The Ultimatum to Renounce Citizenship
There are moments in the interview that don’t just raise questions but literally pull the rug out from under you. You’re sitting there, listening to what seems to be an intelligent, educated man, a former ambassador, a Stanford professor, and suddenly he utters a phrase that exposes the chasm between his world and the reality of millions of people. For Michael McFaul, that moment came when, with a completely straight face, he issued his ultimatum to Russian emigrants.
Let’s just listen to that again:
We, and I personally, want every Russian migrant to renounce their citizenship. Many Russians want to emigrate but don’t want to give up their Russian passport… You must be loyal either to our country or to Putin.
Stop. Just stop. So much arrogance, double standards, and out-of-touch infantilism are concentrated in this single phrase that one could analyze it for hours. This isn’t just an opinion; it’s a moral branding placed on people based on a single characteristic: the color of their passport. McFaul, a representative of a country whose main export is the idea of freedom and individuality, suddenly proposes the most primitive form of collective responsibility. Are you Russian? Then you are a priori loyal to Putin until you undergo a public ritual of purification—renouncing your citizenship.
This is Different
And the hypocrisy of this thesis becomes simply blinding when we recall what the very same Michael McFaul says about his own country. Here is his tweet, his direct words, addressed to Europeans:
Europeans, don’t give up on America yet! Trump does not represent us all.
How can that be, Mr. McFaul? So, it turns out that American society is complex, multifaceted, full of internal contradictions, and should by no means be judged by a single, even if elected, leader. But Russian society, apparently, is monolithic, gray, and incapable of internal diversity? There, everything is simple: you’re either with Putin, or you’ve surrendered your passport.
This logic is not just flawed; it’s offensive. It denies 140 million people the right to their own opinions, to fear, to doubt, to complex moral choices. As someone immediately wrote to him on Twitter:
Where did you get the idea that it works differently for us? You yourself, with an American passport, don’t support Trump. Perhaps you also plan to renounce your U.S. citizenship if he returns to power? The question is rhetorical; the answer is obvious.
A Collision with Reality
But let’s forget about morality and hypocrisy for a second. Let’s imagine we accept this ultimatum. And this is where the most interesting part begins—the collision of Stanford theory with Russian reality. The demand to «renounce citizenship» is a demonstration of the blatant incompetence of a man who worked in Russia for years and, in theory, should know its laws.
What does renouncing Russian citizenship entail?
It’s not a button on «Gosuslugi» (the state services portal). It’s a hellish bureaucratic marathon that is simply impossible for many who left the country for political reasons. You have to prove you have no tax debts. You need to provide a certificate from the military enlistment office stating that you are not subject to conscription. How is a person who left Russia precisely to avoid being sent to the «SMO» (Special Military Operation) supposed to do this? Return and report to the enlistment office in person? It sounds like a cruel joke.
As a refugee, I literally can’t renounce my Russian citizenship.
And that’s the reality. The system is designed to trap people, not to help them leave. To demand they do the impossible and then accuse them of disloyalty is not just a mistake; it’s cruelty.
But that’s not all. McFaul isn’t suggesting people change their citizenship, but specifically to renounce it, offering nothing in return. And this is where his thesis moves from the «incompetent» category to the «inhumane» category.
What is a person without a passport? They are stateless. A ghost that doesn’t exist for the global bureaucratic machine. You can’t open a bank account, you can’t legally cross a border, you can’t get a job. You are completely without rights.
Let him try running around the world without a passport, let him sit on the ground between the borders of Ukraine and Poland, like a guy from Russia is doing right now.
In other words, McFaul, the champion of democracy, is effectively suggesting that people who have fled a dictatorship voluntarily strip themselves of all rights and become modern-day slaves, perpetually dependent on the mercy of officials in refugee camps. And all this just to prove their «loyalty» to him and his country.
This is a Symptom of a Disease
And here we come to the most important point. This thesis is not just a private opinion. It’s a symptom of a larger disease. When people vested with power and influence start thinking in these categories, they stop seeing individuals with their tragedies and fates. They only see «identifiable groups» that need to be sorted: the «good ones» (those who surrendered their passports) and the «bad ones» (those who didn’t). And this is dangerously close to what is written in Article 7 of the Rome Statute—the persecution of a group on national grounds.
Ultimately, this ultimatum does not weaken Putin’s regime. It hits those who have fled from this regime. It fractures the anti-war movement, forces people to justify themselves for things they are not guilty of, and fuels Russian propaganda, which has been insisting for decades:
See? To the West, you are all enemies, regardless of your views.
