IN SEARCH OF THE LOST IDEOLOGY:
RUSSIA'S NEW POLITICAL MYTH

Since the mid-1990s, Russia has undertaken constant attempts to formulate a state ideology capable of replacing Marxism. After the USSR's collapse, Russia found itself without a symbolic core, without the “ideological cement” that previously ensured both the teleology and legitimation of power. In 1995, President Boris Yeltsin's administration announced a competition for a “national idea.” This was a gesture of desperation: the country was regionalizing, elites were fragmenting, and the population found itself in a state of moral and social shock. The authorities attempted to find a universal discourse that would unify society. However, the competition ended in failure. An enormous quantity of proposals was submitted—from Orthodox-monarchist to liberal-cosmopolitan—but none received recognition as truly unifying. This demonstrated the impossibility of “inventing” an ideology from above in conditions where society is disunited and where the very idea of ideology is perceived with suspicion.

In 1999, the philosopher and sociologist Alexander Zinoviev, who returned from emigration to Russia, also defended the idea of the necessity of a new ideology for Russia. According to his conception, this should be an anti-Western, anti-liberal value system oriented toward the restoration of national identity and resistance to globalism. He saw the West as a cunning enemy and considered that the new Russian ideology should be founded on collectivism, tradition, and patriotism, but without a return to Marxism.

These attempts to invent ideology “from above”—whether liberal, conservative, religious, or technocratic—fail for two reasons:

First, ideology cannot be created on command. It forms as a reflection of living social reality, not as a ministerial or philosophical project. Those who think ideology can be invented demonstrate conspiratorial thinking. The idea that ideologies are “invented” finds its roots in the reaction to the French Enlightenment and the Revolution of 1789. Conservative thinkers of the late XVIIIth - early XIXth centuries (Burke, De Maistre, Bonald) began to perceive revolutionary ideals (equality, popular sovereignty, secularization) as unnatural constructions, invented by a restricted intellectual elite, freemasons and illuminati, and forcibly implanted in society. Such reasoning is the sign of powerlessness in the face of global historical changes that seem to result from someone's malevolent will.

Second, in the conditions of post-Soviet Russia, there exists no consensus concerning the country's past. Attitudes toward the Soviet heritage, the role of religion in society, the Russian empire—all of this is the object of conflicts and not consensus.

Nevertheless, the Russian authorities regularly attempt to present to society and the world what can be called “Russian state ideology.” In March 2023, the Kremlin published an updated conception of Russian foreign policy, in which, for the first time at the official level, Russia was declared a "state-civilization." This idea in itself is not new, and was formulated as early as the XIXth century by a Russian philosopher Nikolai Danilevsky. Although Danilevsky adapted existing themes of German romantics and Slavophiles, he was the first to systematize this as a theory of cultural-historical types, anticipating Spengler, Toynbee, and Huntington.

It should be noted in parentheses that, among all Russian philosophres, Putin’s advisors have chosen a fundamentally anti-Christian thinker. For a Christian, history possesses a télos and eschatological horizon. Its development is conceived as a unified linear process. In Danilevsky, history consists of closed cycles: each culture passes through phases of birth, flourishing, and death. There is neither the idea of universal salvation nor the concept of a unique history of humanity. In this sense, Danilevsky’s vision is anti-Christian, or rather anti-Abrahamic, as it rejects the very idea of a providential history oriented toward an accomplishment. His philosophy of history is radically opposed to Christian eschatological thought. There is no universal truth, except that of the plurality of historico-cultural types. He affirms a principle of cultural closure, in contradiction with the missionary universality of Christianity.

On the other hand, Danilevsky lends himself perfectly to the legitimation of an isolationist politics founded on juridical and moral relativism, as well as on systemic polycentrism. Thus, two years after the adoption of the new foreign policy doctrine, a new ideological project emerged, The Living Idea—Dream of Russia. Code of the Russian Citizen in the XXIst Century, developed under the aegis of the Council for Foreign and Defense Policy. The principal author of this document is Sergei Karaganov, an influential expert in international relations and scientific director of the faculty of world economy and world politics at the Higher School of Economics in Moscow. (He is known in Europe primarily for his appeal in June 2023 for nuclear strikes against NATO member states in Europe.)

