Putin’s War of Make-Believe: How to Lose a Country and Still Call It Victory

 

Three years after his “three-day war,” Putin stands knee-deep in ashes, applauding his own disaster. The only thing he’s conquered is truth—and even that, like his army, is retreating fast. As the old proverb goes, a man who rides a tiger is afraid to dismount — because the tiger is hungry too. Putin’s tiger is hungry indeed. And it’s starting to turn around.

Some people are so far behind in a race that they start celebrating like they’re winning. Vladimir Putin has become the poster boy of that delusion. When he ordered the invasion of Ukraine in February 2022, he thought it would be a three-day joyride to Kyiv. The script was simple: topple Zelensky, install a puppet, and parade his tanks through Independence Square while the world trembled. Three years later, the only thing parading across Ukraine is death, debris, and the rusting remains of Russian tanks. The great conqueror has become the great pretender.

Putin’s “special military operation” has turned into a special humiliation marathon. His dream of blitzkrieg became a long, blood-soaked quagmire. Instead of capturing Kyiv, he captured global condemnation. Instead of destroying Ukraine, he managed to destroy the illusion of Russian military superiority. The Kremlin that once bragged about “invincibility” now begs Iran for drones and North Korea for ammunition. Imagine that — a nuclear power scrounging the world’s scrapyard for bullets like a bankrupt gangster borrowing lunch money from his enemies.

Let’s call this war what it is: Putin’s vanity project gone feral. The man wanted to carve his name into history; instead, he has burned it into infamy. He planned to take Kyiv in three days, but three years later, Ukraine is striking deep inside Russia, hitting airbases and refineries with the kind of precision that mocks Moscow’s might. Even Putin’s air defense systems seem to have joined the opposition — sleeping through drone attacks that explode above his own territory. That’s not strategy; that’s slow-motion suicide disguised as patriotism.

The numbers tell a story so grim even Soviet-era propagandists would have trouble spinning it. Russia has lost nearly a million soldiers dead, wounded, or missing. Thousands of tanks have been reduced to flaming metal carcasses. Whole battalions have vanished like smoke over the Donbas. Russian families bury their sons in silence, while Putin’s TV anchors still talk about “victory.” It’s like watching the captain of the Titanic announce that the ship is performing “a planned underwater maneuver.”

The economic fallout is no less devastating. Russia bleeds billions daily to keep its war machine alive. Sanctions have crushed its industrial backbone, turning once-proud factories into ghost yards. The ruble gasps for breath while inflation devours ordinary Russians’ savings. Putin once boasted that sanctions were “ineffective”; now even sugar costs a fortune, and vodka feels like liquid gold. The Russian economy today looks like an old Lada running on borrowed fuel — noisy, slow, and one bump away from collapse.

And yet, the Kremlin continues its charade. State TV calls every lost town a “tactical retreat.” Every dead general is “heroically immortalized.” Every Ukrainian victory is dismissed as “Western propaganda.” Putin’s regime lives in a make-believe world where failure is success, and reality is treason. He reminds me of a magician whose tricks stopped working years ago, but he keeps waving his wand, hoping the crowd won’t notice the rabbit’s corpse on the floor.

Meanwhile, Zelensky — the man Putin wanted to erase — has become the symbol of resistance for an entire generation. Under his leadership, Ukraine not only survived but struck back. Their missiles now pierce Russian skies, their drones hum over Russian oil fields, and their soldiers fight with a conviction Moscow’s conscripts can only dream of. Ukraine has turned its wounds into weapons, its tears into strategy. That is the true irony: the smaller nation now dictates the tempo of a war started by the giant who thought himself unstoppable.

What’s even more absurd is Putin’s current alliances. He leans on Iran for drones, on North Korea for shells, and on China for awkward silence. It’s the geopolitical version of calling the school bullies for backup after realizing you’ve picked a fight you can’t win. These aren’t allies; they’re scavengers circling a wounded bear. Russia, once feared, is now pitied — a country too proud to admit it’s broke, too broken to stop pretending it’s proud.

Inside Russia, the whispers are growing louder. Families mourn quietly, afraid to speak. Mothers of dead soldiers receive medals instead of explanations. Dissenters vanish, journalists flee, and citizens pretend loyalty out of fear, not faith. The Kremlin can censor words, but it can’t censor hunger. It can silence protests, but it can’t silence empty wallets. A regime can survive bullets, but it can’t survive boredom — and Russians are tired of watching the same tragic rerun: one man’s obsession costing millions their future.

If history has a sense of humor, it must be laughing now. Napoleon thought he could freeze Europe into submission; Hitler thought he could outmarch time; and Putin thought he could rewind the Soviet clock. Each believed they were destined for glory — each ended up a cautionary tale. The difference is that Putin’s tale is still unfolding, and it’s being written not by historians but by the very people he tried to conquer. Ukraine is the pen; Russia is the ink.

Putin keeps claiming victory, but his empire of lies is collapsing under its own weight. Every missile he fires is a confession of insecurity. Every speech he gives is a lullaby for a dying dream. He thinks he’s making Russia great again, but what he’s really making is a museum exhibit of failed autocrats. History won’t remember his speeches or his medals. It will remember his silence — the silence of a man who mistook destruction for dominance.

The truth is simple and brutal: Putin has lost more than a war. He has lost the illusion of fear that once protected him. He has lost the moral legitimacy that once fooled even his allies. And worst of all, he has lost the ability to tell when the applause stopped. He stands on the stage alone, smiling into the darkness, convinced the show isn’t over — when in fact, the curtain fell long ago.

The Russian people deserve better than this charade. They deserve a leader who doesn’t confuse power with paranoia. They deserve a future not mortgaged to a dictator’s delusion. But dictators never read the room; they only listen to the echo of their own lies. As the old proverb goes, a man who rides a tiger is afraid to dismount — because the tiger is hungry too.

Putin’s tiger is hungry indeed. And it’s starting to turn around.