And Michael McFaul, without realizing it himself, brilliantly confirms this propaganda.
Sanctions as a Weapon Against the Regime
In the conversation about sanctions, Michael McFaul paints a simple and logical picture. To the question of why the restrictions have hit ordinary citizens so hard, he responds with the confidence of an experienced politician: the goal of the sanctions is to «reduce the resources» of Putin’s regime, to deprive it of money for the «special military operation.» Sounds noble, doesn’t it? It’s like a precision strike on the financial arteries of the war machine. But then, without a pause, he adds a disarming phrase: «…and they aren’t working yet.»
«They aren’t working yet.» This caveat, thrown in as if casually, is supposed to, in theory, evoke sympathy: as if to say, «we tried, but the enemy turned out to be more cunning.» But for those who were in Russia in late February 2022, this phrase doesn’t just sound like an admission of failure. It sounds like an outright lie. Because the sanctions did work. Just not at all in the way McFaul describes. They worked in Putin’s favor.
Capital Flight
Let’s go back to those terrible days. February 24, 2022.
Shock, horror, panic. What did the thousands, the hundreds of thousands of Russians who wanted nothing to do with this special military operation do? They ran to ATMs and currency exchanges. Kilometer-long queues formed. People were buying up dollars and euros at 150, 200 rubles—at any rate, just to save their savings, just to get their hands on cash with which they could flee. They were selling apartments and cars for a pittance to manage to leave in time. A panicked capital flight from the Russian economy began. Money was flowing out of the country like blood from an open wound.
This was the very moment when the regime’s financial system could have been on the brink of collapse.
And what happened next? The Western world, including the U.S., where McFaul is one of the ideologues of sanctions policy, delivered its «crushing blow.» Russian banks were cut off from SWIFT. Visa and Mastercard cards turned into useless plastic outside the RF. And at that moment, the door slammed shut.
The sanctions, which were supposed to «reduce the resources» of the regime, actually locked those resources inside the country. They prevented millions of people from withdrawing their money. They stopped the very capital flight that could have «bled dry» Putin’s economy in a matter of weeks. Instead of «punishing» the regime, these «hellish» sanctions gave it a priceless gift: time. Time to impose draconian currency restrictions, force exporters to sell their foreign currency earnings, and stabilize the ruble.
In essence, the West, with its own hands, built a financial dam that prevented Putin’s regime from drowning during the first, most frantic months. And after all this, Michael McFaul sits in his chair and, with a sagacious look, says that the sanctions «aren’t working yet.» This is either astonishing incompetence or a deliberate lie. Could it be that «experts» of his level couldn’t calculate such an obvious effect? Did they really not understand that by cutting off the escape routes for capital, they were herding it back into the hands of those they were supposedly fighting?
And what do we see next? More than three years have passed. The regime not only hasn’t collapsed, but has adapted. Yes, the middle class, IT specialists, and creative professionals have suffered—the very people on whom the West was supposedly betting. Many of them, deprived of the ability to work and live normally abroad, were forced to return to Russia, to that very unsafe environment Dud talks about.
So Who Are the Sanctions Against?
Meanwhile, Putin’s war machine keeps running. Oil and gas are sold through third countries, like India and China, often with the help of European tankers. Parallel imports allow for bringing anything into the country, from iPhones to microchips for missiles.
So who were these sanctions really aimed at? Against the regime, which in 2022 received record revenues from exports, and in 2024—the second highest in history? Or against the very Russians whom McFaul urges to «stop the war,» while simultaneously cutting off all their avenues for escape—both financial and physical?
When McFaul talks about sanctions, he’s not speaking as a strategist, but as a propagandist. He voices a neat, simple idea that is supposed to appeal to the Western voter, but which has nothing to do with reality. His words about «reducing resources» are a convenient smokescreen, behind which hides either a colossal failure or a cynical calculation, the consequences of which have been felt by millions of ordinary people, but not by those sitting in the Kremlin. And his admission that «the sanctions aren’t working» is not modesty, but an attempt to evade responsibility for their catastrophic and, in fact, counterproductive results.
The Iraq War as a «Mistake» of Democracy
When Yuri Dud corners McFaul with a question about the 2003 US invasion of Iraq, McFaul doesn’t deny the obvious. Yes, he says, «I was against this war.» Yes, it was a «mistake.» An honest admission, it would seem. But the devil, as always, is in the details. In how he says it and what follows this admission.
