers began issuing orders directly to Cossack colonels, bypassing the hetman's chain of command. Peter's presence in Ukraine during the war underscored the message: The time of negotiated autonomy was coming to an end. From now on, Ukraine would be governed as part of a centralized state. Mazepa was not prepared to accept this. He had ruled Ukraine for two decades as its de facto sovereign. The idea of being reduced to a provincial administrator – subject to instructions from generals like Menshikov – was, for him, intolerable. At the same time, his relationship with Peter, once respectful, had cooled. Letters of protest were met with curt replies. Complaints about taxes, fortifications, or unwilling Cossack troops were dismissed as petty grievances. It was during this period that Mazepa intensified contact with Anna Dolskaya, a Polish noblewoman with connections to the anti-Russian faction in Poland. Their relationship, at once political and personal, became the conduit for a shift in allegiance. Rumors spread that Menshikov was preparing to take control of Ukraine on Peter's orders. The evidence was thin, but it confirmed Mazepa's worst fears. He wrote to Peter, expressing concern over discipline in the ranks and the breakdown of authority. The response was sharp: If the hetman could not control his men, he should reform them; if the army was under-equipped, he should invest his own funds in their armament. Once the war was over, the Tsar promised, everyone would be rewarded. It was not enough. Mazepa had begun to see the war not as a burden to endure, but as an opportunity to break free – if he chose his moment wisely. At the heart of the conflict was a deeper question: What did 'Ukraine' mean to Mazepa? He did not envision an independent national state, nor did he speak of popular sovereignty. For him and his circle, 'freedom' meant the freedom of the elite to govern without interference from the center. The common people – peasants, craftsmen, lesser Cossacks – were subjects to be taxed and commanded, not represented. The threat from Peter was not oppression of the Ukrainian people, but the dismantling of a system that privileged Mazepa and his peers. Still, Peter trusted him. In 1707, a prominent Cossack noble, Vasily Kochubey, accused Mazepa of plotting treason. Peter, tired of false alarms and slanderous reports, refused to believe it. He handed Kochubey over to Mazepa himself. Kochubey was executed shortly thereafter. Just six weeks later, the betrayal occurred. In the autumn of 1708, King Charles XII of Sweden entered Ukraine. His campaign had begun as a march toward Moscow, and now he needed a base of operations. Mazepa, believing the Russian Army was in retreat and the Swedish advance unstoppable, made his move. On October 25, he and a small group of loyal Cossack officers defected, bringing with them a few thousand troops. The rest of the Cossack Host remained loyal to the Tsar. Mazepa miscalculated badly. The Swedes were not moving as fast as he had hoped. Worse, the garrison at Baturin – his administrative and military stronghold – was still holding stockpiles of weapons, ammunition, and supplies. If Charles could take it, he would gain a crucial foothold. But Menshikov struck first. Launching a swift and brutal assault, he captured the town, seized the arsenal, and razed the hetman's residence to the ground. The garrison offered little resistance. Most of the population, seeing no reason to support Mazepa's gamble, surrendered – or fled. The destruction of Baturin shattered any hope that Mazepa's revolt might ignite a broader uprising. Most Cossacks, faced with a choice between a Tsar they knew and a hetman who had chosen exile and Swedish bayonets, made their decision quickly – and not in Mazepa's favor. At that moment, Peter took a step that cost him nothing – but delivered a decisive blow. With a single decree, he annulled the taxes that Mazepa had imposed unilaterally over the preceding years. These levies, Peter stressed, had been introduced not for the benefit of the war effort or the welfare of the people, but for Mazepa's personal enrichment. It was a masterstroke of political warfare: Bloodless, direct, and impossible to counter. With a few strokes of the pen, the Tsar undercut the very foundation of Mazepa's authority. By casting him not as a freedom fighter, but as a profiteer, Peter turned public opinion and elite sentiment alike against him. In a conflict that began with armies and allegiances, the decisive blow was dealt not on the battlefield, but on paper – with nothing more than ink, a signature, and perfect timing. Mazepa had placed his final bet on Sweden – and lost. In the summer of 1709, near the city of Poltava, Peter the Great achieved a decisive victory over Charles XII. The Swedish Army was crushed. What had begun as a bold northern campaign to seize Moscow ended in ruin. Charles fled the battlefield with a handful of officers and sought asylum in Ottoman territory. Mazepa, now fully committed and with no way back, followed him. There was little left of his cause. The thousands of Cossacks he had hoped to rally never materialized. Most had either remained loyal to the Russian crown or simply stayed away, unwilling to risk everything for a cause that seemed to serve only the hetman's fading prestige. The Baturin garrison had been wiped out, his reputation in shreds, and the Swedish king now a fugitive. According to some accounts, in these final weeks, Mazepa even tried to send envoys back to Peter – offering to change sides once again, this time delivering Charles into the Tsar's hands. Whether this was genuine or desperation is unclear. Peter refused to receive the emissaries. The very idea that a handful of battered Cossacks could abduct a Swedish monarch surrounded by his personal guard was absurd. And more to the point, the Tsar no longer needed Mazepa. He had already neutralized him – militarily, politically, and symbolically. In the town of Glukhov, a peculiar ceremony took place. Unable to capture the real Mazepa, Peter ordered that a straw effigy of the hetman be tried and executed in his place. It was stripped of honors and hanged. At the same time, a new military decoration was created: The Order of Judas – a 5kg silver medallion depicting the traitor apostle hanging from a tree, with 30 pieces of silver at his feet. A grim parody of chivalric honor, it was meant as a warning, not a reward. Mazepa himself would never see it. He had followed Charles XII into Ottoman exile, ending up in the Moldavian town of Bender, within the territory of the Turkish sultan. There, aging and in poor health, he died in the autumn of 1709 – broken, disgraced, and far from the land he had once ruled. It was an unremarkable death for a man who had spent his life navigating power, prestige, and peril. But Mazepa's story did not end with his burial. In exile, he may have faded – but in culture and politics, he was only just beginning. Ivan Mazepa may have died in exile, but his posthumous career was only beginning. In the decades and centuries that followed, he was reimagined again and again – not as a politician or military leader, but as a figure of legend. The first reinvention came not in Ukraine or Russia, but in the West. In 1819, Lord Byron published the narrative poem 'Mazeppa', loosely inspired by a story that had circulated in European salons. In Byron's version, a young page falls in love with a Polish countess. Her jealous husband has the lover stripped naked, tied to a wild horse, and set loose across the steppe. The youth survives and eventually recounts his tale to none other than Charles XII. The real Mazepa had indeed spent time at the Polish court in his youth and had a reputation as a courtly seducer, but the rest was pure fabrication. Byron's poem struck a chord with the Romantic imagination. The image of a half-naked man bound to a galloping horse through the endless Eastern plain was both erotic and symbolic. Artists and composers rushed to interpret the story: Eugene Delacroix painted it, Franz Liszt composed a symphonic poem, and countless illustrators followed suit. 