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This article was originally featured in Foreign Policy, the magazine of global politics and ideas.

Russian opposition leader Alexei Navalny has reportedly died in a penal colony in the Arctic Circle, according to the Russian prison service. Navalny was serving a 19-year prison sentence in the penal colony on a range of charges that were widely regarded to be politically motivated. He was 47 years old.

In a short statement, the Yamalo-Nenets prison service said that Navalny felt unwell after a walk at the “Polar Wolf” penal colony and almost immediately lost consciousness. The cause of his death was not immediately clear. Navalny survived a previous attempt on his life in 2020, when he was poisoned with the potent Novichok nerve agent by operatives from the Russian security services. His death is likely to be seen as a political assassination, coming as it does just a month before Russian presidential elections are set to take place.

Navalny’s colleagues have yet to confirm his death. In a statement on X, his press secretary, Kira Yarmysh, said that the opposition leader’s lawyer was en route to the prison.

Charismatic, controversial, and unquestionably brave, Navalny and his team doggedly exposed corruption among the country’s political elite, including by Russian President Vladimir Putin himself. Navalny had a unique ability to speak to the concerns of Russians across the country and to mobilize them to take to the streets.

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Hours after news of his death broke, Navalny’s wife, Yulia Navalnaya, took to the stage at the Munich Security Conference in Germany to offer brief, unscheduled remarks.

“Upon hearing the horrible news, I didn’t know if I should have immediately flown to my family or speak out. But then I thought—‘What would Alexei do?’ and I’m sure he would be here,” said a somber Navalnaya.

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“We cannot believe Putin’s government. They are lying constantly. But if this is the truth, I want Putin and all of those around him, his government, his friends, I want them to know that they will be punished for what they have done with our country, with my family and with my husband, they will be brought to justice,” she said.

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For many, Navalny presented the most credible alternative to Putin, with his hopes of turning Russia into a “normal country,” as he once put it in an interview with ABC News. It was a vision that the Kremlin worked to ensure could never become a reality by steadily extinguishing dissent—and, it seems, eventually Navalny himself.

By all accounts, Navalny had an ordinary Soviet childhood. He was born in 1976 in a small town outside of Moscow, though accounts diverge on where exactly. His mother, Lyudmila, was an economist, and his father, Anatoly, was an officer in the Red Army. His mother has described the young Navalny as a strong-willed child. “It was impossible to discipline him,” she said in an interview with the Russian news site the New Times in 2013. “I remember once that his teacher scolded him for something, and the next day he refused to go to school. ‘I don’t want to be forced to study,’ ” she recalled him saying.

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Summers were spent with his paternal grandparents in the small village of Zalyssia, Ukraine. But his idyllic childhood summers of swimming in the nearby Uzh River came to an abrupt end in 1986, when the nearby Chernobyl nuclear plant melted down, rendering Zalyssia and the wider area uninhabitable and sickening countless of its residents in the process.

The disaster—which the Soviet authorities initially attempted to cover up—was a formative moment for the young Navalny and countless other Soviet citizens, serving as a wake-up call about the very real cost of corruption and incompetence bred by the Soviet regime. He later recalled in an HBO documentary that his family began to discuss politics much more frequently in the wake of the disaster.

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Navalny graduated high school in 1993 as the Soviet Union was rapidly collapsing in on itself. He studied law at the People’s Friendship University of Russia in Moscow, before studying for a master’s degree in finance, graduating in 2001.

As the turbulence of the so-called wild ’90s cleared, the rapid economic growth of the 2000s propelled millions of Russians into the middle class and helped cement the popularity of the new president, Vladimir Putin. Despite a long-standing interest in politics, Navalny’s foray into the Russian stock market was what marked the beginning of his journey to becoming Putin’s most formidable foe.

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Navalny invested in some of the country’s largest banks and energy companies, but when his much-anticipated dividends failed to materialize, he began to realize that something was amiss, as he explained in an interview to the Russian newspaper Kommersant in 2009.

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Fluent in law and finance, Navalny used his position as a minority shareholder to investigate and expose corruption in some of the country’s largest companies—often embarrassing their executives in the process. Combating corruption was an easy point of consensus that bridged class and ideological divides among Russians, and the young and energetic Navalny quickly stood out among the country’s fragmented opposition.

Well educated and intelligent, Navalny was nevertheless not part of the intelligentsia, a fact which only helped broaden his appeal. A skilled political strategist who had an unmatched ability to bring the public out onto the streets, he wasted no time on political philosophy. He could “only disappoint those who expect from him a modicum of theoretical construction: he is a doer, not a thinker,” wrote Russian nationalism expert Marlene Laurelle, as cited the academics Jan Matti Dollbaum, Morvan Lallouet, and Ben Noble’s 2021 biography of Navalny.