Yes, It’s «Different» Again
For McFaul, the Iraq War is not a crime, not an act of aggression based on a lie, but merely a «mistake.» A political blunder that democracy, unlike a dictatorship, is capable of correcting. He proudly recounts how Americans, dissatisfied with the war, simply went and voted for Barack Obama, who then ended it. It sounds like a perfect advertisement for the American political system. But this isn’t just a simplification; it’s a brazen distortion of concepts that completely ignores the actual course of history.
Let’s recall. February 15, 2003. A month before the war began. Millions of people around the world take to the streets. Rome, London, Madrid, New York. It is the largest anti-war protest in human history. People are shouting, «No war!» And what does the «democracy» that McFaul praises so much do? It spits on these millions. The Bush administration completely ignores the will of the people, and the bombers take off.
And here a question arises for Mr. McFaul: if in your vaunted democracy, millions of people on the streets cannot stop an illegal war, what actions do you expect from Russians, for whom a solo picket with a blank sheet of paper is a guaranteed trip in a police van and a criminal case?
But McFaul goes further. He says that Americans «stopped the war» in the 2008 elections. Let’s be precise. The war began in 2003. The election Obama won was in 2008. And the final withdrawal of troops only took place in 2011. This means it took «democracy» five and a half years to correct its «mistake.» Five and a half years, during which, by the most conservative estimates, over one hundred thousand Iraqi civilians died.
And after this, McFaul has the audacity to shame Russians? He reproaches them for «not stopping the war» in three years, while his own country, possessing all the tools of free speech and free elections, only ended its aggression after five and a half years? This isn’t just double standards. This is moral bankruptcy.
So, Ashamed or Not?
When Dud asks him if he was ashamed in 2003, McFaul dodges and squirms, saying, «yes and no.» And he immediately switches to his favorite topic: it’s a «false comparison» because in Iraq there was Saddam, while in Ukraine there is a democracy.
Let’s break down this argument as well.
First, the pretext for the war wasn’t Saddam, but mythical weapons of mass destruction.
Second, for a child killed in Baghdad or in Mariupol, it makes no difference who dropped the bomb on them—a «champion of democracy» or an «authoritarian dictator.» Death is death.
By trying to justify one slaughter with the «bad» regime of the victim, McFaul uses the same logic that the Kremlin uses to justify its operation with «denazification.» The propaganda methods turn out to be strikingly similar.
Hottentot Morality
But the most cynical part of this story is how McFaul refuses to apply the same moral categories to himself that he imposes on others. He easily says to Russians, «Aren’t you ashamed?» But when asked about his own shame, he answers evasively. He is not prepared to admit that he, as a US citizen who paid taxes, also bears his share of responsibility for the deaths in Iraq. He hides behind the «complexity» of the democratic process, behind the «mistakes» of the Bush administration, behind anything, just to avoid looking in the mirror.
He talks about the protests in America. Yes, there were protests. But he fails to mention that these protests led to nothing. He talks about the change of power through elections. Yes, that happened. But he fails to mention that it took five and a half years of bloodshed. He creates a myth of an ideal democracy that corrects itself and contrasts it with the myth of a monolithic, subservient Russia.
And this is precisely where his main hypocrisy lies. He judges others by the idealized standards that his own country has never met. He demands from people at gunpoint what people in conditions of complete freedom could not bring themselves to do. He uses the tragedy in Ukraine as a moral cudgel, but when reminded of the tragedies in which the US was complicit, he starts talking about «context,» «different situations,» and «nuances.»
This selective morality, this convenient juggling of facts, is what infuriates people. Because in the end, the conversation about values devolves into a banal geopolitical confrontation, where «our» mistakes are regrettable misunderstandings, and «their» mistakes are a manifestation of absolute evil.
And Michael McFaul, unfortunately, is a prime representative of precisely this kind of hypocritical and self-satisfied approach.
«We Need Smart Russians Here»
It would seem that this is it, the moment of enlightenment. When the conversation turns to how sanctions hit everyone indiscriminately, McFaul suddenly takes a step back. He admits that the sanctions regime should have been «smarter.» And he proposes a solution: it was necessary to create incentives for «smart Russians» to leave Russia.
«I want all those people who used to work for Arkady Volozh at Yandex, who were some of the smartest people in Russia, I want them to work here [in Silicon Valley]. I would not want them to be working on integrating artificial intelligence into Russian weapons.»