'Mazeppa' became a fixture in 19th-century European art – not as a hetman or a traitor, but as a symbol of doomed passion, defiance, and elemental freedom. In Russia, the image was different – sharper, darker, and closer to historical reality. Alexander Pushkin, well aware of the facts, wrote the narrative poem 'Poltava' in 1829. In it, Mazepa appears not as a romantic hero, but as a calculating conspirator and cold realist. Pushkin includes a romantic subplot, but the betrayal of Peter and the calamity at Poltava are at the center. The poem was less about love and more about loyalty – specifically, the loyalty owed to one's sovereign and state. A third image emerged in the 20th century: The nationalist icon. In modern Ukrainian historiography and political memory, Mazepa is often presented as an early advocate for Ukrainian independence, a leader who defied imperial domination and dreamed of a sovereign state. Streets, statues, and schoolbooks now bear his name. He is cast not as a man of ambition, but as a patriot betrayed by history. This image is powerful – but selective. It highlights Mazepa's final break with the Tsar, but downplays his decades of cooperation, his personal motivations, and the social structure he fought to preserve. The version of Ukraine Mazepa defended was not democratic, egalitarian, or even particularly autonomous. It was a country ruled by a narrow elite, with peasants bound by feudal obligations and the hetman collecting taxes for his own court. In this context, his rebellion was less about national freedom than about elite self-governance. Each reinvention – Byron's erotic symbol, Pushkin's political cautionary tale, the modern nationalist martyr – reflects the needs of the culture that produced it. But none of them, in the end, fully resembles the man who once ruled from Baturin.
Russia Today
06-07-2025
- Politics
- Russia Today
Meet Ukraine's original traitor: The Cossack who made betrayal a national tradition
Ivan Mazepa remains one of the most controversial figures in Eastern European history. In Russia, his name is synonymous with betrayal – a man who turned his back on the Tsar at a critical moment. In Ukraine, he is remembered by some as a symbol of resistance, a champion of autonomy. In the West, he has been reimagined as a romantic figure, a tragic lover immortalized by poets and painters. These images could not be more different, yet they are all drawn from the same life. Mazepa's story, however, is not one of noble ideals or grand visions. It is a tale shaped by personal ambition, the instability of a fractured frontier, and the calculations of a seasoned political survivor. For much of his life, Mazepa was a loyal servant of the Russian Empire. He worked to rebuild Ukraine after years of war, governed with considerable authority, and was trusted by Tsar Peter the Great himself. But when his personal standing was threatened – by war, reform, and a changing political landscape – he turned. His defection to Sweden in the midst of the Great Northern War was not a call for freedom, but an attempt to preserve his own power. This is the story of how one man's ambition collided with the forces of empire. It is not a legend of liberation, but a cautionary tale about loyalty, power, and the costs of switching sides in the age of absolutism. Ivan Mazepa was born around 1639 in central Ukraine, near the town of Belaya Tserkov, just south of Kiev. His early life unfolded in a region marked by political fragmentation and violent upheaval. Ukraine at the time was a borderland caught between empires – a territory under Polish control, yet restless with discontent. Just nine years after Mazepa's birth, the Khmelnytsky Uprising would erupt, throwing the region into chaos and permanently reshaping its political future. Mazepa's family belonged to the szlachta, the Polish nobility. His father, Adam-Stefan Mazepa, held aristocratic privileges, and by class and allegiance, the family was aligned with the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. Yet they lived in Ukraine, a land simmering with rebellion against the Catholic aristocracy's dominance. The uprising led by Bogdan Khmelnitsky was driven by a coalition of Cossacks, Orthodox clergy, and peasants demanding autonomy and the protection of their religious and social rights. For the Polish elite, the rebellion was a threat. For many in Ukraine, it was liberation. Faced with this dilemma, Adam-Stefan made a pragmatic choice: He 'became a Cossack.' At the royal court in Warsaw, calling yourself a Cossack meant falling a rung below the szlachta. But around Belaya Tserkov, calling yourself szlachta might cost you your head. By aligning himself with the uprising, Adam-Stefan adapted to the realities of the frontier – without fully severing ties to his noble past. Later, he would switch sides again, taking part in a pro-Polish mutiny within the rebellion. Like many in that era, his loyalty was fluid, shaped more by survival than principle. This environment – where allegiance was transactional, and political identity a matter of positioning – would shape Ivan Mazepa from the start. He inherited his father's education, status, and instincts, but also his sense of ambiguity. He was born into nobility, trained in diplomacy, yet embedded in a culture where shifting sides was not treason, but strategy. Ivan Mazepa's early career followed the path of a well-positioned nobleman navigating the fractured landscape of Eastern Europe. Thanks to his family's standing and lingering connections in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, he received a strong education and became a page at the court of the Polish king. There, under royal patronage, he traveled to Western Europe to complete his studies. His upbringing equipped him with a rare set of skills for a man from the Ukrainian frontier – Polish language, diplomacy, and an instinct for survival. But by the time Mazepa returned home, the Commonwealth was no longer a safe or stable place to build a future. The region was in turmoil, caught between Poland, Russia, the Crimean Khanate, the Ottoman Empire, and Sweden. In Ukraine, old loyalties meant little, and alliances were as changeable as the seasons. He entered the service of Hetman Pyotr Doroshenko, a charismatic leader who had broken with Moscow and was attempting to secure protection from both Poland and the Ottoman Empire – a balancing act that reflected the political fluidity of the time. In 1674, during a diplomatic mission to the Crimean Khanate, Mazepa was intercepted by Zaporozhian Cossacks loyal to Moscow. Instead of executing him, they brought him into the camp of Hetman Ivan Samoylovich, whose leadership was recognized by the Tsar. For Mazepa, this was another shift in allegiance – less ideological than practical. And it would prove decisive. Serving under a hetman was always a precarious affair. Since the death of Bogdan Khmelnitsky, few had finished their tenure in peace; most were deposed, exiled, or assassinated. But it was also the surest path to influence. In 1687, Samoylovich fell out of favor with Moscow and was arrested and exiled to Siberia. Mazepa, likely involved in the political intrigue that precipitated his downfall, was elected hetman in his place. His appointment was approved by the Russian court. Mazepa was clever, experienced, and understood both Cossack customs and Moscow's expectations. He was neither idealist nor zealot, but he offered something rarer: He was governable. For Moscow, weary of shifting