← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
Putin and Russia's new normal
00:27:58
President Putin's popularity is beginning to wane as the country's economy falters.
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Podcast Host
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BBC Reporter
Hello. Today we're in Japan amid protests in major cities as the country shifts away from its pacifist constitution and where the past is casting a long shadow. In Serbia, we hear the story of a woman who found herself at the center of a national tragedy and her subsequent subsequent fight for justice. And we're in Canada, where robots are on patrol in the Arctic Circle, but do they really have the edge over their human counterparts? But first to Moscow, where the Kremlin has recently increased security measures around President Vladimir Putin after a string of assassinations of top Russian military figures. Mr. Putin has been seen less in public view, with fewer of his usual pronouncements of military successes and projections of strength. The government's also imposed Internet restrictions in recent weeks, fuelling public discontent, but the authorities say it's a necessary step in countering drone attacks. And as Russia marks Victory Day across the country commemorating the Soviet defeat of the Nazis, today's parade in Moscow has been scaled back amid fears it could be targeted. Steve Rosenberg has observed the shift in
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Steve Rosenberg
the country's mood on several occasions recently, I've seen things which have made me think something rather unusual is happening right now inside Russia. For example, on my way to work at 6 o' clock in the morning a couple of times now, I've spotted heavily armed police removing manhole covers in the center of Moscow and with the help of sniffer dogs, inspecting what's below on bridges near the Kremlin I've seen masked soldiers armed with anti drone guns that are set up on the back of trucks. They're ready and waiting in case the heart of Russian power comes under aerial attack. But perhaps the most surprising thing I've seen is a joke. It appeared in Kamsomolskoe Pravda, a popular tabloid that is fiercely loyal to the authorities, a very pro Putin paper. And the joke went like we proudly present a new modern Russian Alphabet for our new reality. Printed below that was what looked like a regular Russian Alphabet. It certainly began like a be ve. But when I took a closer look, I realized there was a hidden message in the jumble of characters. The remaining letters of this odd Alphabet spelt out the following Crazy. When will this all be over? When will this all be over? Is just one of many similar questions I hear being asked more and more in Russia about so many aspects of life. When will the special military operation be over, people ask. A sign of the growing fatigue with Russia's war on Ukraine. When will food prices, gas and electricity bills finally stop rising? When will restrictions to our Internet come to an end? Just across from the Kremlin, I can see something unusual happening. Outside the presidential administration building. Several dozen people are queuing up to submit a petition. They're calling on Vladimir Putin to end Internet censorship in Russia. They oppose the shutdowns to mobile Internet, which are now commonplace in many parts of the country. They criticize the government's decision to restrict access to popular messaging apps like WhatsApp and Telegram. On paper, at least, what they're doing here, petitioning the president is completely legal. Russia's constitution enshrines the principle of free speech. But in an increasingly authoritarian Russia, publicly opposing government policy is not without risk. I can see that security officers with smartphones are. Are videoing the petitioners. Among the people who've signed the petition and come to hand it in is Boris Nadezhdin. The opposition politician is a former Russian MP and local councillor. Boris tried to run against Vladimir Putin in the 2024 presidential election, but was barred from participating. He senses that something important has changed in Russia. People begin to understand, Boris tells me, that there is a direct connection between their everyday problems like health care, food prices, problems with Internet, and the politics of Vladimir Putin. And this is a new situation in Russia. But what is the consequence of that? I ask. Is there any consequence? After all, President Putin holds all the power in this country. There are no major protests. Boris responds to my question with a history lesson. A lot of people say to me, what can we do, we can do nothing, Boris says. But I've seen the same situation before. In the 1980s, many people said to me, the Soviet Communist Party will last forever. It didn't, of course. The Soviet Communist Party and the Soviet Union itself turned out to have a limited shelf life. Both collapsed and were consigned to history more than three decades ago. A cautionary tale, perhaps, for any Russian president and any political system here. Over his more than a quarter of a century in office, Vladimir Putin has amassed more personal power