The current attempt to formulate an ideology in conditions where the notion of “state ideology” remains legally compromised can raise many questions. This is precisely why the authors prefer to speak of “dream” as an alternative form of political language—emotionally charged, deeply ritualized, and essentially sacred.

The return of the sacred in politics in this context does not constitute a simple restoration of religious ethics or traditional values. It is a more profound transformation of political imagination, in which Russia is again considered as a metaphysical subject, bearer of a unique mission, called to save “the human in man.” “The Living Idea” claims to be the normative foundation of a new managerial paradigm, where legitimacy is constructed not on procedures or institutions, but on belonging to a historico-cultural mission.

Thus, we are dealing not with a programmatic manifesto, but with a set of ideologemes, a text destined not so much for rational persuasion as for mobilizing enthusiasm. This text is interesting not for what it proposes, but for how it does so: by what means it produces a subject, constructs an enemy, sacralizes war, and endows power with ontological status. In this sense, it represents a new type of post-secular political myth—combining anti-globalist rhetoric, post-Soviet resentment, Orthodox exegesis, and anti-democratic philosophy of history.

The Myth of the State-Civilization

One of the key constructions of “The Living Idea-Dream of Russia” is the already mentioned notion of “state-civilization.” This is deeply symbolic designation, with the help of which the redefinition of Russia's identity as a subject transcending the limits of the national state is carried out. In this formula, Russia ceases to be a spatial-juridical formation and transforms into an ontological formation, encompassing a multitude of ethnicities, religions, and even heterogeneous cultural chronotopes—but united by a unique “spirit,” a “sobornost” and a “mission.”

This redefinition serves several objectives. It allows the cancellation of Russia's ethnic frontier, replacing it with civilizational belonging. The Russian, according to the text, is not so much one who was born Russian, as one who “loves the common culture,” speaks the Russian language and shares the “dream of Russia.” As a result, national identity transforms into ideological belonging. This is not simply an integration strategy—it is a means of creating a post-ethnic empire, in which belonging is determined by symbolic loyalty, not by origin.

Second, the idea of Russia as a “civilization of civilizations” allows the inversion of periphery. Multinationality, heterogeneity, religious pluralism—what in modernization theories was considered weakness, is here declared a source of strength. Russia does not become a country with unformed national identity, but, on the contrary, a source of civilizational universality.

The third consequence of this conception becomes the refusal of Russia's historical Europeanness. The formula “we are the heirs of Byzantium and the Great Mongol Empire,” repeated several times in the text, symbolically breaks with West European identity and transfers the source of legitimacy toward the Orient. This is not a simple “turn toward the Orient” (in foreign policy), but a profound reconfiguration of historical self-consciousness. Russia is not simply non-Europe—it must not be Europe, because Europe has already renounced its spiritual mission, becoming a bearer of “post-human” values.

So, "The Living Idea" is creates total self-identification, tolerating no ambivalence. If in the Soviet period Russia thought of itself as a state with a universalist project (communism), now universalism has taken an inverse sign: it is not progress, but return to the source, to tradition, to the original spiritual form whatever that may be. This allows the formulation of a normative opposition: the West—corruption and nihilism, Russia—superior spirituality. This dichotomy not only makes compromise impossible, but also ensures the ideological foundation of mobilization.

It is within the framework of this total self-identification that the figure of the enemy is defined—the West as a civilization of decomposition, demoralization, and metaphysical degradation. But unlike Soviet socialism, which proposed an alternative model of social organization (social justice, progress, collectivism), here the alternative takes the form of a sacred feeling, an intuitive “knowledge”—that same “consciousness of love” of which the text speaks. This is no longer a politics of ideas—or even of interests—driven by competition. It is a politics of feeling, anchored in fidelity and devotion.

Consequently, the concept of “state-civilization” plays the role of ontological distance. It transforms Russia into an exception, whose existence demands not proof, but faith and commitment. It blocks all external evaluation and encloses the subject in the circle of self-sufficient metaphysical self-affirmation.