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Living in a three-bedroom apartment in southern Moscow with his photogenic wife, Yulia, and their two children, Dariya and Zakhar, he cut a familiar figure, indistinguishable from the millions of other middle-class Muscovites.

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In 2011, Navalny founded the Anti-Corruption Foundation, which would become the principal vehicle for his investigations until 2021, when the Russian authorities branded it an extremist organization and forced it to close. The foundation’s work borrowed from the tradition of investigative journalism as it exposed the staggering corruption of top Russian officials in slick video reports. But unconfined by the impartiality requirements sacred to journalists, Navany harnessed the outrage generated by his work to mobilize Russians to take to the streets.

In the summer of 2017, tens of thousands of young Russians took to the streets after the foundation published a video investigation into the luxury property empire of then-Prime Minister Dmitry Medvedev. The protests spread to almost 200 towns across the country and into the Russian heartland—long thought to be a stronghold of Putin’s support.

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Unsurprisingly for a figure as extremely online as he was, Navalny was most popular among young Russians, according to independent polling from early 2021, cited in Dolbaum, Lallouet, and Noble’s biography. But to the envy of politicians worldwide, the research showed that Navalny enjoyed a similar degree of support from those with and without a college education, as well as from those living in both urban and rural areas. “What population surveys clearly show, therefore, is that Navalny is not just a phenomenon of urban centres in Russia,” Dolbuam and colleagues write.

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Cocky and sometimes crude with a puckish sense of humor, Navaly reveled in the absurdism inherent to authoritarian regimes. He regularly called on his fellow Russians to not be afraid. He revealed powerful Russian officials to be corrupt, but also fallible and therefore mortal. His foundation’s damning investigation into Medvedev began with the former president’s online shopping habit and a pair of garish Nike sneakers that he had delivered to one of his undeclared luxury properties.

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“This investigation, which took us many months, began with an absurd trivial detail—a pair of sneakers and shirt,” Navalny said in a video report of the investigation.

Having spent much of the 1990s in school, Navalny was untainted by the turbulent politics of the period, which is remembered as one of deep trauma by many Russians. While previous generations of Russian liberals embraced the West, neoliberalism, and the Washington consensus, said Michael McFaul, former U.S. ambassador to Russia, Navalny was very much a Russian patriot who once claimed he could never be sent into exile because he would miss Russian black bread.

Amid Kremlin efforts to brand him as a supplicant of Washington, Navalny turned down invitations to meet with the U.S. ambassador, McFaul recalled, out of concern that it would only fuel speculation about his relationship with the United States.

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The question of whether his patriotism veered into harmful nationalism has been the subject of significant debate.

In 2007, he was ejected from the liberal Yabloko party for attending the Russian March, an annual demonstration of far-right and ultranationalist groups. Briefly establishing his own party, Narod (“people”), Navalny released YouTube videos in which he likened Islamic militants to cockroaches, called for the deportation of immigrant workers, and vowed to defend the rights of ethnic Russians in Russia.

While calls for greater immigration controls remained part of his platform, Navalny’s use of more extreme rhetoric seems to have peaked in the late 2000s. More charitable interpretations have suggested that as liberal parties struggled to gain ground, Navalny looked to nationalism as a mobilizing force. As later noted by Al Jazeera, his remarks came as nationalist sentiment was surging in Russia—and so too were hate crimes, with more than 100 people killed in racially motivated attacks in 2008.

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His overtures toward nationalism haunted him for the remainder of his career—causing Amnesty International to revoke his “prisoner of conscience” status in 2021. At the same time, Navalny did little to disavow his past remarks. “My idea is that you have to communicate with nationalists and educate them,” he told the Polish journalist Adam Michnik in 2015.

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One thing that can be said conclusively about Navalny is that he was astonishingly courageous. Mortality is no abstract concept for Russian journalists and opposition figures; dozens, if not hundreds, have been murdered since the end of the Cold War. As he rose to prominence, so too did the authorities’ efforts to silence him through spurious legal claims; the imprisonment of his brother, Oleg; an attempted poisoning; and finally, a lengthy sentence in a penal colony.

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Before he was poisoned with the potentially lethal nerve agent Novichok in 2020, Navalny and many observers of the Russian system came to believe that his fame offered him some protection. “Some years ago I was told that Navalny’s murder was seen in the Kremlin as a kind of nightmare scenario—one that would be seen only as a dangerous kind of provocation that would spark protests,” analysts Tatiyana Stanovaya wrote on the social messaging app Telegram shortly after Navalny was poisoned in August 2020.

