In early 2026, the slow-motion crackdown on Russia’s internet finally reached its logical, rather chaotic conclusion. While the disconnection of Elon Musk’s Starlink in February dealt a severe blow to Russian military communications, the real story of the country’s digital isolation is far more complex—and far more revealing of the Kremlin’s internal power struggles. It is a story of technological warfare, an attempt to replace a popular platform with a state-controlled clone, and a censorship system so overloaded it started to collapse under its own weight.

The Durov Affair and the Beginning of the End

For many years, the Kremlin has been rapidly developing Russia’s internet infrastructure. As a result, internet service in major cities, especially Moscow, has reached world-class levels.

At the same time, the Kremlin was pursuing a two-pronged strategy: preserving Russia’s image as a “zone of free information” wherever possible, while quietly building the infrastructure needed to control it. This effort to tighten control has intensified since the start of the war in Ukraine, leading to increased restrictions on Western media and internet platforms.

These restrictions have always been presented as retaliatory measures—a mirror response to European sanctions against Russian outlets such as Russia Today and Sputnik.

The turning point came in August 2025 with the arrest of Pavel Durov at Le Bourget Airport in Paris. The Telegram founder’s detention by French authorities, who demanded access to his platform’s encryption codes, initially cast Moscow in the role of defender of digital freedom. Dmitry Peskov, Putin’s press secretary, famously quipped that while terrorists use Telegram, they also use cars—yet French authorities weren’t arresting auto executives.

However, the Kremlin was convinced that Durov would eventually crack under Western pressure, and the presidential administration ordered officials to scrub their official communications from the platform. The age-old Russian inertia had set in: once the suspicion was planted, the process of restriction became unstoppable.

For a few months, Telegram enjoyed a strange, protected status, largely due to Peskov’s public support. When Musk cut Russia off from Starlink, crippling front-line communications, Telegram became the major and most popular digital lifeline for the military and civilians in contested areas. It was used to communicate with relatives and, critically, to share real-time information about Ukrainian drone incursions—a crowdsourced early warning system that saved lives.

At the same time, Telegram became the primary communication platform for Ukrainian intelligence operatives in Russia, as well as for terrorist and criminal networks. This was unacceptable. An information space that the Kremlin did not fully control—especially during wartime—had become far too dangerous to tolerate.

When Durov formally refused to provide the FSB with access codes, citing the same principles of privacy that led to his arrest in France, the crackdown began. Roskomnadzor, the federal censor, filed complaints, levied fines, and eventually threatened to block the platform. Telegram was officially reclassified from a protected national champion to an «enemy platform» used by saboteurs and terrorists.

Enter MAX: The Son of an Oligarch’s Solution

The war on Telegram was not just about censorship; it was about replacement. Perfectly timed to coincide with the blocking efforts was the aggressive rollout of MAX, a new Russian instant messenger developed by the technology corporation VK—the very company founded by Pavel and Nikolai Durov nearly three decades earlier, long since taken over by Russian internet giants aligned with the state.

VK is now headed by Vladimir Kiriyenko, and his pedigree explains everything about MAX’s purpose. He is the son of Sergei Kiriyenko, the First Deputy Chief of Staff of the Presidential Administration and one of the most powerful kingmakers in the Kremlin. It was Sergei Kiriyenko who, as Prime Minister in 1998, introduced Vladimir Putin to the FSB staff, setting in motion the chain of events that led to Putin’s rise. Today, the elder Kiriyenko controls Russia’s domestic policy, including elections, youth outreach, and, crucially, information policy and social media.

In 2015, Kiriyenko established the Internet Development Institute (IDI), a platform designed to consolidate the digital agenda. IDI’s mission—promoting «spiritual and moral values» and «civic identity» among the young—was always a euphemism for creating a pipeline of state-friendly content. Now, IDI has become the primary engine behind MAX.

The problem for the Kremlin is that MAX is deeply unpopular. Russian users find it inferior to Telegram in every measurable way: it is slower, less reliable, and widely perceived as less secure. Its only feature advantage is that it is a «domestic messenger,» a euphemism for a platform under the complete surveillance of the Kremlin and the intelligence services. Despite heavy pressure to switch, citizens have resisted, creating a standoff between a state that demands control and a populace that demands functionality.