than any Russian leader since dictator Joseph Stalin. But today, there seems to be growing pressure on the President and on the system that has been constructed around him. President Putin's so called special military operation has not gone at all to plan. Russia's war on Ukraine is now in its fifth year. There is no end in sight. And Russia has suffered massive losses on the battlefield, on the economy. Even Russian state media concede that the country has built up serious problems. What's more, several public opinion agencies, including a state run pollster, have reported a fall in the President's approval ratings. From business figures to bloggers, public criticism of the authorities, and in some cases of the President himself, has become more vocal. There is talk too, of Kremlin clans competing for influence. Among the many unusual things I've witnessed recently are occasional newspaper articles accusing Russia's security agencies of operating a machine of repression, of overzealously pushing excessive restrictions and prohibitions. I've even seen the word persecution used in what is a heavily controlled media environment. It's hard to imagine such stinging criticism making it into print without the backing of some powerful groups. A few months back, Vladimir Putin was being shown on Russian TV in military fatigues, visiting command posts and apparently oozing confidence as he spoke with generals about the war on ukra. Today, we hardly see this Commander in Chief style Putin. It certainly feels like the Kremlin leader is making fewer trips and fewer public appearances. None of this means that Russia's political system is about to collapse and Vladimir Putin disappear from the political stage. Despite all the rumours in the Western press of potential plots and coups in Russia, the Kremlin has very thick walls. It's hard to know for sure what's going on behind them. Still, from what we can see, it seems that as it careers down the highway, the Putin mobile isn't running as smoothly as it once was. The engine is spluttering. Some of the parts may need replacing. The vehicle may require servicing or repair. A key principle of Putinism is always project strength. Under no circumstance show any weakness. That is why, under Vladimir Putin, the Soviet Union's victory in World War II is at the heart of the national idea that the Kremlin has chosen to shape. Russia, President Putin has said, is a nation of victors. And the annual Victory Day parade on Red Square, which in recent years has featured thousands of troops and the latest military hardware has been used to project Moscow's power to the world. But not this year. This year, as I've said, something unusual is happening in Russia, and that includes with Victory Day. This year, the Kremlin has scaled back the parade. For the first time in nearly 20 years. It has said there will be no tanks, no missiles, no hardware rolling across Red Square for security reasons, the authorities say, out of fear that the parade could be targeted by Ukrainian drones. And just in case, additional air defence units have been put in place around Moscow. There are those anti drone gunners by the Kremlin and plans for a local mobile Internet blackout ahead of the parade to disorient and neutralize any potential incoming drones. Moscow has also issued a warning to Kyiv. Attack our parade and will retaliate with a massive strike on the centre of your capital. All of this is designed to reduce the danger to the spectacle of the Red Square parade, but at the same time it creates a separate danger for Vladimir Putin. Scaling back on Victory Day risks being perceived at home and abroad as weakness, and that's not a good look for the system. In a street off Red Square, I chat to passersby about the Kremlin's decision not to include tanks and missiles this year. In the current circumstances, says Yulia, I realise it would be foolish to showcase hardware in case something happens during the parade. But on the other hand, this means that we're afraid of something, and that's not great either. There is a safety issue conceived, Sergei, but parading our military hardware shows our strength on the world stage. Perhaps we should be displaying something in Russia. Unusual has become the new normal. And so have uncertainty and unpredictability. I used to hear many Russians remark that hope is the last thing to die. I haven't heard people say that for a long time. Expressions of optimism now are rare, although you can still find that in some of the jokes in the newspapers. Sort of. For instance, in this one, its a conversation in the kitchen. And what are you doing? She asks. Im looking for happiness, he replies. What, in the fridge at night? Well, he says, it must be somewhere.
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BBC Reporter
Steve Rosenberg Japan has taken a major step away from its post war pacifist stance, lifting long standing restrictions on arms exports and expanding its military role abroad. The government says it's a necessary step in an increasingly tense region, but it's raising alarm. Over recent weeks, there have been protests in major cities across the country. Kurumi Mori reports from Tokyo.