From Critique of Modernity to Demonization of the West

“The Living Idea’s” central nerve is a negative anthropology of the West. The model of “the human in man,” which the text proposes to defend, is formed above all by a radical rejection of Western modernity, described as a process of degradation, devaluation, and dehumanization. In this logic, Russia is not simply a country having its own values—it becomes the sole refuge for the human as such.

At the critique's center is the modern Western man, reduced to a consumer, “digital animal,” cut off from tradition, God, and family. His subjectivity dissolves in information flows, his desires are intercepted by algorithms, his body—an object of manipulation, his freedom—an illusion. Everything that makes man human—work, love, memory, education, participation—is destroyed by capitalism, liberalism, digital technologies, and the ideologies of “-isms” (feminism, transhumanism, LGBT, etc.). This anthropological critique acquires eschatological traits: Western civilization is described as a nascent satanic reign, dragging humanity into the abyss of the post-human.

This rhetoric echoes both primitive Christian eschatologism and the philosophy of culture of the same Oswald Spengler and Nikolai Danilevsky. However, unlike them, the text of the “Living Idea” renounces philosophical analysis and passes to ritual description of the threat, in which danger or the enemy are presented not analytically, not in terms of cause-and-effect relations or arguments, but in the form of repetitive, emotionally colored statements, recalling an incantation. The West is presented as a source of “contagion”—cultural, sexual, technological—which has already begun to destroy the very foundation of man, as genus and species. In this model, culture becomes not an expression of spirit, but an instrument of contamination. Even categories like gender, body, sexuality, education, are presented as objects of hostile transformation.

Opposed to this is the figure of the Russian—not as citizen, but as bearer of residual humanity, connected to the earth, to family, to tradition, to faith. But this figure has no concrete social envelope. It is simultaneously popular and elite, Orthodox and multi-confessional, conservative and messianic. This is not a subject of rational action, but a bearer of sacred potential: the capacity to love, to sacrifice oneself, to bear the “living dream.” The Russian does not act—he testifies by his existence that man is still possible.

The text enacts an inversion of Nietzsche—not as a critique of his method, but as a metaphysical reversal of his diagnosis. Nietzsche’s “human, all too human” marked the descent of man from metaphysical grandeur to psychological triviality, stripping away illusions of divine purpose and exposing the frailty and contingency at the heart of moral life.(1) In contrast, “The Living Idea” re-sacralizes the human—not as Enlightenment reason or liberal agency, but as a metaphysical essence under siege. Where Nietzsche unmasked the human as a bundle of instincts, illusions, and historical sediment, this text elevates the human as a sacred category, defined not by contingency but by fidelity—to tradition, to memory, to nation, to God. The result is a kind of post-secular anti-modern anthropology: one that views the Western subject as disintegrating into a post-human abyss, while casting Russia as the ark of ontological preservation. In this framing, “the human in man” is not the Nietzschean subject exposed and unmasked, but rather a remnant to be defended—against irony, against reason, against fluidity. It is not a deconstruction of man, but a theological entrenchment.

Karaganov, in his project, affirms a particular anthropological type, rooted in Russia's metaphysical alterity. The West—this is the anti-man. Russia—this is man capable of being more than man, that is, of being a participant in God. Such anthropology leaves no space for dialogue or exchange: it presupposes defense, and in perspective—offensive. The text speaks directly of the necessity of an “offensive defense of humanity”—that is, not only resistance, but exportation of spiritual mission. In this logic, war—both with Ukraine and with the West—ceases to be a political act. It receives anthropological justification: it is not about defending borders, but about saving man himself from dehumanization. Geopolitics here gives way to eschatology. War becomes not an instrument of conflict resolution, but a form of struggle for the image of future man. It is not the means—it is fatum. Thus, the text constructs an anthropological theodicy, in which Russia saves not only itself, but Man as idea. This maximalist affirmation makes compromise and rational settlement impossible: the stake is not the survival of the state, but the very ontology of Man.

