Several days ago, I received an email from a highly respected lawyer based in London. He writes:
“I worked for a Russian company for a while and came to know its people. I am intrigued to understand the mindset that makes, let’s say, ‘the average Russian’ so amoral, brutal, and ruthless.”
To answer this, we must delve into the layers of a very specific Russian anomaly. It’s a well-guarded secret, yet, with the right approach, even the most hidden truths can be uncovered. Let’s dive in.
To answer my subscriber’s question, we need to start with an important clarification. The “average Russian” would never end up in London working for a Russian company capable of hiring specialists like my subscriber.
He was dealing with a very specific group of people. It’s a closed social class, much like the samurai, and not just anyone can join. But to understand who these people are and why they act the way they do, we need to examine the structure of Russian society.
The Russian Cornucopia
Margaret Thatcher once said, “There is no such thing as public money; there is only taxpayers’ money.” In Russia, this is not the case. There are no taxpayers’ funds in the traditional sense. Instead, there is state-controlled wealth—primarily natural resources and agricultural land—and people who have the right to control and exploit these resources based on their social rank.
This wealth is referred to as the “kormushka,” which means “feeding trough,” and it’s seen as a “horn of plenty” that operates continuously. However, it doesn’t provide enough for everyone. Power in Russia is built on controlling access to this kormushka. Those at the front can take as much as they can carry, while those crowded behind only catch a few drops.
Access to kormushka is considered a significant stroke of luck. For instance, if you’re a film director, you need the Ministry of Culture to allocate funding for your dream project. If you run a non-profit helping cancer patients, you rely on government grants. If you own a construction company, you try your best to secure state loans, tax breaks, or subsidies.
All wealth in Russia, one way or another, depends on the kormushka. Even if you own a fancy grooming salon and think you have a “private business,” your prosperity still hinges on whether your clients have money. And who are these clients? They’re government employees with high salaries, businessmen servicing government contracts, or businessmen who serve those who serve the government.
But that’s not all. Your property remains yours only as long as those in power are in agreement with this arrangement—or simply ignore you because you’re too small a fish to be targeted. But if they decide otherwise, they can take everything from you—and this applies to both the poorest and the wealthiest. A local official could rob the poorest, while the richest can be stripped of everything and imprisoned by the president’s decree. This is precisely what happened to oil tycoon Mikhail Khodorkovsky.
So, if you want to be safe and successful, you must position yourself as close to the kormushka as possible while navigating a highly competitive and dangerous environment.
The Social Pyramid
The social structure of modern Russia closely resembles that of a feudal system.
At the very bottom of the social pyramid is what we can call “the common people.” They are the largest group and live paycheck to paycheck. These people have no savings, no investments, and live in debt. If they have a profession, it’s often undervalued. Many are entirely dependent on the state for various benefits and pensions.
For context, in the provinces, the salary of a kindergarten teacher is about $200 a month. $400 a month is considered a good salary. $1000 a month is considered very good. But in Moscow, the average salary is $1500, which is why there are sayings like “Moscow is not Russia” and “Muscovites are completely spoiled.”
“The common people” have no control over resources and no voice. The authorities treat them as dependents to be cared for only if there’s extra money. If there’s no surplus, then the people can fend for themselves.
The second level of the pyramid consists of people with in-demand or prestigious skills. They live better, but their wealth and social status heavily depend on where they live. It’s one thing to be a doctor in Moscow, and another to be one in a small town in the middle of nowhere. These people don’t control state resources and don’t have special rights, but the state sees them as useful.
The third level includes people who control either material or power resources. They’re either government employees or closely linked to the government through contracts. At this level, everything is decided through agreements and personal connections, and success is measured by how prestigious your position is and how much money flows through your hands. Examples include police chiefs, bank executives, university rectors, and businessmen working for the government. These people are part of unofficial clans that protect each other and compete for better positions in the social hierarchy.
At the top of the pyramid are the heads of clans who control vast networks of vassals. These vassals can be found on the second and third levels of the pyramid. The more vassals they have, the better. The aristocrats are above the law, they control enormous sums of money, and they are accountable to no one — unless they anger the top feudal lord, President Putin.
The president himself occupies a separate category. He stands at the very top. He is untouchable, irreplaceable, and holds absolute power over every person and every resource within Russia.
How the System Works
Let me give you an example of how this system operates. On September 12, 2024, two Russian drone operators fighting against Ukraine were sent to a certain death in a reckless assault. The order to send these valuable specialists into the attack came from the regiment commander, Puzik, with whom they had fallen out over his involvement in covering up drug trafficking on the front lines.