At first glance, this sounds like common sense. Humanism in action. Let’s help talented people who are against the regime to escape and find a place for themselves in the free world. Let’s orchestrate a «brain drain» that will weaken Putin and strengthen us. But if you listen more closely to this phrase, what lies behind it is not so much concern for people as a cold, pragmatic, and utterly cynical calculation.
Cynical Calculation
McFaul is not talking about saving lives. He is not talking about protecting human rights. He is talking about resources. For him, «smart Russians» are not people with their fates, fears, and hopes. They are a valuable asset that needs to be lured to his side so it doesn’t fall into the enemy’s hands.
He doesn’t say, «Let’s help Russian doctors, teachers, journalists, and activists who are risking their freedom.» No, he specifically talks about Yandex employees. Why? Because they are the bearers of technology. They are the very «human capital» that can be immediately integrated into the American economy and, more importantly, into the American military-industrial complex.
He is not concerned that these people might end up in prison. He is concerned that they might start working on «Russian weapons.» This isn’t humanism; it’s wartime headhunting.
The Costs of the Struggle
And this pragmatism fully explains why he is so little concerned with the problems of «ordinary» Russians. Those who don’t write code for artificial intelligence but are simply trying to survive. Why are their bank accounts blocked? Why can’t they get a visa to visit relatives? The answer is simple: they are not a valuable resource. They are ballast. The costs of the struggle between «democracy and autocracy.»
This division into «useful» and «useless» refugees is one of the ugliest features of modern Western policy, and McFaul voices it with disarming directness. It turns out that your right to safety and a normal life directly depends on your profession and your potential utility to the US economy. Are you a programmer from Yandex? Welcome, here’s a green card. Are you an independent journalist from Saratov, persecuted for your anti-war stance? Well, sorry, try to get a humanitarian visa, stand in line for a couple of years.
Double Standards (Again)
When it comes to helping Ukraine, politicians talk about protecting common values, about freedom and democracy for all. But as soon as the conversation turns to Russians, the rhetoric changes sharply. Values take a back seat, and pure pragmatism comes to the forefront. «What’s in it for us?»
Moreover, this position creates a dangerous illusion. McFaul and his colleagues seem to sincerely believe that if they lure away a few thousand IT specialists, Putin’s regime will weaken and collapse. This is a naive and dangerous misconception. The regime is not propped up by programmers, but by security forces, propagandists, and the passivity of the majority. By taking the most active and educated people out of the country, the West may be solving its tactical problems, but strategically, it is merely preserving the situation in Russia, stripping it of its potential for future change.
After all, it is these «smart people» who could become the core of a new civil society. It is they who could create independent media, educational projects, and human rights organizations. But instead of supporting them within the country (which is, of course, difficult and risky) or at least creating equal conditions for all refugees, McFaul proposes a simple and profitable path for the US—take the most valuable ones for themselves and simply turn a blind eye to the rest.
Pieces on a Chessboard
And when he says he «made a mistake» by not creating more opportunities for emigration, he is being disingenuous again. He doesn’t regret that more people weren’t saved from dictatorship. He regrets that he failed to «extract» more valuable «brains» from Russia for the needs of his country. This isn’t the repentance of a humanist; it’s the regret of a manager over a missed opportunity. And this cold, calculated logic, cloaked in fine words about help, is far more frightening than open hostility. Because it shows that for people like McFaul, we are not individuals, but merely pieces on a global chessboard.
Diplomacy is a High-Society Scene
When you listen to Michael McFaul’s stories about his work as ambassador to Russia, you get a strange, almost surreal impression. He doesn’t fondly recall complex negotiations or breakthrough agreements, but… parties. Birthday parties where the entire Moscow elite would gather. He describes this as some kind of unique Russian feature: sure, people might formally be on different sides of the barricades, but at the «right» person’s birthday, everyone shows up—«both oligarchs and Putin’s people, Peskov and Nemtsov.»
He talks about this with such naive delight, as if he’s discovered the secret key to understanding the Russian soul. But what is he actually describing? He’s describing the closed-off, out-of-touch microcosm of the Moscow social scene, which in the 2010s was still trying to play at «civilized» relations. This little world had nothing to do with the lives of 99% of Russia’s population. And the fact that McFaul, after living in the country for years, considers these high-society soirées to be significant speaks to his catastrophic misunderstanding of the country where he worked.