Circumventing Article XIII and Sacralizing War

One of the paradoxes of the “Living Idea” is its rhetorical inventiveness for circumventing the direct prohibition of state ideology, inscribed in Article XIII of the Russian Constitution. According to this article, “no ideology may be established as state or obligatory.” However, the text proposes an alternative approach: if ideology is suspect, let us call it a dream. The dream, according to the authors' logic, does not constrain—it inspires. One cannot impose it—but one can inculcate it, educate it, implant it through culture, education, “textbooks and art.”

This euphemistic trick allows the production of a reinstitutionalization of ideology, without naming it. Thus, the “Code of the Russian” turns out to be a moral-ethical norm, acting in the logic of the sacred—not as a programmatic document, but as revelation. It is a symbolic scale of loyalty, according to which the disposition to enter the “ruling class” will be measured. In this sense, the text introduces an informal, but rigid model of elite filtering according to the criterion of belonging to the “dream.”

Against the background of processes of informal institutionalization of criteria of “belonging to the dream,” the second axis of legitimation is also defined—war as a form of ideological crystallization. The text emphasizes repeatedly that modern war is not simply a conflict for territory, but a “war for man,” “for meaning,” “for the civilizational code.” Thus, war becomes not the system's tragic failure, but its apogee. It is a ritual of self-affirmation, in which the nation purifies itself, becomes aware of itself, sacrifices itself, and is reborn. In other words, war appears as a form of ontological legitimation of the state.

This motif distinctly continues the tradition of Russian messianism, in which suffering and violence purify the nation, giving it a sacred dimension. But unlike the religious version, where suffering is perceived as a path to redemption, here it becomes an instrument of mobilization. It legitimizes sacrifices and makes political opposition impossible: any critique of war turns out by definition to be anthropological treason, refusal of the dream, of man, and of Russia.

The means by which the text denies the possibility of neutrality is equally interesting. Any attempt to distance oneself from the “Living Idea” is interpreted as either infantilism, or treason, or contamination by the virus of Westernism. Thus, the text introduces the totality of ideological loyalty with external refusal of the term “ideology.” This is not an ideological state in the Soviet sense, but a state where ideology is not pronounced, but acts everywhere: in culture, in rhetoric, in educational standards, in the language of war.

The sacralization of war is accompanied at the same time by a double function of exclusion and inclusion. Included are those who dream, who love, who “believe in man.” Excluded are those who doubt, who insist on pragmatism, compromise, democratic mechanisms. This binary division is not political—again it is ontological. It forms a new form of citizenship: to be Russian means to be initiated into the living idea, to be capable of dying for it, to be a participant in the sacred body of the nation.

Such is the ideology without name: it is a duty and it leaves no options. It breathed like air and absorbed “with mother's milk.” This is why it is impossible to contest it without risking the loss of the right to existence.

Aesthetics Against Democracy

One of the most provocative elements of the “Living Idea” is its consequent critique of democracy as a form of political organization. This critique is not based on concrete institutional defects or historical failures, but is constructed as an aesthetic-anthropological dichotomy: democracy is presented not simply as ineffective, but as inadequate, and unworthy. It does not merely fail to function—it actively debases both man and the human.

Karaganov, following the logic of cultural nihilism aimed against the West, affirms that democracy in its contemporary form is not the power of the people, but the mechanism of anonymous domination of oligarchies, masking plutocracy under participation. In this logic, elections do not open to the people the path to power, but serve as a ritual of self-humiliation, in which the masses choose their equals, that is, the worst. This is a direct reference to the ancient aristocratic critique of democratic equality as destruction of measure and dignity—hence the latent contempt for the principle of representation.