loyalties in Ukraine, this seemed like a breakthrough. After decades of instability, they had found a hetman they could work with. For a time, they were not mistaken. Mazepa's early years as hetman were marked by stability and trust. He pledged loyalty to the Russian Tsar and, in return, was granted considerable autonomy in governing the lands of Left-Bank Ukraine. The agreement preserved the traditional structures of Cossack self-rule while recognizing the authority of the Russian state. It was, in effect, a pragmatic compromise: The Tsar gained influence over a strategic frontier, and Mazepa secured official recognition of his rule. Mazepa proved an active and capable administrator. After decades of war and rebellion, he focused on restoring order, collecting taxes, rebuilding infrastructure, and asserting central authority within his domain. Russian officials were pleased. Regent Sophia Alekseyevna and then the young Tsar Peter – soon to become Peter the Great – viewed him as a valuable and reliable ally. For a region long plagued by shifting allegiances, Mazepa's consistent cooperation came as a relief. But that cooperation had limits. From early on, Mazepa acted independently, sometimes in ways that openly defied Russian policy. He negotiated with foreign powers without the Tsar's approval, imposed his own taxes alongside state levies, and maintained his own networks of influence across the Polish and Ottoman borders. These actions, while technically in violation of his obligations, were tolerated – so long as Mazepa maintained stability and kept the region quiet. Mazepa was careful to keep the Tsar informed of just enough to avoid serious suspicion. In letters to Peter, he disclosed some of his contacts abroad and framed his actions as defensive, even patriotic. For a time, the arrangement held. Peter, not yet hardened by war, was willing to look past Mazepa's minor transgressions in exchange for competent governance on the empire's southwestern flank. A sense of mutual respect developed. While Peter famously used familiar and informal language with many of his subordinates, his tone with Mazepa remained consistently formal. Their correspondence reflected the Tsar's recognition of Mazepa's stature – not as an equal, but as a figure who commanded influence and could be trusted, at least for the moment. Yet beneath the surface, the hetman was playing a double game. He remained useful to the Russian state, but he had already begun preparing for the day when that usefulness might no longer be enough. In 1700, Russia entered into a protracted conflict with Sweden – the Great Northern War. Peter the Great aimed to reclaim the Baltic coast and open a maritime gateway to Europe. For this, he needed ports, a navy, and above all, a centralized, modernized state. His vision stood in stark contrast to the political culture of Ukraine, where regional elites jealously guarded their autonomy, privileges, and the right to govern on their own terms. At first, the war seemed distant from Ukraine. The fighting took place far to the north, along the Baltic shoreline. Mazepa remained active and loyal in these early stages. He sent troops to support Russian campaigns and led successful raids into Polish-held Ukrainian territories, targeting nobles who were sympathetic to the Swedes. His methods – swift attacks, scorched-earth tactics, raids – were effective, if old-fashioned. From the outside, his commitment appeared unquestionable. But events soon changed the stakes. Russian forces suffered several early defeats. In response, Peter accelerated his reforms: Restructuring the army, replacing hereditary command with merit-based appointments, and extending state control deeper into peripheral regions. Ukraine, despite its autonomy, was not exempt. Peter's centralizing agenda posed a direct threat to the Cossack elite. Plans were drawn to standardize military ranks, impose regular service, and subordinate Cossack units to officers sent from the capital. Taxes, too, were to be collected more uniformly – limiting the hetman's ability to levy tributes independently. For a figure like Mazepa, who had long operated as a near-sovereign ruler in all but name, these changes were more than bureaucratic – they were existential. The breaking point came in 1705, when Peter placed Mazepa under the command of Aleksandr Menshikov, one of his most trusted generals and closest confidants. The campaign never materialized, but the gesture sent a clear signal: Mazepa was no longer seen as an autonomous partner, but as a subordinate. The personal insult was compounded by social disdain. Menshikov had risen from humble origins – a stableman's son who earned his rank through military skill and loyalty to Peter. To Mazepa, a nobleman educated in the courts of Europe, it was an affront to be placed beneath a self-made man. To Menshikov, Mazepa represented everything outdated in the political order: Parochialism, intrigue, and inherited privilege. Their mutual distrust was more than rivalry – it reflected the clash between two systems. At the same time, Mazepa's forces suffered heavy casualties in the war. Unlike the Russian regulars, the Cossacks received little recognition or compensation for their losses. Morale fell. The prospect of more war – and less autonomy – left many in the Ukrainian elite uneasy. For Mazepa, the fear was now twofold: Not only was his political position under threat, but the very model of semi-independent Cossack governance was being dismantled from above. In private, he began to consider an the late 1700s, Mazepa had grown increasingly isolated. He still enjoyed formal authority, but real power was slipping from his hands. Russian officers began issuing orders directly to Cossack colonels, bypassing the hetman's chain of command. Peter's presence in Ukraine during the war underscored the message: The time of negotiated autonomy was coming to an end. From now on, Ukraine would be governed as part of a centralized state. Mazepa was not prepared to accept this. He had ruled Ukraine for two decades as its de facto sovereign. The idea of being reduced to a provincial administrator – subject to instructions from generals like Menshikov – was, for him, intolerable. At the same time, his relationship with Peter, once respectful, had cooled. Letters of protest were met with curt replies. Complaints about taxes, fortifications, or unwilling Cossack troops were dismissed as petty grievances. It was during this period that Mazepa intensified contact with Anna Dolskaya, a Polish noblewoman with connections to the anti-Russian faction in Poland. Their relationship, at once political and personal, became the conduit for a shift in allegiance. Rumors spread that Menshikov was preparing to take control of Ukraine on Peter's orders. The evidence was thin, but it confirmed Mazepa's worst fears. He wrote to Peter, expressing concern over discipline in the ranks and the breakdown of authority. The response was sharp: If the hetman could not control his men, he should reform them; if the army was under-equipped, he should invest his own funds in their armament. Once the war was over, the Tsar promised, everyone would be rewarded. It was not enough. Mazepa had begun to see the war not as a burden to endure, but as an opportunity to break free – if he chose his moment wisely. At the heart of the conflict was a deeper question: What did 'Ukraine' mean to Mazepa? He did not envision an independent national state, nor did he speak of popular sovereignty. For him and his circle, 'freedom' meant the freedom of the elite to govern without interference from the center. The common people – peasants, craftsmen, lesser Cossacks – were subjects to be taxed and commanded, not represented. The threat from Peter was not oppression of the Ukrainian people, but the dismantling