His memories of two contrasting parties—a stuffy one hosted by the «statist» Sechin in the Hermitage and a wild one by the «liberal» oligarch Prokhorov with half-naked girls—represent the pinnacle of his analytical depth. He recounts with horror how his security detail was afraid he would be photographed at Prokhorov’s party. They were afraid of kompromat. There it is, the depth of diplomatic thought. The main problem is not getting caught in a photo with models in bikinis, lest the Russian press write about it.
Elements of a Single System
This isn’t analysis; it’s on the level of a society column. McFaul, it seems, never understood that Sechin, Prokhorov, and most of those with whom he drank wine at these birthdays were elements of one and the same system. A system where public politics is theatre, and the real business is done in the shadows. He saw the set dressing but never understood the plot of the play.
And this misunderstanding of the elites is only one side of the coin. The other, even more important side, is his complete disregard for the Russian people. In his stories, the people are a faceless mass to whom one can issue ultimatums («surrender your passports!») or simply ignore. He says he met with «thousands of Russians.» But who were these Russians? Judging by his own accounts, they were either officials, oligarchs, or a handful of opposition figures from the same Moscow scene.
A Cozy Little World
He doesn’t talk about meetings with teachers from Voronezh, doctors from Novosibirsk, or farmers from the Krasnodar region. He made no attempt to understand what the very «deep» Russia that forms the regime’s base of support lives by, fears, and hopes for. His Russia is the Garden Ring. A cozy little world where everyone knows each other, goes to the same birthday parties, and engages in polite conversations that influence nothing.
This is precisely why his calls to «stop the war» in 2022 rang so hollow. He wasn’t addressing the people, whom he apparently doesn’t know or understand. He was addressing his old acquaintances from the high-society soirées, the very elites whom he naively believed could change something. But the elites had long ago made their choice, and that choice was not in favor of democracy.
«Complicated» Relations
His relationships with key figures are also telling. He had a «complicated» relationship with Lavrov. McFaul seems to still be offended that Lavrov didn’t call him «Mr. Ambassador,» but simply «Michael.» He takes this as a personal insult, not understanding that it was a deliberate diplomatic tactic, a show of disrespect. He saw the form, but not the substance.
With Putin, by his own admission, he had no relationship whatsoever. Putin saw him as a «revolutionary,» and McFaul seems to even take pride in this. But an ambassador’s job is not to be liked or disliked by the host country’s president. An ambassador’s job is to build channels of communication, even with the most unpleasant characters. McFaul, by all appearances, failed at this task. He remained an outsider to the authorities, to the opposition (Navalny, as he admits, avoided meeting with him), and, most importantly, to the people.
In the end, we are dealing with a person who bases his entire expertise on memories of Moscow parties and conversations within a narrow circle. He judges an entire country by the behavior of a few dozen people circulating in the highest spheres. He understood neither the nature of power in Russia nor the mood of its society. And when the «SMO» began, all his notions collapsed.
This is why his analysis today is so superficial, and his proposals so hypocritical. He is still trying to play by the rules of that old, glamorous Moscow that no longer exists. He still believes that if you just pressure the «right» people, everything will change. But reality turned out to be much harsher and more terrifying. And in this new reality, Michael McFaul, with his memories of oligarchs’ birthday parties, looks not like a serious analyst, but like a guest from the past who never understood that the party has long been over.
It Turns Out, Democracy is a Cargo Cult
Throughout the entire interview, Michael McFaul operates in simple categories: there are «democracies» (that’s the West, that’s good) and there are «autocracies» (that’s Russia and China, that’s bad).
In this black-and-white worldview, democracy is not just a form of government; it’s a synonym for goodness, justice, and all that is virtuous. And it is precisely this conviction that allows him to judge others so easily.
But when Yuri Dud starts asking uncomfortable questions and showing that this perfect picture doesn’t withstand a confrontation with reality, McFaul demonstrates an astonishing selective blindness. He is willing to admit minor «mistakes,» but he categorically refuses to see the systemic problems that undermine the very essence of the democracy he loves to talk about.
Selective Blindness
Take, for example, his answer to the question about double standards. Why should Russians suffer from sanctions for the actions of their government, while Americans didn’t suffer after Iraq? McFaul doesn’t try to analyze this phenomenon. He doesn’t say that perhaps the international system is unjust and that the powerful always evade responsibility. No, he simply brushes it off: «that’s different,» «they’re incomparable things.»
And when Dud points to specific examples that call into question the democratic nature of Western practices, McFaul switches into the mode of a professor lecturing an errant student. Dud says:
Is it really democracy when a person with a Russian passport is denied a bank account just because of their citizenship?