In exchange, the text proposes a model that can be called aesthetic autocracy. The state, according to this logic, must be “beautiful,” “elevated,” “dignified,” “directed toward the future.” One cannot choose it by vote, as one chooses goods at the supermarket in the time of market studies. It must be an object of love, and chosen by heart. This aestheticization of power requires the cultivation of a charismatic leader. Hence the true sense of the “Living Idea”—the idea must be living, that is, incarnated in someone, made visible as an existential phenomenon. In this manner, the legitimacy of political power is transferred from the juridical space to the ethical and symbolic. The leader does not prove his rightness—he incarnates it. His strength is not in procedure, but in aura. His reign is not the result of social contract, but of metaphysical correspondence with the spirit of the people. This brings us closer to the model of sacred monarchy or the political theology of Carl Schmitt, in which the sovereign is not simply the bearer of power, but a figure standing outside the law, deciding when the law ceases to act.

At the same time, the text of the “Living Idea” emphasizes that democracy as such is not an evil, but an instrument of unworthy ruling groups, an instrument of decadence. The idea of meritocracy (power of the best) is preserved, but detaches itself from democratic procedures and is recoded in the language of sacred mission: the best is not the one who was elected, but the one who is faithful to the dream. Thus arises the logic of ontological elite, which cannot be produced institutionally—it must be recognized as fact, as election.

Discussing power alternation, Karaganov recognizes that lack of alternation leads to managerial apathy, but at the same time insists that frequent rotation of leadership destroys its continuity and strategic thinking. This is an argument in favor of programmable authoritarianism, where alternation is possible, but regulated not by the people, but by some “higher reason,” internal logic of the system, or providence.

Finally, all the critique of democracy in the text is based not on institutional elaboration, but on the rhetoric of degradation: Western democracy is the choice of infantile, weak, immature, dependent man. This is the power of adolescents. Russia must affirm the power of the mature, capable of sacrifice, of distant design and of verticality. Politics, thus, becomes the affair of the strong, not of the elected.

The “Living Idea” as Political Myth

“The Living Idea” is a text in which the rhetoric of the sacred replaces analysis, and the notions of “love,” “sobornost” and “spirit” substitute for the political. Its principal function is mobilization, and the definition of existential belonging, rather than any realistic vision of the future. This is an attempt to create a political myth of a new type.

The entire discursive structure of the “Living Idea” is based on the repetition of three theses: Russia—civilization, the West—decomposition, Russia—salvation. These three points, undeveloped and unverifiable, become axioms, around which all rhetoric turns. This produces an ideological tautology, closed upon itself, devoid of dialogue and critical relation to its own presupposition. It does not construct argumentation, it condenses faith—precisely as repetition of the same through a multitude of variations.

Such repetitions are the threshold of myth: when language ceases to signify and begins to symbolize what cannot be doubted. Thus unfolds the ritual logic of ideology: it does not persuade, but translates meaning into presence—rendering it indiscutable through rhythmic repetition, archetypal imagery, and resonant words. Meaning is not declared; it circulates.

To ensure this circulation, the text relies on floating signifiers—words semantically indeterminate, but symbolically overcharged: “people,” “tradition,” “God,” “love,” “sobornost',” “empire.” Their force resides precisely in the fact that they do not fix signification, but attract toward them all meanings that correspond to the current political task. This gives the text flexibility, resistance to criticism, and universality of application.

All this composes a conception that does not give rational foundation to politics, but replaces it with a sacralized structure of significations, constructed as ritual or dogma. This is not modern, not postmodern, and not archaic—it is a form of symbolic counter-modernization, in which politics again finds a sacred dimension. But this sacred dimension lacks a mystical core: God, tradition, empire, and people are emptied of fixed meaning and instrumentalized according to the needs of the moment.

The “Living Idea” never gave rise to a socio-political episteme. Instead, it produced a mechanism of incantatory repetition, whose function lies not so much in disclosing truth than in stabilizing its indemonstrable presence. Far from articulating a coherent ideology, it operates as a system of rhetorical reproduction—akin to a hurdy-gurdy—sustaining power through the induction of affirmative emotional attachment.

(1) The concept represents Nietzsche's critique of human pretensions to higher meaning, morality, or transcendence—exposing these as "merely human" constructions rather than eternal truths. It's part of his broader project of deflating grand philosophical and religious claims by showing their human, psychological origins. Nietzsche, Friedrich—Human, All Too Human (1878)