of a system that privileged Mazepa and his peers. Still, Peter trusted him. In 1707, a prominent Cossack noble, Vasily Kochubey, accused Mazepa of plotting treason. Peter, tired of false alarms and slanderous reports, refused to believe it. He handed Kochubey over to Mazepa himself. Kochubey was executed shortly thereafter. Just six weeks later, the betrayal occurred. In the autumn of 1708, King Charles XII of Sweden entered Ukraine. His campaign had begun as a march toward Moscow, and now he needed a base of operations. Mazepa, believing the Russian Army was in retreat and the Swedish advance unstoppable, made his move. On October 25, he and a small group of loyal Cossack officers defected, bringing with them a few thousand troops. The rest of the Cossack Host remained loyal to the Tsar. Mazepa miscalculated badly. The Swedes were not moving as fast as he had hoped. Worse, the garrison at Baturin – his administrative and military stronghold – was still holding stockpiles of weapons, ammunition, and supplies. If Charles could take it, he would gain a crucial foothold. But Menshikov struck first. Launching a swift and brutal assault, he captured the town, seized the arsenal, and razed the hetman's residence to the ground. The garrison offered little resistance. Most of the population, seeing no reason to support Mazepa's gamble, surrendered – or fled. The destruction of Baturin shattered any hope that Mazepa's revolt might ignite a broader uprising. Most Cossacks, faced with a choice between a Tsar they knew and a hetman who had chosen exile and Swedish bayonets, made their decision quickly – and not in Mazepa's favor. At that moment, Peter took a step that cost him nothing – but delivered a decisive blow. With a single decree, he annulled the taxes that Mazepa had imposed unilaterally over the preceding years. These levies, Peter stressed, had been introduced not for the benefit of the war effort or the welfare of the people, but for Mazepa's personal enrichment. It was a masterstroke of political warfare: Bloodless, direct, and impossible to counter. With a few strokes of the pen, the Tsar undercut the very foundation of Mazepa's authority. By casting him not as a freedom fighter, but as a profiteer, Peter turned public opinion and elite sentiment alike against him. In a conflict that began with armies and allegiances, the decisive blow was dealt not on the battlefield, but on paper – with nothing more than ink, a signature, and perfect timing. Mazepa had placed his final bet on Sweden – and lost. In the summer of 1709, near the city of Poltava, Peter the Great achieved a decisive victory over Charles XII. The Swedish Army was crushed. What had begun as a bold northern campaign to seize Moscow ended in ruin. Charles fled the battlefield with a handful of officers and sought asylum in Ottoman territory. Mazepa, now fully committed and with no way back, followed him. There was little left of his cause. The thousands of Cossacks he had hoped to rally never materialized. Most had either remained loyal to the Russian crown or simply stayed away, unwilling to risk everything for a cause that seemed to serve only the hetman's fading prestige. The Baturin garrison had been wiped out, his reputation in shreds, and the Swedish king now a fugitive. According to some accounts, in these final weeks, Mazepa even tried to send envoys back to Peter – offering to change sides once again, this time delivering Charles into the Tsar's hands. Whether this was genuine or desperation is unclear. Peter refused to receive the emissaries. The very idea that a handful of battered Cossacks could abduct a Swedish monarch surrounded by his personal guard was absurd. And more to the point, the Tsar no longer needed Mazepa. He had already neutralized him – militarily, politically, and symbolically. In the town of Glukhov, a peculiar ceremony took place. Unable to capture the real Mazepa, Peter ordered that a straw effigy of the hetman be tried and executed in his place. It was stripped of honors and hanged. At the same time, a new military decoration was created: The Order of Judas – a 5kg silver medallion depicting the traitor apostle hanging from a tree, with 30 pieces of silver at his feet. A grim parody of chivalric honor, it was meant as a warning, not a reward. Mazepa himself would never see it. He had followed Charles XII into Ottoman exile, ending up in the Moldavian town of Bender, within the territory of the Turkish sultan. There, aging and in poor health, he died in the autumn of 1709 – broken, disgraced, and far from the land he had once ruled. It was an unremarkable death for a man who had spent his life navigating power, prestige, and peril. But Mazepa's story did not end with his burial. In exile, he may have faded – but in culture and politics, he was only just beginning. Ivan Mazepa may have died in exile, but his posthumous career was only beginning. In the decades and centuries that followed, he was reimagined again and again – not as a politician or military leader, but as a figure of legend. The first reinvention came not in Ukraine or Russia, but in the West. In 1819, Lord Byron published the narrative poem 'Mazeppa', loosely inspired by a story that had circulated in European salons. In Byron's version, a young page falls in love with a Polish countess. Her jealous husband has the lover stripped naked, tied to a wild horse, and set loose across the steppe. The youth survives and eventually recounts his tale to none other than Charles XII. The real Mazepa had indeed spent time at the Polish court in his youth and had a reputation as a courtly seducer, but the rest was pure fabrication. Byron's poem struck a chord with the Romantic imagination. The image of a half-naked man bound to a galloping horse through the endless Eastern plain was both erotic and symbolic. Artists and composers rushed to interpret the story: Eugene Delacroix painted it, Franz Liszt composed a symphonic poem, and countless illustrators followed suit. 'Mazeppa' became a fixture in 19th-century European art – not as a hetman or a traitor, but as a symbol of doomed passion, defiance, and elemental freedom. In Russia, the image was different – sharper, darker, and closer to historical reality. Alexander Pushkin, well aware of the facts, wrote the narrative poem 'Poltava' in 1829. In it, Mazepa appears not as a romantic hero, but as a calculating conspirator and cold realist. Pushkin includes a romantic subplot, but the betrayal of Peter and the calamity at Poltava are at the center. The poem was less about love and more about loyalty – specifically, the loyalty owed to one's sovereign and state. A third image emerged in the 20th century: The nationalist icon. In modern Ukrainian historiography and political memory, Mazepa is often presented as an early advocate for Ukrainian independence, a leader who defied imperial domination and dreamed of a sovereign state. Streets, statues, and schoolbooks now bear his name. He is cast not as a man of ambition, but as a patriot betrayed by history. This image is powerful – but selective. It highlights Mazepa's final break with the Tsar, but downplays his decades of cooperation, his personal motivations, and the social structure he fought to preserve. The version of Ukraine Mazepa defended was not democratic, egalitarian, or even particularly autonomous. It was a country ruled by a narrow elite, with peasants bound by feudal obligations and the hetman collecting taxes for his own court. In this context, his rebellion was less about national freedom than about elite self-governance. Each reinvention – Byron's erotic symbol, Pushkin's political cautionary tale, the modern nationalist martyr – reflects the needs of the culture that produced it. But none of them, in the end, fully resembles the man who once ruled from Baturin.
