A wave of arrests in Russia has brought issues of cultural identity, indigenous peoples’ rights, and the economic relationship between the center and the periphery into sharp focus. But why is the Kremlin paying so much attention to these issues in the first place? Regzena Erdyneeva searches for answers.
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In December 2025, human rights activists Daria Yegereva and Natalia Leonhardt were arrested. Both are currently awaiting the court’s decision: they face prison sentences of up to 20 years. Just under half a year later, in May 2026, two more arrests drew attention. This time, those affected were environmental activist Aruna Arna from the Altai Republic in southern Siberia and Rafael Mamedov from Murmansk in the far north of the country. Despite their different backgrounds, these cases have one thing in common: they are linked to initiatives by indigenous communities and decolonial ideas.
To the general public, both in Russia and in German-speaking countries, these events may seem like footnotes. When reports of political repression in Russia appear in Europe, the focus is usually on prominent figures: Alexei Navalny, Vladimir Kara-Mursa, Ilya Yashin, or other well-known opposition politicians. In reality, the scope of politically motivated persecution today extends far beyond the traditional opposition.
People are being detained for criticizing the war against Ukraine in social media posts, as well as environmental and human rights activists, journalists, artists, and even teenagers who have spray-painted graffiti critical of the regime. The boundaries of what can lead to political persecution today are increasingly expanding. A sense of arbitrariness is spreading across the entire country: Repression no longer targets only well-known opponents of the system, but potentially anyone unlucky enough to come under the authorities’ scrutiny. This unpredictability makes it an effective tool of intimidation.
A message for others?
However, the cases of Daria Yegereva and Natalia Leonhardt, as well as those of Aruna Arna and Rafael Mamedov, reveal another dimension of the repression: These proceedings are not primarily about party politics, demands for a change of government, or even open criticism of Russia’s war of aggression against Ukraine. The focus is on issues of cultural identity, indigenous rights, and the economic relationship between the center and the periphery. But why is the state devoting so much attention to these issues in the first place?
At first glance, they hardly seem like the most pressing political challenges for a country at war and facing numerous economic and social crises. The severity of the reaction in particular suggests that this is less about the activists themselves than about the message being sent to others. The state appears to want to make an example of them.
Purbo Dambiev, a historian and writer from Buryatia who lives in exile, says: “We are observing an increasing marginalization of political representatives of Russia’s indigenous peoples. More than a hundred indigenous peoples’ organizations were designated as terrorist groups in 2024. Darya Yegereva and other activists were particularly at odds with coal and oil companies, regional governors, and the security agencies. To me, it seems contradictory that Russia presents itself to the outside world – for example, to many African states that have suffered under European colonialism – as an anti-imperialist or anti-colonial force. The future of many hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of such activists remains uncertain. Some are being extradited to Russia from third countries. Those who remain in the country risk imprisonment, persecution, or even death.”
Identity as a political issue
Many people in Europe still perceive Russia as a largely ethnically homogeneous country. The image of the ‘typical Russian man’ or ‘typical Russian woman’ is deeply ingrained, and people readily resort to stereotypes – that they are Slavic, Orthodox, and Russian-speaking. In reality, however, around 190 ethnic groups live within the Russian Federation. Some of these groups have their own republics within the federal state, while others have no autonomous region.
For many indigenous people, the question of their own identity has long been more than just a cultural matter. It touches on political, social, and historical dimensions as well. What role is left for a minority in a state whose political and cultural norms are predominantly defined by the majority society? What does it mean to preserve one’s own language when it is barely visible in public spaces? And what are the consequences when discrimination becomes so commonplace that it is hardly noticed anymore?
Experiences range from overt forms of exclusion to more subtle mechanisms. For example, housing ads may explicitly target ‘Slavs.’ Prejudice against people who appear ‘non-Slavic.’ The idea that an accent or ‘non-Russian’ name could lead to professional disadvantages. Many activists describe these experiences as the catalyst for their activism.
No unified resistance
Purbo Dambiev says: “Russia has nothing to offer us, neither politically nor socially. We don’t fit into Russia’s nationalist narrative. While accounts of Soviet communism like to point to individual success stories, the vast majority of Buryats lived on kolkhozes, often without passports [meaning without the right to move freely within the country or leave their settlements], under poor conditions, and for wages that violated human dignity. In the cities, they were forced to navigate a foreign cultural environment, while their own culture was often portrayed as backward or inferior.”
Indigenous initiatives by no means represent a unified political position. While some advocate for the preservation of their language and culture within the Russian Federation, others see complete political and territorial independence from the Russian Federation as the only correct path.
Dambiev ads: “I want independence for our people and our own state. No politician in Russia represents our interests. Neither Russia’s official leadership nor left- or right-wing opposition forces take our perspective seriously. On the contrary: All sides occasionally resort to openly racist rhetoric. On social media, I regularly see nationalist and racist comments from ordinary Russians. I do not want to live in the same political and legal space as people who hold such views. In my view, no nationwide referendum in Russia adequately reflects the interests of our people.”
The paradox of repression
The real paradox of these cases, however, lies elsewhere. Neither Daria Yegereva nor Natalia Leonhardt nor Aruna Arna presented themselves as separatists. Rafael Mamedov, too, was not a classic figure in an independence movement. He ran a Telegram channel where he posted content on the history and traditions of the northern region of Lapland, as well as memes. Through their activism, they called neither for a violent overthrow nor for the dissolution of the state of Russia. Why, then, are they facing charges that could result in draconian prison sentences of up to twenty years?
The boundary of what is politically permissible has thus apparently shifted once again. Not only open opposition, but even the mere engagement with issues of indigenous identity, historical memory, and cultural self-determination is increasingly coming under suspicion of extremism.
The severity with which Russia cracks down on such activism also points to something else: authoritarian systems seem to know very well what political power lies in issues of identity, cultural memory, and self-determination. If even discussions about language or indigenous rights are perceived as a massive threat, then these issues are clearly far more than mere cultural policy. Democratic societies, too, must not forget this: issues of cultural participation and historical memory may sometimes seem secondary in day-to-day politics. In the long term, however, they are among the foundations of social stability and democratic legitimacy.