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Podcast Guest
We were driving around the streets of Tokyo in steady soaking rain as we made our way to the protest when we spotted the group gathered at a street corner. Their signs were weathering the downpour, flags hanging heavy with water on them. Just a few words and big, bold Japanese kanji characters that said no war. It's a scene that's becoming increasingly common here. Japan's currently seeing its largest anti war protest in decades. Usually, public protests in Japan tend to be somewhat restrained. There's a strong cultural preference of social harmony and not causing disruption. So when people do take to the streets in numbers, it usually signals something deeper and much more widespread. I've seen it before outside parliament during demonstrations against the restart of nuclear power plants about a decade ago, following the Fukushima nuclear crisis. But this time, the issue is Japan's national identity as a peaceful country. After the Second World War, Japan adopted Article 9 of its constitution, the so called pacifist clause. Now Prime Minister Sanae Takaichi, who took office in October, says that framework no longer reflects reality. Take one look at a map and you'll see that Japan sits in a challenging neighborhood with an assertive China, an unpredictable North Korea and Russia also nearby. And its closest ally, the United States, has been encouraging Tokyo to play a more active security role. Most recently, the Japanese government took a significant step, lifting its long standing ban on exporting lethal weapons. It argued that allies must support one another in what it calls an increasingly severe security environment. That decision has struck a nerve with the Japanese people. Outside the Prime Minister's office in central Tokyo, as the rain suddenly cleared and sunlight broke through, the crowd swelled and the chanting grew louder. This wasn't just an older generation holding onto the ideals of the past. Many in their 20s and 30s were there, too. One woman named Akari Maizono, a freelance actress in her 30s, was holding up these brightly painted paper lanterns, calling for peace. She told me she was angry. Angry that such changes could be made, she said, without properly listening to the public. Nearby, an older gentleman told me that the Japanese constitution must be protected at all costs. He believes it kept Japan from being drawn into past conflicts. Listening to him, I thought of my own grandfather. He experienced the Second World War. He lost his entire family and was the only survivor. And yet, years later, he would spend long stretches visiting us in the United States. He loved New York, Central park, bagels, baseball games at Shea Stadium. For him, it wasn't countries that were the problem. It was war. That feeling still runs deep here. For many, especially those with living memory of conflict or of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki atomic bombings, any shift away from pacifism ignites a big fear that Japan could once again go to war. And that fear is now playing out on the streets. Demonstrations have been spreading beyond Tokyo, with rallies organized in other major cities from Osaka to Kyoto and Fukuoka. Attendance is reportedly growing week by week, with posts on social media driving more people to turn up, especially younger Japanese who feel they have more at stake in what comes next for Japan. They're sharing details of the demonstrations and bringing along their friends. But it's not the whole story. Opinion here is divided. Recent polls point in different directions, with some suggesting growing support for a stronger military, while others show clear resistance to that idea. I was reminded of that split in an unlikely place, a convenience store right across the street from the protests we were at. I walked inside to escape the rain and pick up some tea, and after a moment of indecision, chose a salmon rice ball over pickled plum along with some classic Japanese snacks. At the counter, the cashier noticed my microphone and signaled toward the protesters outside. They're always here, he said with some impatience. Then he added, time for a new Japan. And that is the choice the country now faces. Not as simple as choosing between two of my favorite rice balls, but something way more consequential, whether to hold on to a pacifist identity shaped by the past, or adapt to a more uncertain future and adopt a tougher stance. And in a country where change has often come carefully and slowly, the question now is not just what Japan decides to, but how quickly it's willing to decide it.
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BBC Reporter
Kurumi Mori.
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Steve Rosenberg
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Jill McGivering
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Jill McGivering
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BBC Reporter
Next Serbia has also been experiencing a series of protests over the past year, fueled by anger over alleged government corruption. They began in November 2024, following the collapse of a station roof in the northern city of Novi Sad, which killed 16 people. The tragedy became a lightning rod for public discontent over the lack of government transparency and its drift towards authoritarian rule. Jill McGivering has been to Belgrade to meet a woman whose tragic loss put her at the centre of the political crisis.