Yahoo
26-05-2025
- Business
- Yahoo
Soviet stockpiles won't last forever. Will the Russians have enough artillery for new major offensive campaigns in Ukraine?
An insider told The Economist that Vladimir Medinsky, head of the Russian delegation, stated during the talks in Istanbul that Russia was ready for a protracted war. To illustrate his point, he referenced the Great Northern War between Russia and Sweden, which lasted 21 years. One of its most famous episodes was Peter the Great's order to dismantle church bells and melt them down for artillery, which was in short supply. Today, artillery is again in short supply, but since the Great Northern War, the technology for producing artillery barrels has, to put it mildly, changed a tad. Therefore, the Russians must now supply it to the front, not through Peter the Great's methods but by tapping into their Cold War stockpiles. As with tanks, these stockpiles are not endless. Meanwhile, Russia's production of new artillery and barrels appears unable to keep up with the demands of the front and the rate of losses. Moscow's difficulties in bringing new artillery systems into service do not mean that Russian forces will stop firing any time soon or that Ukraine is on the verge of victory. However, artillery is a cornerstone of Russian offensive tactics. Understanding the state of Russian artillery production is essential for assessing its actual ability to ramp up or at least sustain the current pace of the offensive in the medium to long term, which is an important bargaining chip for Moscow at the negotiating table. [BANNER1] Although most of the damage at the front is now being inflicted by first-person view drones, the role of artillery in combat has not diminished. In fact, its importance has grown. Artillery performs not only conventional fire support tasks but is also integrated into the reconnaissance-strike tandem network, delivering precision strikes on targets detected by tactical drones. Thanks to its range, power and ability to operate in all weather conditions, artillery remains a crucial element of firepower. Its effective use is key to both deterring and breaking through enemy defences. Russia possesses one of the largest artillery forces in the world. According to the Military Balance analytical guide, Russia had around 2,500 artillery systems of various types in service before launching the full-scale war against Ukraine. Most of these were highly mobile self-propelled artillery systems (SPAS). As of early 2024, Russia has increased the number of artillery systems deployed at the front to over 4,700, according to the Royal United Services Institute (RUSI), the world's oldest and the UK's leading defence and security think tank. Russian forces fire many times more shells per day than Ukrainian defence forces. For example, during the offensive campaign in early 2024, the ratio was approximately eight to one. Although this gap has narrowed as Ukraine has secured ammunition supplies, Moscow's advantage in artillery firepower remains significant. Russia's dominance in artillery has enabled it to employ a barrage fire tactic, where Ukrainian defensive positions are relentlessly bombarded with heavy fire until they are reduced to tatters. To achieve this, Russia relies on three key components: operational artillery systems, spare barrels and ammunition. Shells come not only from Russia's own production, which yields over two million large-calibre rounds annually, but also from supplies provided by North Korea and Iran. Ukraine's Defence Intelligence reported that the regime of North Korean dictator Kim Jong Un has transferred more than five million large-calibre munitions to Russia since 2023. This has enabled Moscow to sustain an extremely high intensity of artillery fire in Ukraine. The artillery systems and barrels were mainly drawn from Russia's Cold War-era stockpiles, allowing thousands of howitzers to be rapidly deployed, despite the devastating losses at the front. Russian MSTA-S self-propelled artillery systems. Photo: open sources Lacking comparable numbers of ammunition and howitzers, Ukraine's Armed Forces have focused on counter-battery warfare, i.e. destroying Russian artillery. To achieve this, the Ukrainian military has employed reconnaissance drones, counter-battery radars and Western-standard precision artillery systems, whose superior range and accuracy help offset their smaller numbers. [BANNER2] In 2023, FPV drones and heavy quadcopters were added to Ukraine's counter-battery arsenal, becoming new and effective tools for destroying Russian artillery. In response, Russian troops began adapting by enhancing the fortifications and layout of artillery positions, improving camouflage and equipping their vehicles with additional protection, particularly anti-drone meshes. However, they have not found the definitive solution. As losses among self-propelled artillery mounted, the Russian military increasingly turned to towed artillery, which took a leading role in their arsenal. Towed systems are less detectable by reconnaissance, easier to produce and have proved reasonably effective for positional warfare amid a growing shortage of equipment. A Russian 122mm D-74 howitzer, produced in 1955, positioned in a battlefield emplacement. Photo: screenshot from a Russian news report Oryx, a Dutch warfare research group which tracks equipment losses based on visual evidence, estimates that Russia has lost around 1,500 artillery systems (both self-propelled and towed) so far. In contrast, the General Staff of the Ukrainian Armed Forces reports nearly 28,000 Russian artillery losses. Why such a large discrepancy? Firstly, losses of artillery are much harder to confirm visually than those of armoured vehicles, meaning many do not appear in OSINT analysts' statistics. Artillery systems are typically positioned far from the front line and are well camouflaged – hidden in forested areas, dug in, or covered with nets – making it difficult to obtain photo or video evidence of their destruction. Since OSINT resources like Oryx rely solely on open-source visual evidence, they record only those losses that can be identified in photos or videos. In contrast, the Ukrainian Armed Forces have access to a broader range of intelligence tools, particularly radio intercepts, operational data and drone footage, which enable them to confirm Russian losses without needing overt visual proof. The second factor is the methodology used for counting. Ukraine's General Staff includes mortars in its overall artillery loss figures, as they are formally classified as artillery. Mortars are much smaller and rarely come into the view of drones. It is clear that Russian artillery losses far exceed the 1,500 visually confirmed, thanks to OSINT analysts who use their own funds to purchase satellite imagery and examine Russian storage facilities. Much of the artillery has remained in the open since the Cold War. Given the vast gap between new howitzer production and battlefield losses, the Russians have begun to draw heavily on these stockpiles, either refurbishing artillery systems for service or dismantling them for spare parts. [BANNER3] OSINT analyst Jompy has estimated that in 2022, Russian storage facilities held 22,367 artillery pieces, including 17,197 towed artillery units. By 2024, that number had dropped to 9,325. With six months having passed since then, the stockpiles are likely even smaller now. At first glance, these warehouses still hold a considerable number of howitzers, with only about 60% used by the end of 2024. However, it's important to remember that not all artillery in reserve is fit for combat use. The Russians prioritise removing the most repairable equipment from warehouses first, leaving the more problematic pieces for later. This is precisely the approach they are taking with heavy armoured vehicles. This suggests that much of the artillery in storage