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A tightly constrained opposition and occasional street protests were long seen as an important pressure valve for the Kremlin, through which its frustrated subjects could let off steam. Navalny’s poisoning, which was traced back to the Russian security services by investigative journalists at Bellingcat, heralded the beginning of a terrifying new era as the country slid deeper into authoritarianism and international isolation.

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After collapsing on a flight to Moscow, writhing in pain, Navalny was airlifted from the Siberian city of Omsk to Berlin for treatment. He spent months in the small village of Ibach in Germany’s Black Forest, regaining his strength and plotting his return to Russia. Navalny and his team also began working on an extensive investigation into the wealth of the Russian president himself, crossing Navalny’s previous self-imposed red line.

“Alexei used to say that when we write about Putin, it will be our last investigation,” one of Navalny’s unnamed close associates is quoted as saying in his biography.

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Navalny returned to Russia in January 2021 to the near-certain prospect of imprisonment. Surrounded by journalists and news crews, Navalny and his wife, Yulia, spent the flight watching the cartoon Rick and Morty on a laptop, sharing a set of earbuds.

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“I’ve really missed you guys,” he said as he arrived at passport control at Sheremetyevo International Airport, before a cluster of police officers arrived to detain him.

Convicted on a range of charges widely regarded as politically motivated, including one for extremism, Navalny was sentenced to nearly two decades in the Russian penal system. He would never emerge.

At the end of Daniel Roher’s Oscar-winning documentary about Navalny, he asks what message Navalny has for the Russian people in the event that he is killed. “You are not allowed to give up. If they decide to kill me, it means that we are incredibly strong,” he said, looking directly into the camera. “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good people to do nothing. So don’t be inactive,” he added, before giving a wry smile.

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One of Putin’s Biggest Critics Has Died in a Penal Colony. Here’s What He Wanted for Russia.

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16.02.2024
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This article was originally featured in Foreign Policy, the magazine of global politics and ideas.

Russian opposition leader Alexei Navalny has reportedly died in a penal colony in the Arctic Circle, according to the Russian prison service. Navalny was serving a 19-year prison sentence in the penal colony on a range of charges that were widely regarded to be politically motivated. He was 47 years old.

In a short statement, the Yamalo-Nenets prison service said that Navalny felt unwell after a walk at the “Polar Wolf” penal colony and almost immediately lost consciousness. The cause of his death was not immediately clear. Navalny survived a previous attempt on his life in 2020, when he was poisoned with the potent Novichok nerve agent by operatives from the Russian security services. His death is likely to be seen as a political assassination, coming as it does just a month before Russian presidential elections are set to take place.

Navalny’s colleagues have yet to confirm his death. In a statement on X, his press secretary, Kira Yarmysh, said that the opposition leader’s lawyer was en route to the prison.

Charismatic, controversial, and unquestionably brave, Navalny and his team doggedly exposed corruption among the country’s political elite, including by Russian President Vladimir Putin himself. Navalny had a unique ability to speak to the concerns of Russians across the country and to mobilize them to take to the streets.

Advertisement

Hours after news of his death broke, Navalny’s wife, Yulia Navalnaya, took to the stage at the Munich Security Conference in Germany to offer brief, unscheduled remarks.

“Upon hearing the horrible news, I didn’t know if I should have immediately flown to my family or speak out. But then I thought—‘What would Alexei do?’ and I’m sure he would be here,” said a somber Navalnaya.

Advertisement

Advertisement

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“We cannot believe Putin’s government. They are lying constantly. But if this is the truth, I want Putin and all of those around him, his government, his friends, I want them to know that they will be punished for what they have done with our country, with my family and with my husband, they will be brought to justice,” she said.

Advertisement

For many, Navalny presented the most credible alternative to Putin, with his hopes of turning Russia into a “normal country,” as he once put it in an interview with ABC News. It was a vision that the Kremlin worked to ensure could never become a reality by steadily extinguishing dissent—and, it seems, eventually Navalny himself.

By all accounts, Navalny had an ordinary Soviet childhood. He was born in 1976 in a small town outside of Moscow, though accounts diverge on where exactly. His mother, Lyudmila, was an economist, and his father, Anatoly, was an officer in the Red Army. His mother has described the young Navalny as a strong-willed child. “It was impossible to discipline him,” she said in an interview with the Russian news site the New Times in 2013. “I remember once that his teacher scolded him for something, and the next day he refused to go to school. ‘I don’t want to be forced to study,’ ” she recalled him saying.

Advertisement

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Summers were spent with his paternal grandparents in the small village of Zalyssia, Ukraine. But his idyllic childhood summers of swimming in the nearby Uzh River came to an abrupt end in 1986, when the nearby Chernobyl nuclear plant melted down, rendering Zalyssia and the wider area uninhabitable and sickening........

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