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Jill McGivering
My first impression of Diana as she crossed the street to meet me was how slight she looked. I sensed exhaustion, too. She was dressed in baggy tracksuit bottoms, which looked as if they'd seen better days, and a loose top. Her poker straight, bleached blond hair barely reached her shoulders. Her brown eyes were warm and direct. She'd suggested doing the interview in the grounds of her local church, a neutral safe space. Had she done that before? This time, though, church officials had denied permission, saying the interview was too political. She looked taken aback when she heard, then shrugged, annoyed but resigned, and led me instead across the road and through a roughly landscaped stretch of grass surrounded by blocks of flats. We sat on wooden benches by a run down children's playground with rusting swings and climbing frame and a dirty concrete hollow of a sandpit. I'd been warned that it might be difficult to get Diana to talk, that she wasn't someone who showed emotion. In fact, as soon as she started to tell me about her son Stefan, her voice cracked. I saw the tension in her face each time she broke off, clenching her jaw, swallowing hard, trying to hold herself together. At times tears ran unchecked down her cheeks. Until 18 months ago, no one had heard of Diana Herken. A single mum with two sons, she'd scraped a living working in fast food. She got by but couldn't afford to put her sons through college. Stefan, who'd dreamed of working in forestry, had moved to Belgrade, second city Novisad, and at 27 was making his own way. He was the kindest boy, she told me. I was so proud of him. He'd do anything for anyone. There wasn't a bad bone in his body. But on November 1, 2024, catastrophe struck the concrete canopy on the newly renovated railway station at Novisad collapsed, killing 16 people. Stefan was one of them. Diana still remembers the desperate search for information that day, the sick feeling that something terrible had happened when she couldn't contact her son, and later, as she learned the truth, collapsing on the floor, screaming herself hoarse. The deaths weren't just personal tragedies. They soon became a trigger for wider public anger. Diana found herself at the centre of a political storm which rapidly engulfed the country. Critics of Serbia's increasingly repressive ruling party and president poured onto the streets. They viewed the canopy collapse as the latest evidence of widespread corruption and demanded accountability. One of their slogans was we are all under the canopy. Serbia is no stranger to mass protests, but these were the biggest, the most sustained, the the most threatening to the government for decades. Serbia's President Vucic has generally taken a tough line with the protesters and says the protests were fomented by foreign countries. Meanwhile, Diana wanted answers. She wanted justice for Stefan. But as the protests rocked Serbia, she found she was the only one of the bereaved relatives who dared to speak out. She said the others had come under pressure to keep quiet. Last November, one year after the tragedy, when still no one had been held to account, she started a hunger strike outside the parliament building. She says she was threatened and followed. Her surviving son, too, received threats and was told to persuade Deanna to call it off. By now, she was a household name, embraced by critics of the government, harassed and vilified by government supporters. She only gave up the hunger strike after becoming so weak. She was rushed to hospital and warned by doctors of permanent damage to her health. Now, 18 months on since the tragedy of Novi Sad, the wave of mass rallies has subsided. The universities have reopened. Students have gone back to class. An underlying anger persists. But critics and activists are focused on elections now, expected in the next year. The reputation of Serbia's government has been left tarnished. The European Union has rebuked it for what it called democratic decline, including worsening corruption and rule of law. Serbia's plans to join the EU now look less certain. The ruling party and its allies say the allegations are baseless and politically motivated. As for Diana, she is struggling to find work. I asked if she had support from friends from the community here. She shrugged. I have to move house all the time, every couple of months. She said she thinks officials put pressure on her landlords to turf her out. She often goes to Stefan's grave to talk to him and ask his help. She told me. She faltered, and again the tears started to flow. I don't think of him as dead. She went on. I imagine he's still out there somewhere in the skies above.
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BBC Reporter
Jill McGivering and finally, governments around the world are increasingly investing in military robots as the nature of modern warfare evolves. In March, Canada's Prime Minister, Mark Carney announced an investment of 32 billion Canadian dollars in Arctic defences, where robotic surveillance technology is being put to the test in icy temperatures. This is in part a response to Donald Trump's recent sabre rattling over Greenland, along with an increased awareness of Canada's military vulnerability along its vast northern coast. David Bailey has been following one of the trials. But human expertise is still far from becoming obsolete.