facilities is now obsolete or in poor condition. Some systems dating back to World War II are still in the warehouses but cannot be used without lengthy and costly repairs. Russian artillery storage facility Planovaya as of 2022 Russian artillery storage facility Planovaya as of 2025 This large-scale withdrawal of artillery from warehouses is driven not only by the need to replace losses but also by the exhaustion of barrels. The thing is that artillery has a limited service life, mainly defined by the lifespan of the barrel – the maximum number of shots it can fire before needing replacement. Consequently, some equipment from storage facilities may be withdrawn solely to replenish these vital consumable parts. A barrel's service life depends on several factors: the intensity of fire, the quality of maintenance, the condition of the ammunition and the crew's professionalism. For instance, 122mm systems like the D-30 or 2S1 Gvozdika have a service life of around 30,000 rounds, while 152mm howitzers such as the MSTA-S last only a few thousand rounds. The 203mm 2S7 Pion self-propelled artillery systems have a service life of about 500 rounds. These figures are approximate and based on textbooks. Actual service life in combat conditions can vary significantly. Intensive artillery use causes rapid barrel wear, which reduces firing accuracy, diminishes system effectiveness and even raises the risk of detonation within the barrel. This has increased the demand for reserve howitzers from warehouses, which are either deployed directly or dismantled to repair other units. An additional factor accelerating the deterioration of Russian artillery barrels has been the use of low-quality ammunition. The Russian military has repeatedly criticised the shells supplied by North Korea. According to Russian soldiers, the poor quality caused barrel ruptures, which not only disabled the equipment but also put crews at risk. A Russian D-20 howitzer destroyed due to an explosion of a shell supplied by North Korea. Photo: Russian Telegram channels A certain artillery deficit is also indicated by the fact that Russian forces have started deploying systems hardly used before 2022. One example is the 130mm M-46 gun, developed in the 1950s. Due to its non-standard calibre for the modern Russian military, its use had been minimal. However, the urgent need to increase artillery firepower has forced the Russians to bring the M-46 back into service. This was made possible mainly by ammunition supplies of the appropriate calibre from Iran and North Korea which allowed this outdated howitzer to be fired. These are not isolated cases. Artillery pieces and howitzers such as the D-20 and M-46, both manufactured in the 1950s, are increasingly disappearing from satellite images of storage facilities. OSINT researcher HighMarsed reported that as of 2022, there were about 600 M-46 guns at Russian storage facilities, and since then, 380 have been taken away. Systems developed during World War II have also been spotted at the front. Recent photos have surfaced showing an M-30 122mm howitzer, which was in service in the Soviet military in the 1940s. A 122mm howitzer M-30 used by Russian forces in Ukraine In 2024, Sergei Chemezov, head of the Russian state-owned defence conglomerate Rostec, claimed that production and refurbishment of self-propelled artillery in Russia had increased tenfold and towed artillery fourteenfold since 2022. Here again, we encounter the manipulative phrasing of "production and refurbishment", which also encompasses the retrieval of vehicles from Soviet-era warehouses. The main bottleneck in new artillery production is barrels. They require high-precision heavy machine tools and a number of key components. Setting up such mass production is not an easy task. According to a rough estimate by the Kiel Institute, Russia produced dozens of new artillery systems each quarter in 2023, reaching capacities of 100 and 112 units in the first and second quarters of 2024 respectively. RUSI estimates that barrel production could reach "hundreds" per year. However, this output is insufficient to cover Russian military losses and the rapid depletion of barrels on the battlefield. If this estimate is close to reality, it roughly matches the known production volumes of Ukrainian Bohdana self-propelled artillery systems. It is difficult to objectively assess the volume of Russian howitzer production, as news reports from factories often focus on individual sites without disclosing the overall scale of production. Several key Russian plants are responsible for producing new artillery systems. These are Plant No. 9, which specialises in manufacturing artillery barrels for 122mm D-30A howitzers and tank guns; Uraltransmash, which produces 152mm MSTA-S self-propelled artillery systems; and Motovilikhinskie Zavody, which operates a complete production cycle for artillery systems such as the 2S1 Gvozdika, 2S3 Akatsiya, 2A36 Giatsint-B, 2S5 Giatsint-S, and Msta-B. However, a look at the history of Russian artillery production reveals that the country's factories were far from being well-prepared for Moscow's full-scale invasion of Ukraine. In the 1980s, during the development of the 152mm MSTA-S, Uraltransmash's existing facilities proved insufficient, leading to plans for a separate Sterlitamak Machine-Building Plant. However, due to internal competition, Uraltransmash's management had instead pushed for creating a new workshop worth RUB 600 million (approximately US$7.5 million) within their existing plant. It remains unclear whether this workshop was ever completed, while the Sterlitamak plant that initially produced the MSTA-S ceased operations in 2013 and was subsequently demolished. Sterlitamak Machine-Building Plant Motovilikhinskie Zavody has been in bankruptcy since 2018. This doesn't mean it has completely ceased operations, as Ukrainian drone strikes are targeting it for a reason, though it nonetheless reflects the facility's overall condition. A Russian MSTA-S at Uraltransmash Against this backdrop, the appearance of new wheeled artillery systems such as the Malva and Giatsint-K rather than traditional tracked models is interesting. According to Pavel Luzin, an expert on the Russian defence industry, the shift to wheeled chassis stems from a shortage of tracked platforms. For instance, the MSTA-S relies on the T-90 tank chassis, which is also needed for main battle tank production. This competition for resources complicates the mass production of such artillery systems. A wheeled self-propelled vehicle is a good choice in its own right. Wheeled chassis are significantly easier to manufacture, require fewer costly components than tracked ones, and do not compete with tank production for resources. However, the mere appearance of these new artillery systems does not indicate a significant increase in barrel production capacity. Firstly, both models only entered mass production in early 2024. Secondly, Andrei Tarasenko, author of a specialised Telegram channel on armoured vehicles, spotted an old barrel from the Giatsint-B mounted on a Giatsint-K, likely taken from storage. This once again highlights the shortage of barrels in Russia. [BANNER4] A barrel from the Giatsint-B gun with a locking stop used on the Giatsint-K self-propelled artillery system. Photo: It is clear that the Ukrainian defence forces will never be able to physically destroy all Russian artillery systems. Russia is attempting to offset losses and barrel wear by somewhat increasing production, continuing to withdraw equipment from warehouses and importing artillery systems from North Korea. The quality of these imports is questionable, but they are present and operational. Ukrainian forces also struggle with comparable issues, up to and including the use of World War II-era artillery such as American M114 systems. Unlike Russia, Kyiv does not have access to large Soviet-era