Before going into the attack, the drone operators recorded a video message explaining the situation. It was a direct challenge to the system, so they arranged with their families to release the videos only after their deaths.
Once the videos were leaked online, a huge scandal erupted. The Z-community (those supporting the war and Putin) began demanding punishment for Puzik. The media picked up the story, and it ended… with nothing. Officials stepped forward and claimed the misunderstanding had been resolved and that some unnamed officers were held accountable. No charges were found against Puzik.
The families and friends of the fallen drone operators didn’t back down and began writing to the country’s leading propagandists, demanding action. It ended with Vladimir Solovyov, the host of one of the largest pro-government shows, calling the drone operators “scoundrels” and Puzik a “hero.” He also told the people who had contacted him with their demands to send their personal information so they could be properly dealt with.
The Z-community went into a frenzy. How could it be that Puzik—a murderer and drug dealer—was being protected at the highest levels, while the honor of the ordinary guys who gave their lives for the country had no one to defend it? The mother and the wife of the dead drone operators spoke out, saying they would go to the prosecutor’s office and demand punishment for Solovyov.
How will this end? In the best case, it will end with nothing. But if Solovyov feels slighted, those who attacked him might be publicly punished. Why? Because the families of the drone operators are at the bottom of the social pyramid, the drone operators themselves are on the second level, Puzik is on the third, and Solovyov is on the fourth. If some peasant dares to challenge any samurai, the full wrath of the state apparatus will come crashing down on his foolish head. Because the lower classes must always remember who they are.
The saddest part is that people from the first and second levels of the pyramid often don’t understand how the third, fourth, and fifth levels work. They never come into contact with them, don’t share common acquaintances, and aren’t integrated into the system. They only learn how the world truly works when they clash with the system. And that’s when they realize that someone from the higher level can kill a person from the lower one without facing any consequences. The lower classes face sanctions, while the elites don’t even notice them. If a lower-class person gets cancer, they simply die. But the elite will travel to Germany or Israel for treatment or bring the best specialists straight to Moscow.
It’s a closed system. It’s not something that’s openly discussed, and to understand how it works, you either need to be inside and trusted or conduct a truly investigative effort. The upper echelons of Russian society have no specific name, which is why I refer to them as “samurais”—because no other term really fits. In the Russian Empire, there was the nobility, and in the Soviet Union, there was the party nomenclature, but this is something different. The closest comparison might be the mafia. But we’re not talking about a criminal group that opposes the law and the state. This group is the law and the state.
The Modern Russian Nobility
Now, let’s return to the question asked by my subscriber. The “average Russian” is made up of people from the first two categories. Their moral values can vary widely. Among them, you’ll find both criminals and alcoholics, as well as wonderful, kind-hearted, and empathetic people.
However, those on the third and fourth levels deserve closer examination, as their sense of morality is largely shaped by their constant struggle to survive and maintain their privileges. Entering this class is incredibly difficult: you’re either born into it, or you need someone who already has access to state resources to take you under their wing and give you a share of the wealth.
For example, I know a charming and witty man who was given a news agency in a provincial city. He didn’t buy it — it was just handed to him because a government official who controlled it enjoyed spending time with this man.
Another example: my acquaintance, let’s call her Sveta, was born and raised in a small provincial town. One day, she came to Moscow to “ride the escalators in the metro.” Her friend, who worked as a teller in a bank, fell ill and asked Sveta to fill in for her. Sveta was smart, good with numbers, and very attractive.
Within five years, she became the deputy director of that bank. I don’t know how she managed it, but the result was a luxury apartment in Moscow, a house in Spain, and a huge mansion in her hometown.
Sveta admitted that her boss promoted her. He would often yell at her and vent his anger, fully aware that Sveta had nowhere else to go. Her choice was simple: either endure the abuse from her feudal lord or lose everything. Switching jobs wasn’t an option. People at her level don’t work for salaries. They receive enormous bonuses, but only if their boss decides they deserve it. And you can’t just switch clans: foreign samurai are never welcome.
Sveta’s boss was a vassal of a high-ranking official in the government. He was treated the same way — yelled at and walked all over. That’s why he drinks. The official in the government, in turn, meets with Putin and, one would imagine, gets the same treatment.
I can confidently say that the Russian company in London, where my subscriber worked, was full of people like Sveta. It’s a highly prestigious job, and you can only get it if someone with influence is backing you within the system. Alternatively, you might be someone’s child who has grown up in this environment, understands the rules from the start, and sees it as the only viable path forward.
The Morals of the Russian Elite
The most important thing: a vassal cares only about what their lord and the other vassals in their clan think of them. Their life and their family’s well-being depend on their affiliation with a powerful clan, which is why they will serve it with everything they’ve got.