The Sovereign AI Gambit

The battle over messaging apps is just the first skirmish in a much larger war. In February 2026, the Ministry of Digital Development introduced a sweeping new bill aimed at the artificial intelligence market. It represents the Kremlin’s first serious attempt to impose order on a sector that has, until now, developed chaotically.

The legislation creates a «two-loop» market. In the inner loop, «sovereign and national» AI solutions receive priority state support and access to critical infrastructure. In the outer loop, «trusted» foreign technologies may operate, but with strict restrictions. This is technological import substitution writ large: access to the market will be determined not by quality, but by origin.

The bill introduces heavy regulatory burdens for any service with more than 500,000 users, mandating specific data storage protocols, government interaction procedures, and content control mechanisms. Mandatory labelling of AI-generated content will be enforced, and a strict liability model will extend responsibility from the developer to the end user.

On paper, it is a coherent strategy: state support in exchange for absolute control. In practice, it raises immense barriers to entry and makes the future of Russia’s digital economy dependent not only on innovation, but also on the whims of the bureaucracy and regulatory environment. It is a plan to build a walled garden, but the gardeners are running out of tools.

The Irony of the Censor: When Blocking Breaks

            As Roskomnadzor has thrown itself into the battle against Telegram and the enforcement of the new AI rules, it has encountered an unforeseen and deeply ironic problem: it is losing the technical war.

The agency’s blocking infrastructure, known as the Technical Means for Countering Threats (TSPU), is being overwhelmed. The primary culprit is not just the volume of Russian users trying to access blocked sites, but Telegram’s sophisticated countermeasure: VPN and proxy. This protocol generates massive amounts of «junk» traffic to disguise the messenger’s real data packets. To block Telegram, Roskomnadzor’s systems must analyse every single packet, consuming nearly all available bandwidth.

When the system hits its limit, it enters «bypass mode»—an emergency state where it stops filtering altogether and simply passes traffic through. During these moments, blocked platforms like WhatsApp and YouTube spontaneously become accessible again across the country. The irony is exquisite: the harder Roskomnadzor tries to block Telegram, the more users switch to proxies, overloading the system and causing it to fail.

Currently, the system is operating under approximately 2.5 million filtering rules. Experts estimate the equipment is running at its absolute limit. Roskomnadzor is left with few options, none of them good. It can attempt to modernize—a federal project has allocated nearly 59 billion rubles for upgrades by 2030, aiming to boost capacity and improve VPN-blocking efficiency to 96%. It can fine and threaten internet service providers into compliance. Or it can turn to the very «sovereign AI» it seeks to regulate, using machine learning to track blocked content by analysing traffic patterns rather than IP addresses.

The most radical solution—lifting some restrictions to relieve the system—is politically unacceptable. It would be an admission of defeat. So, for now, the Russian internet exists in a strange limbo, operating on the principle of «sometimes it blocks, sometimes it doesn’t.»

The Power Struggle Beneath the Surface

The battle over the internet is not happening in a vacuum. It is the central front in a much larger war: the struggle to succeed Vladimir Putin.

Sergei Kiriyenko’s control over information policy, youth outreach, and now the digital future makes him a pivotal figure. His son’s leadership of VK and the promotion of MAX tie the family’s fortunes directly to the success of the state’s digital agenda. Rival political and administrative clans, however, view the Kiriyenko’s growing power with alarm. The failures of the Telegram blockade and the unpopularity of MAX provide ammunition for those seeking to undermine them.

As the process of power transfer in the Kremlin quietly begins, the information sphere has become the ultimate battleground. Whoever controls the narrative, controls the future. But in their rush to build a sovereign, controlled internet, the Kiriyenkos and their allies may have built a system that cannot function. The Russian internet is not collapsing because of external enemies. It is collapsing because the Kremlin’s desire for absolute control has met the immutable laws of physics and mathematics—and for once, the censors are losing.

It is no wonder, then, that a joke has emerged in Russia: Pavel Durov has a better chance of becoming president than any of the candidates Putin might choose as his successor.