Russia, a Nation Unable to Break Free from Suffering

俄罗斯，一个无法从苦难中走出的民族

By Sun Liping (孙立平)

【Editor’s Note: Sun Liping explores Russia's historical and cultural entanglement with suffering, delving into its vast resources juxtaposed with perpetual hardship. He attributes this paradox to authoritarian governance, cycles of revolution, and relentless wars that have shaped the nation’s trajectory. Russian literature, epitomized by works like Ilya Repin's Barge Haulers on the Volga, reflects a profound engagement with suffering rooted in the nation’s historical burden. Sun critiques Russia’s fixation on buffer zones, highlighting how its insecurity stems from deep-seated hostility toward the outside world rather than tangible threats. He draws parallels to the Soviet Union's collapse, spotlighting the book Revolution from Above (《来自上层的革命》), which argues that elite-driven self-interest, rather than systemic flaws or Western intervention, precipitated the disintegration. Sun underscores the need for nations like Russia to reconcile with their past while forging a pragmatic path forward, avoiding cycles of resentment and insecurity.】

Someone recently asked me, “Professor Sun, why have you become so fascinated with Russia lately?” I replied that I was merely studying its history. Yet deep down, I pondered a more profound question: Why does an entire nation seem unable to escape the entanglements of suffering?

Fyodor Dostoevsky (陀思妥耶夫斯基) once said he had but one fear: that he might fail the suffering he had been given to bear. Russia seems to embody such a plight—forever hovering on the brink of hardship, unable to break free.

Russia, sprawling across 17.07 million square kilometers, has fewer than 150 million inhabitants. Admittedly, two-thirds of its territory is the desolate Siberian region, inhospitable to farming and herding. Yet, from a modern vantage point, those lands are saturated with nearly inexhaustible resources. This reality compels us to wonder: How has a land so abundant engendered a people seemingly destined to wrestle with perpetual hardship?

To call Russia’s resource reserves astonishing would be an understatement. It is said that Russia’s variety of natural endowments accounts for some twenty-one percent of the world’s total, boasting proven deposits that surpass all others.

There is a popular quip that this country needs only to guard its borders to possess virtually everything.

And yet, these riches have failed to deliver commensurate well-being to the people of that land. The machinery of authoritarian power and brutal governance has fashioned an oppressive and suffocating climate; revolutions and turmoil recur in unceasing cycles, tormenting these expanses; and incessant wars, both domestic and foreign, repeatedly plunge its citizens into torrents of bloodshed and death. Even at the empire’s zenith, the result was little more than arrogance and despotic rule among those at the top rather than peace or prosperity among ordinary folk. Suffering, it seems, has become the inescapable fate of this nation.

Indeed, even the occasional glimmers of hope in Russian history have amounted to no more than yet another iteration in a seemingly endless cycle.

On Tasting Hardship and the Inescapable Past

Our encounter with Russian culture mostly comes through its literary works.

When reading Russian literature, one often feels a gentle stirring in the deepest chambers of the heart—that unflinching exploration of suffering. Russian letters resemble Ilya Repin’s Barge Haulers on the Volga (列宾《伏尔加河上的纤夫》), enveloped in weight and oppressiveness. Even in scenes of merriment, an ineffable sorrow seems to linger. In short, what most distinctly characterizes Russian literature is its depiction of affliction.

Someone once remarked: “Russian literature does not arise from the impulses of creative joy, but from the people’s suffering and profound destiny, and from reflections on the redemption of all humankind.”

Lenin (列宁) said that to forget the past is to betray it. Yet, how can one stride toward the future without surpassing the burdens of yesteryear? Many nations across the globe have weathered tribulations; the pivotal question is whether they manage to cast off those shackles.

Consequently, there is no shortage of individuals like Dugin (杜金), with their staunch nationalistic fervor. They are mired in nostalgia for an imperial golden age, pinning their hopes on a hazy fantasy of the future while neglecting to plant their feet in the present.

Not long ago, a commenter on one of my articles wrote: “The Vikings have long since traded plunder for high-tech pursuits; the Byzantine Empire, once vanished, has splintered into small countries that now dwell in relative peace; the Mongol Empire laid down its scimitars before modern firearms, devoting itself to herding.” Around the world, many peoples have endured hardship—or seen their grand glories fade—yet Russia appears incapable of emerging from the gloom, nor do we see any genuine yearning for the light of day.

Some might ask whether the past should be forgotten.

A while ago, I stumbled on a short video: the blogger (博主) asks a young woman with a master’s degree about her country’s former fierce struggles with the United States and why their nations are now so close. How did her history textbooks portray America? She replied that their curriculum teaches them never to forget the tremendous sacrifice their forebears made for freedom and independence. However, those conflicts belong to the past and should not entrap contemporary citizens in a cycle of hatred. The emphasis now is on the future—on development and cooperation—and that is paramount.

Perhaps it comes as no surprise that this young woman was from Vietnam, a country that has been ravaged by war. The central issue lies in finding an inner harmony between history and reality: giving history its due respect while ensuring present-day decisions remain sensible.