reserves and remains heavily reliant on external shell supplies. This results in a persistent disadvantage in artillery capability for Ukraine. However, since 2022, Ukraine has developed a robust and scalable production line for Bohdana self-propelled artillery systems, including both barrels and the machinery needed to produce them. In addition, numerous foreign companies support the Ukrainian military, which provides significantly greater potential for scaling up production. For example, France supplies 90% of its barrel production to Ukraine. Moreover, Ukrainian long-range artillery, particularly Western-supplied systems, is often superior in quality to its Russian counterparts, which is another crucial factor. This situation suggests that, over time and with further depletion of Russian stockpiles, Ukraine could eventually achieve at least parity with Russia in terms of artillery firepower. However, this prospect depends on consistent Western ammunition supplies to the Ukrainian defence forces, something that has been called into question for political reasons. M-46, D-30, MSTA-B and Giatsint-B units being transported after being removed from storage [BANNER5] To avoid a collapse in its artillery capabilities, Russia will likely have to scale back the intensity of shelling and compensate for the reduced firepower through other means, particularly the use of FPV drones. The use of fibre-optic drones in Ukrainian territories bordering Russia has increased, said Andrii Demchenko, spokesperson for Ukraine's State Border Guard Service. The situation is the same on the Novopavlivka front, as reported by Viktor Trehubov, spokesman for the Khortytsia Operational Strategic Group. The growing reliance of Russian forces on FPV drones amid a gradual decline in artillery power should not be underestimated. Ukraine must respond by reinforcing frontline defences with appropriate countermeasures. Meanwhile, the steady depletion of Russia's artillery capabilities must be factored into any assessment of its capacity to mount large-scale new offensives. It is also important to remember that, at this very moment, thousands of Russian guns remain pointed at Ukrainian defenders, and there is no doubt about the combat readiness of the Russian artillery. Author: Illia Bolharyn Translation: Artem Yakymyshyn Editing: Susan McDonald
New European
21-05-2025
- Politics
- New European
Putin has played Trump
The talks in Istanbul were a success for Russia. They did not lead to any ceasefire agreement and the Russian delegation insisted on Putin's previous conditions: complete withdrawal of the Ukrainian army from four Ukrainian regions, currently partially occupied by Russia. The Russian delegation also threatened to seize two more regions – Sumy and Kharkiv in the north east. 'If the four new Russian regions are not recognised now, in the near future, then next time there will already be six,' a member of a Russian delegation reportedly said in the negotiations room. Even then, the Russians would only consider a ceasefire, rather than a lasting peace. The Ukrainian and Russian delegations failed to achieve any major result in Istanbul last Friday, except for a prisoner swap and so, Donald Trump, obsessed with the idea of being a peacemaker and a dealmaker, decided to intervene in person and called Russian president Vladimir Putin for the third time. His hope was that he could 'stop this bloodbath'. But it looks like Putin has outplayed him – once again. Read more: Hail to the thief The Kremlin's chief negotiator Vladimir Medinsky, reportedly said that 'Russia is prepared to fight forever', recalling the Great Northern War of 1700-1721. In that war against Sweden, Russia lost about 30,000 soldiers in 21 years, while in the current war in Ukraine, Russian losses are close to 800,000 troops in three years. To defend Kursk from Ukraine's incursion, Russia even deployed North Korean soldiers, an indication that it is running short of personnel, and that talk of an eternal fight is entirely unrealistic. But the Istanbul negotiations were still a win for Putin: they happened at the same place and in the same format as the first round of direct talks between Russia and Ukraine that took place back in March 2022. Since then, Putin repeatedly insisted that the only format acceptable for Russia would be the 'renewal of Istanbul talks', which failed three years ago because for Ukraine it meant, capitulation. Now he has got his position back on track – with the help of Donald Trump, who reportedly insisted that the Ukrainian delegation should attend the meetings. Then on Monday, Putin called Trump, not from the Kremlin but from a music school in Sochi. The previous two Trump-Putin calls did not make any progress, as they both ran up against Putin's insistence that 'the root causes of this war' (i.e. Ukraine's existence as a sovereign state) should be eliminated. Trump said his two hour call with Putin went 'very well', and that 'Russia and Ukraine will immediately start negotiations toward a Ceasefire and, more importantly, an END to the War'. Later on, Putin's aid Yuri Ushakov, in fact, denied Trump's words, saying no ceasefire timeframe was discussed. Putin, in his turn, said Russia was ready to work on 'memorandum regarding a possible future peace treaty', setting out 'principles of settlement, the timing of a possible peace agreement, including a possible ceasefire for a certain period if the relevant agreements are reached'. Translation: instead of ending the war, Putin will buy the time, and it is him who will decide what new conditions to impose. Trump seems to agree, saying that he and Putin 'know details of a negotiation that nobody else would be aware of'. This is a wake-up call for both Ukraine and Europe. It looks like the US – their strategic security partner – is trying to quit the negotiations between Russia and Ukraine, having already undermined the pre-Trump principle 'nothing about Ukraine without Ukraine'. Now Donald Trump is repeating Putin's conditions, being blinded by the prospect of deals with Russia, where he sees a 'tremendous opportunity' to create 'massive amounts of jobs and wealth'. But if Russia needed jobs and wealth, as well as trade with the US – it could have tried to negotiate it decades ago. Instead, since the collapse of the USSR, which Putin still considers to be the largest political catastrophe of the 20th century, Russia has been waging wars with its neighbours. Russia's wartime economy may well be undergoing stagnation and inflation at the same time, but who cares about economic progress when the main goal is to restore the Soviet Union? After more than 100 days in office, three direct phone calls to Putin and four visits to Moscow by Steve Witkoff, Trump's pro-Kremlin 'ambassador at large', Trump did not achieve a ceasefire – instead, Putin's army has launched multiple deadly barrages on Ukraine, which many Ukrainians have called in their darkly humorous way, the 'sounds of a ceasefire'. And yet, it did not lead to any firm reaction from Donald Trump. 'Whether Putin and his army will earn money for this war, depends on the US,' Volodymyr Zelensky said. Mertz has also made it clear that sending troops to Ukraine is currently not a topic for discussion. Heavily dependent on US defence technologies, Europe is promising Ukraine its unwavering support, even though its own defence capabilities are diminished. Russia's drones have already crossed the borders of EU and Nato member states, Russia's sabotage inside Europe is flourishing, including not only espionage and arson attacks but also malware and disinformation. A few days after the Trump-Putin call, Europe announced another round of sanctions on Russia, targeting the country's military and political elite. Friedrich Merz, the German chancellor, posted on X: 'Europe and America are very united on this'. All of Ukraine – and Europe – will hope he is right.