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Podcast Host
Bright sun is drenching the ice with a golden light, but any suggestion of warmth is illusory. It's -37 here in Cambridge Bay, an Inuit community high above the Arctic Circle in the indigenously governed Nunavut Territory of Northern Canada. Add a gentle breeze and for a human body, it feels like minus 49. But for Canada's elite Arctic Rangers, it's business as usual. Today there are 10 of them assembled on the frozen seas, readying their high powered snowmobiles. Soon they'll be traveling at speeds that will increase the wind chill and lower the effective temperature to minus 61. They are already halfway through an epic two month and more than 2,700mile patrol across the Canadian Arctic. 31 year old Maya Poirier is one of the two women in the unit. She's yet to put on her full face mask that will protect her from instant frostbite at speed. So her unbridled joy at being part of the patrol is still plain to see. Maja grew up in northern Yukon, wrangling horses over the remote Mackenzie Mountains. Becoming a Canadian Ranger was an obvious career progression. We're the eyes and ears of Canadian defence in the Arctic. Outside of a few small communities, there's no one else for hundreds of miles. I'm always on call, she says. She acknowledges that the effectiveness of the patrol depends on the region's indigenous people with their unique survival skills and navigation knowledge of this extreme wilderness. Along the way, we're joined by a succession of local Inuit rangers. She explains. They're unbelievable. They have such amazing energy and always so gracious and so happy to be guiding us through their lands. From a few hundred metres away across the ice, the patrol's departure is watched wistfully by a local Cambridge Bay Ranger, 66 year old Jimmy Everlick. He's usually a key member of any patrol through his home territory, so his weather beaten face betrays A hint of disappointment as the group disappears into the distance. But this week, Jimmy's local knowledge is needed for another defence project. Positioned in front of him on the ice is a strange articulated eight wheeled robot, bristling with radar and other sensors. The T recon B1 is a prototype and is still a long way from looking remotely military. Its advanced AI driven autonomous design represents the other end of the technological spectrum from Inuits navigating the featureless ice with traditional knowledge. Under Jimmy's curious gaze, a team of scientists from Toronto and Laval University and Tessellate Robotics prepare the strange machine for its first ever trial in such extreme temperatures. Benoit Ricard is an exuberant defence scientist from Defence Research and Development Canada, a branch of Canada's Defence Department. There are no accurate maps here, so our robot needs to create its own using laser sensors and advanced algorithmics, he explains. But the only features here are pressure ridges in the ice, which can change daily. It's a challenge. On top of this, there's the poor and sometimes deliberately jammed GPS signals, not to mention the electric storms, which produce the intense displays of the northern lights, but which could also interfere with the robot's delicate electronics. But Bunwell's relaxed grin tells me he's confident his team will master all of these concerns. Though as the robot heads off, Inuit ranger Jimmy Evelik is just a little more circumspect. So far, they've been doing pretty good, he says. But once it's on its way out on the ocean, it's hard to say. A couple of weeks ago it was minus 65. That's tough for a battery. He winks mischievously. But rangers can't be out on patrol every day, so I guess this will fill the gaps. Despite the substantial Canadian government funding, however, it's hard to see the human skills of the rangers and their indigenous knowledge being replaced anytime soon. I caught up with Maja and her team the next day, having hitched a ride on a Twin Otter aircraft and of the Royal Canadian Air Force. Her enthusiasm was still undimmed by the hard graft of her 13th day on the ice. She knows the difficulties in navigation in this harshest of landscapes, but can see the potential of artificial intelligence and robots. There's a need for both, she says, but that means supporting both science and ensuring the survival of these indigenous communities. It's clear for her, though, that robots will never replace the sheer joy that comes from the physical challenge of mastering one of the hardest journeys on the planet. This is my happy place, she says with a wide smile. As she climbs on a snowmobile. I suspect Happy Place is not a concept. T reycom B1's artificial intelligence will ever compute.
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BBC Reporter
David Bailey and that's all for today, but you can hear more stories from around the world on BBC Sounds. We'll be back again next Saturday morning. Do join us.
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