Resentment and the Sense of Insecurity

Today, the world rarely sees a nation more fixated on establishing buffer zones than Russia. Whether during the era of the Tsars, the Soviet Union, or modern-day Russia, this pursuit has never ceased. In Europe, Ukraine and Belarus serve as buffers; toward the Caucasus, it is Azerbaijan, Armenia, and Georgia; and in Central Asia, the five nations—Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, and others—fill this role. Indeed, even the invasion of Ukraine was partly justified by talk of securing another buffer.

All this stems from a deeply ingrained sense of insecurity within Russia.

Why is Russia, out of so many nations, so uniquely troubled by such fears? One explanation is that its vast territory lacks natural boundaries, prompting ceaseless expansions to form buffer zones—a way of turning foreign soil into the battlefield in the event of war and sparing one’s homeland from the ravages of conflict.

But in modern times, this reasoning rings somewhat hollow. Security issues certainly remain—Ukraine’s predicament is one example—but for a nuclear-armed superpower, the conventional threats of national ruin or existential peril are no longer imminent. Who would dare provoke such a state absent its own provocations?

Look again at the invasion of Ukraine. One rationale offered was NATO’s eastward expansion. Yet even President Macron of France famously declared NATO “brain dead” prior to the outbreak of the Russia–Ukraine war. Could an alliance on the verge of “brain death” truly pose a dire threat? While NATO’s eastward push is real, what primarily drove that expansion? Was it a concerted menace aimed at Russia or an attempt by Eastern European states—shaped by history and reality—to safeguard themselves? By contrast, in North America, neither Canada nor Mexico feels similarly imperiled. Such questions are worth reflecting on.

Ultimately, Russia’s alleged security dilemma has a deeper source.

The real culprit is a deeply embedded hostility toward the surrounding world, born in part from ideological strife and in part from lingering historical grudges. Entrenched in the past, a nation can slip into despair, resentment, and animosity, exacerbating its insecurities—forever imagining enemies lurking on every border. Yet the more intensely one chases security, the stronger one’s sense of insecurity becomes.

The Russia–Ukraine war has raged for nearly three years. Some commentators posit that, cornered by economic collapse and mired in the quagmire of war, Russia—composed of eighty-nine constituent entities—might soon face the risk of a second disintegration.

A Financial Times analysis suggests that the war has laid bare the fragility of Russian unity, revealing deep fissures. Under these conditions, separatist forces—already harboring little affinity for the dominant Russian ethnicity—are sure to resurface, making another breakup merely a matter of time.

This naturally recalls events from thirty-three years ago. Opinions on why the Soviet Union disintegrated generally fall into three categories: first, that the old system’s irreparable flaws made collapse inevitable; second, that Gorbachev’s (戈尔巴乔夫) reforms backfired, chiefly because he let ideology slip from his grasp; and third, that Western sabotage was the deciding factor.

Then, in 1997, a remarkable book titled Revolution from Above (《来自上层的革命》, original title) appeared, offering a startling thesis: the above explanations miss the crucial point. The real key was that a handful of “national elites,” seeking to safeguard their own interests, joined the “pro-capitalist” camp and steered the entire process.

This book is significant in at least five ways:
• It overturns established thinking:

Its central argument runs counter to familiar historical narratives that claim “the people create history.” How could it hinge on “elites?” Yet the text lays out rigorous surveys and detailed data. For instance, a late-1980s study showed Soviet economists were even more supportive of privatization than their Western counterparts. Another poll from June 1991 indicated that the upper echelons of Soviet society scarcely endorsed the existing system, while ordinary citizens, according to broader public opinion, generally favored preserving it.

• Facts validate its thesis:

In 2006, the book was updated to include a study of contemporary Russia and republished as From Gorbachev to Putin: The Russian Road (《从戈尔巴乔夫到普京的俄罗斯道路》). The logic grows more persuasive: subsequent events—particularly the “auctioning off” of the Russian economy, which made the elites genuinely wealthy—seem to confirm the authors’ original judgment, namely that even though those elites had benefited from the old system, they believed they could plunder resources more freely and securely by shifting gears. Few accepted its conclusions when Revolution from Above was first published in 1997. Over time, however, it won ever-wider recognition, explaining why it has continued to be reissued.

• Objectivity:

Approaches driven by ideology often err by letting position overshadow facts. Hence, any prior analysis warrants a degree of caution. After all, whether one “should” or “should not” break up the Soviet Union is a value-based question, whereas why it broke up is an academic inquiry. This book refrains from lengthy ideological discourse, focusing squarely on why disintegration happened.

• An author pairing of expert and journalist:

One co-author, David Kotz (大卫·科兹), is a professor of economics at the University of Massachusetts and a noted authority on Soviet affairs; the other, Fred Weir (弗雷德·威尔), is a renowned political journalist based in Moscow. Their combined theoretical expertise and on-the-ground insights lend the work its persuasive heft. Both have long studied the transformations of the Soviet system and witnessed the entire collapse firsthand. This book is the product of their sustained collaboration, observation, and inquiry.

This translation is an independent yet well-intentioned effort by the China Thought Express editorial team to bridge ideas between the Chinese and English-speaking worlds. The original text is available here:

Cangshan Nightly Whispers (苍山夜语) December 30, 2024

Kindly attribute the translation if referenced.