Yahoo
16-05-2025
- Politics
- Yahoo
Russia demands Ukraine withdraw its troops as talks end in acrimony
Russia demanded Ukraine withdraw its troops from four Ukrainian regions annexed by Vladimir Putin as the price for a ceasefire. Negotiators sent by the Russian president for the first direct talks in three years said they expected a Ukrainian withdrawal from Donetsk, Luhansk, Kherson and Zaporizhzhia as a 'minimum'. Russia's proposals were branded 'detached from reality' by a Ukrainian diplomatic source in talks which appeared to end in acrimony. However, the negotiations yielded some progress, including the largest prisoner of war swap of the conflict so far, with 1,000 captive troops set to be exchanged 'in the coming days'. Negotiators agreed to present visions for a 'possible future ceasefire' ahead of any further talks. The Russian side also 'noted' Ukraine's demand for a face-to-face meeting between Volodymyr Zelensky and Putin, after the Russian president failed to show up. Earlier in the day, Donald Trump offered to meet Putin himself. Shortly after the talks were 'suspended', Ukrainian sources said Russia had made unreasonable demands for a military withdrawal from four contested regions. When the Ukrainian delegation complained about the demands, Russian negotiators reportedly replied: 'Next time it will be five.' Vladimir Medinsky, Russia's lead negotiator, also told Kyiv that Moscow could fight for at least another 21 years. 'We don't want war, but we're ready to fight … We fought Sweden for 21 years. How long are you ready to fight?' said Mr Medinsky, whose official role is chairman of the Interdepartmental Commission of Historical Education of Russia. The Great Northern War, fought between Russia and Sweden, lasted for 21 years from 1700 to 1721, during the rule of Peter the Great. Putin compared himself to the former Russian emperor shortly after launching his invasion. Sir Keir Starmer said the Russian position was 'clearly unacceptable' and that European leaders, Ukraine and the United States were 'closely aligning' their responses. The Prime Minister held talks with Mr Zelensky and key European allies at an EU summit in Albania while the negotiations were going on in Turkey. They said they called Mr Trump to discuss the talks, while the US president was flying back from a week of meetings in the Gulf. 'So as a result of that meeting with President Zelensky and that call with President Trump, we are now closely aligning our responses and will continue to do so,' Sir Keir said. The Prime Minister said European leaders and the US were 'aligned' in their efforts to pressure Putin to negotiate seriously about an end to the war. He said: 'The prisoner swaps is obviously a good thing that's been agreed today, the fact that the talks continue. But I think we need to be really clear in putting pressure on Putin for a ceasefire. I'm very keen to continue to put that pressure on, because we need to make sure Putin comes to the table, and his actions this week show me that he's not serious yet about peace.' The talks in Istanbul were hastily arranged after Putin called for direct talks but later refused Mr Zelensky's request to meet him in person. Ukraine's delegation, led by Rustem Umerov, the defence minister, arrived at the talks dressed in military fatigues and addressed the Russians through an interpreter, despite being fluent in Russian. The Russians were late to the meeting, which the Kremlin said it wanted to use to address the 'root causes' of the war, shorthand for maximalist demands such as demilitarising Ukraine. Ukraine, on the other hand, said the priority was to implement a full and immediate ceasefire. After the talks had broken up, speaking from the summit in Tirana, Mr Zelensky said Ukraine was ready to take 'the fastest possible steps to bring real peace' and demanded further pressure on Putin to force him to the negotiating table. 'There needs to be a strong reaction, including sanctions – especially targeting Russia's energy sector and banking system. Pressure must increase until genuine progress is made,' he said. The negotiations between Russia and Ukraine were preceded by talks between the US and Kyiv's delegation, also in Istanbul. Mr Umerov, who led Ukraine's delegation, joined Marco Rubio, the US secretary of state, to discuss 'real mechanisms that will lead to a just and lasting peace for Ukraine'. Mr Trump remained silent on the outcome of the talks after previously teasing he could attend. He said on Friday morning that he would like to meet Putin 'as soon as we can set it up'. 'As soon as we can set it up, I would actually leave here and go,' Mr Trump said as he wrapped up a four-day tour of the Gulf States. The Kremlin said a meeting between the two leaders was 'essential' but warned there would be no quick breakthrough. 'A summit must be set up. And it must be results-oriented because a summit is always preceded by expert negotiations, consultations, and long and intense preparations,' Putin's spokesman said. Earlier, Ursula von der Leyen vowed to keep 'increasing pressure' on Putin. 'We want peace and we have to increase the pressure until President Putin is ready for peace,' she said, confirming that work had begun on an 18th sanctions package. The EU's 17th round of sanctions, agreed this week, targets Moscow's shadow oil fleet by blacklisting 200 tankers used to dodge export curbs. Pope Leo XIV offered to host future peace talks after the Vatican's secretary of state described the outcome of the Turkey negotiations as 'tragic'. 'It's all tragic because we hoped that a process would begin, perhaps slowly, but with a peaceful resolution of the conflict. Instead, we are back to square one,' Cardinal Pietro Parolin said. Broaden your horizons with award-winning British journalism. Try The Telegraph free for 1 month with unlimited access to our award-winning website, exclusive app, money-saving offers and more.