This way of life creates a unique worldview. Remember: a samurai can easily decapitate a peasant or a foreigner because they don’t see them as their own. They trust no one but their own, and view deception of outsiders as a tactical maneuver.
Such people do not see themselves as immoral. Their morality just looks different. You are considered a virtuous person if you serve your boss loyally, the one who pulled you out of poverty or gave you the opportunity to earn money that others can only dream of. You do whatever you’re told, even if it involves theft, forgery, and the total loss of your reputation.
Take Vasily Nebenzya, Russia’s Permanent Representative to the United Nations. Every time he speaks, he lies and humiliates himself. But that’s okay because if he doesn’t, he, his family, and his own vassals would lose everything.
People like Nebenzya never forget where they came from and what they owe their feudal lord. If their conscience starts to trouble them, they simply drink or take a trip to the Maldives. After all, they’ve got the money.
Are there examples of members of Russia’s unofficial nobility who refuse to play along because of their principles? Yes, there are. Cultural icons like singer Alla Pugacheva and her husband, comedian and TV presenter Maxim Galkin, left Russia after the invasion of Ukraine. They lost access to their property in Russia and the ability to earn money there. Maxim was branded a “foreign agent,” making him a persona non grata. Now, Alla has retired, and Maxim tours countries with large Russian immigrant communities.
The same happened to Alexander Nevzorov, a film director and former member of the Russian State Duma. He was once very wealthy and successful, but when he spoke out against the war in Ukraine, he lost everything. Now, he runs a YouTube and Telegram channels with millions of subscribers, offering his sharp wit and sarcasm to the social media world.
So, the price for any kind of rebellion is extremely high. Essentially, you sacrifice your entire life and the lives of those close to you. Not everyone in the Russian nobility can appreciate what Pugacheva, Galkin, or Nevzorov did. For many, Nebenzya remains a noble and selfless figure, while those who didn’t support the ultimate lord in times of trouble are seen as nothing but traitors.
There’s another important point: many people from the Russian nobility confuse the concept of “Motherland” with “my boss.” They say, “The Motherland gave me everything! I love my Motherland so much.” In reality, “everything” came from a very specific source. And their love for the Motherland certainly doesn’t extend to the lower classes, whom they either exploit directly or completely ignore.
For example, a police chief might easily order his subordinates to beat peaceful protesters with batons. Fellow citizens demanding honest elections don’t fall into his idea of “Motherland.” So, what does? His own clan, his position and lifestyle, and his higher-ups.
The Propaganda Queen
One way to illustrate this is by looking at the biography of one of Russia’s top propagandists, Margarita Simonyan. Here’s what she said about her childhood: “We had one tap for five families, outside. There was one rotting hole in the yard, a toilet. Also shared by five families. Naturally, because of these awful conditions, we had rats. You’d come home, and the first thing you’d see was a rat running from under the cupboard to the sofa.”
Margarita has often said in interviews that from a young age, she dreamed of rising out of poverty and helping her family escape it. And she succeeded.
First, by covering the Chechen War and the Beslan school siege in the way the Kremlin demanded. Survivors of that terrorist attack later said that after her lies in the news, the terrorists stopped giving water to the children — and there were over a thousand of them. After that, Margarita caught the attention of Alexey Gromov, Putin’s press secretary at the time, and her career skyrocketed.
Suddenly, Margarita became the editor-in-chief of the propaganda network Russia Today, with offices all over the world and a multi-million-dollar budget. She was just 25, with zero managerial experience.
How did this happen? Simple — an influential feudal lord from the fourth tier of the social pyramid took her in as a vassal. And for this favor, she had to sell her soul to the devil. But the devil is generous — Margarita and her husband get millions from the kormushka.
Does Margarita see herself as an immoral person? Probably not. She loves her “Motherland” dearly and serves those who gave her a chance in life. As for what the rest of the world thinks about her, she couldn’t care less.
P.S. Why Are Russians So Rude?
There’s one more thing I need to address, and it’s in response to the question, “Why are Russians so rude?” When we speak in English, we first construct the sentence in our minds in our native language and then translate it. For example, if my friend complains that his flowers aren’t growing in the garden, I’d tell him, “You need to water them more often.” In Russian, this phrase sounds completely neutral. But I was told that this kind of phrasing is unacceptable because it sounds like a command. Instead, you should say, “The flowers need more water,” and that’s how it becomes polite.
I’m not sure if this is true, but since that conversation, I’ve become very self-conscious about how I phrase things. So, if you feel like I’m being rude, please know it’s unintentional. And the same goes for other Russians as well.
