Putin's authoritarian paranoia turns wealth into a crime punishable by defenestration—Russia's oligarchs are falling not because of gravity, but because of their dissent.
Another
day, another Russian businessman falls from a window—how many floors must one
fall before we recognize a pattern that is anything but coincidental? Mikhail
Rogachev's recent death is just one in a series of mysterious demises among
Russian oil bosses, marking what seems like a twisted competition for the
world’s most fatal exit from a building. But unlike an unfortunate fall during
cleaning day, these deaths carry a significant political undertone. Indeed, the
tragic saga of Russian oil bosses “falling” to their deaths seems to follow an
ominous rhythm of power, wealth, and a dictator's wrath.
It
should come as no surprise that Putin’s authoritarian regime views wealth
outside its immediate control as a threat. Rogachev, a former vice-president of
Yukos, died after a reported "suicide" from his tenth-floor
apartment. This explanation is about as credible as a three-dollar bill,
especially when it follows a familiar script—a wealthy businessman critical of
Kremlin policies, an “accidental” fall, and a hasty police statement blaming
the victim's state of mind. Such convenient “suicides” might work in an Agatha
Christie novel, but they defy the scrutiny of real-world logic. And let’s not
forget, Rogachev is not the only one who has met this untimely fate. Ravil
Maganov, former chairman of Lukoil, supposedly leaped from a hospital window
while being treated for a heart condition. This, after Lukoil's public
criticism of Putin's invasion of Ukraine in early 2022. Now, that’s what one
might call a hazardous workplace environment—having opinions.
It
doesn’t end with Maganov or Rogachev. From Leonid Shulman to Alexander
Tyulakov, a staggering number of executives tied to Russian energy companies
have turned up dead since the onset of the Ukraine war. In January 2022, Leonid
Shulman, a high-ranking Gazprom executive, was found dead in his bathroom with
a suicide note nearby. Just weeks later, Alexander Tyulakov, another Gazprom
executive, met his end in his garage, only a day after the Russian invasion of
Ukraine began. Since then, there have been at least fifty deaths that could be
classified as suspicious, many of them linked to Gazprom, Russia’s energy
behemoth. These are not just numbers—they are calculated erasures of dissent
within the Kremlin's power structure.
For
an authoritarian leader like Putin, power must be centralized. The oligarchs of
the 1990s who once ran Russia like their private fiefdoms have since been
replaced or eliminated, their fate sealed by their unwillingness to submit
completely. Those who remain must tow the party line or face the abyss, quite
literally. Those like Maganov, who dared to oppose the Ukrainian invasion, are
especially vulnerable. Lukoil, Russia's second-largest oil producer, made a
rare public statement urging an end to the invasion. Shortly after, its top
executives began falling like dominoes—Maganov from a hospital window, and
Alexander Subbotin after a bizarre shamanic ritual involving toad poison. It
seems the Kremlin’s message is clear: question the invasion, and your days are
numbered.
This
isn't just about oligarchs or their oil empires—it's about a broader, chilling
trend of eliminating potential opposition before it even forms. Remember Pavel
Antov, a vocal critic of the war in Ukraine? He was found dead after falling
from a hotel window in India on Christmas Eve. Yuri Voronov, CEO of Astra
Shipping, was found shot dead in his swimming pool. Anatoly Gerashchenko, the
former head of the Moscow Aviation Institute, fell down a flight of stairs in
the institute's headquarters. These are not the unfortunate mishaps of men with
poor balance—these are power plays designed to instill fear and suppress
dissent before it can gain momentum.
It’s
almost comical—if it weren’t so tragic—how these deaths are inevitably ruled as
suicides or accidents. David Satter, an expert on Russian affairs, put it
succinctly when he said, "Anyone can commit a murder, but it takes brains
to commit a suicide." The ambiguity surrounding these deaths has become a
genre of its own in Russia, where any critique of Putin can land one in front
of an open window. Just ask the doctors who dared to criticize the Russian
government’s handling of COVID-19 and ended up mysteriously falling from
high-rise hospitals in the early days of the pandemic. Apparently, gravity has
a certain affinity for Russian dissidents.
What
makes these cases so egregious is not just the violence, but the systematic
silencing of critics that they represent. Whether it’s journalists like Anna
Politkovskaya, who was gunned down in her apartment building, or businessmen
like Boris Berezovsky, found hanging in his home in the UK, Putin has made it
clear that there’s no escaping his reach. Political assassinations are not an
anomaly in Russia—they’re a tradition, a grim fixture of the state apparatus.
The KGB may be long gone, but its ethos lives on in today’s Russian Federation.
This
brings us to a cautionary note for those outside of Russia. In America, we're
not immune to the allure of authoritarian tactics. We’ve seen a rise in
political violence, increasing hostility towards journalists, and even
mainstream politicians questioning the legitimacy of dissent. It starts
small—curbing freedoms in the name of national security, undermining elections,
or painting political opponents as enemies of the state. Before long, you find
yourself looking at a window, wondering if gravity might have suddenly acquired
a political preference. The stories coming out of Russia should serve as a
stark warning: this is where the path of unchecked power leads. Today it's
Putin’s critics falling from windows; tomorrow it could be anyone daring to dissent.
But
perhaps there’s something poetic about it all—Putin’s regime proclaims its
strength and dominance, yet is so fragile that even the opinions of businessmen
must be silenced through “accidents.” A proverb comes to mind: "A drowning
man will clutch at straws." In Putin’s case, the drowning man clutches not
at straws, but at power, stifling all dissent to keep himself afloat,
regardless of how many lives are lost. It's as if Putin has written his own
version of Newton's laws: for every action against the state, there is an equal
and terminal reaction.
And
so, the curtain falls, sometimes literally, on yet another opponent of the
Kremlin. Whether they are journalists, doctors, oil executives, or activists,
the message remains consistent—step out of line, and gravity will do the rest.
To the outside world, these deaths might seem like random tragedies. But to
those paying attention, it’s an unmistakable signature of a leader who cannot
afford to be opposed. In Russia, windows are not for letting in light—they are
for pushing out the shadows of dissent. One can only hope that America doesn’t
take a similar plunge into such darkness, lest we find ourselves looking down
from heights we never thought we would fall from.
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