How does McFaul respond? He begins to reason that in a market economy, a private bank has the right to decide whom it works with. He says that a Russian has no «constitutional right» to visit Disneyland. It is an astonishingly cynical answer.
Instead of considering whether discrimination based on national origin is a violation of basic human rights, he appeals to formalities. Yes, there is no right to Disneyland in the constitution. But there is a right not to be subjected to discrimination.
He acts as if democracy is some sacred text, and he is its high priest. If something is not written in the «holy scripture» (the constitution), then it doesn’t exist. And if certain actions formally comply with the law (a private bank has the right to refuse service), then their moral dimension doesn’t concern him.
Cargo Cult
This is the cargo cult of democracy. When the external attributes are worshipped—elections, private property, formal laws—while its spirit is completely ignored: equality, justice, the protection of minority rights. For McFaul, it seems, democracy is when you can freely choose between «Coca-Cola» and «Pepsi,» not when the system protects the weak from the arbitrary power of the strong, be it the state or a corporation.
And this blindness reaches its apex when the conversation turns to the state of American democracy itself. When Dud asks him if the aged and out-of-touch Democratic Party reminds him of the Central Committee of the CPSU, McFaul first agrees that it was a problem, but then immediately declares that «it’s not anymore.» Why? Because his party lost the election.
Just think about this logic. The system works well because we lost. For him, losing an election is not a sign of a deep crisis and lack of trust from voters, but proof that «democracy works.» It’s like being happy about a fire in your house because it proves the fire alarm is working.
Fatigue with the Elite
He refuses to see that millions of Americans voted for Trump not because they are crazy about him, but because they are tired of the very elite that McFaul represents. Tired of their hypocrisy, their double standards, their detachment from the lives of ordinary people. But for McFaul, these people are simply «wrong» voters who didn’t understand their own good fortune.
He talks about how after the defeat, a «massive struggle» and «renewal» began in his party. But what do we see in reality?
We see that the very same people who hid information about Biden’s health (which McFaul admits is true) remain in power. We see that the party clung to an old and sick leader until the very end, risking losing the election to a man they themselves call a threat to democracy. Where is the renewal in that?
McFaul is not ready for serious reflection. He is not ready to admit that democracy is not a static icon, but a fragile mechanism that can break. And that it breaks not only under the blows of authoritarian leaders like Trump but also due to the arrogance and blindness of its own elites.
His Own Worst Enemy
When young Russian propaganda tells its audience, «Look, their democracy is a sham, it’s just a cover for double standards and discrimination,» it can, unfortunately, use Michael McFaul’s own words as proof. He himself, with his own hands, gives them the weapon.
He has studied autocracies for so long that he seems to have forgotten how democracy works in the real world, not in Stanford textbooks. He believes in its rituals but doesn’t see how they are being drained of their substance. And as long as he and his colleagues continue to worship this cargo cult instead of honestly talking about problems and injustice, they will only strengthen the positions of those they claim to be fighting. Because there is nothing more destructive to the idea of democracy than a hypocritical and self-satisfied democrat.
Friendship as a Political Instrument
Throughout the conversation, Michael McFaul repeatedly mentions his «friends» in Russia. This is his trump card, his credentials as «one of the guys» who «understands» Russia. He talks about Boris Nemtsov, about Alexei Navalny, about those who ended up in prison or were forced to flee. He utters their names with a kind of reverence, as if the mere mention of these surnames automatically endows him with moral authority.
But the more he talks about this «friendship,» the stronger the feeling becomes that for him, these people are not so much living individuals with their own tragedies, but functions, elements of his own biography. They are lines on his resume: «Was friends with Nemtsov, knew Navalny, associated with the opposition.»
Lines on a Resume
When he talks about Boris Nemtsov, he doesn’t recall his ideas or his struggle, but the fact that Nemtsov was at his farewell reception at Spaso House. That is, the most important part of the story turns out to be not Nemtsov’s tragic fate, but the fact that he graced Ambassador McFaul’s party with his presence. It’s a subtle, almost unconscious shift in focus from someone else’s tragedy to his own importance.
His story about Navalny is even more telling. He proudly declares:
Navalny was my friend.
But then, in response to a direct question from Dud, he admits that Navalny, while in Moscow, never once met with him. Not once. Why? Because Navalny, as a smart and far-sighted politician, understood perfectly well that any meeting with the American ambassador would be used by Kremlin propaganda as proof that he was a «State Department agent.» He was protecting his reputation and didn’t want to give his enemies the slightest pretext.
And what about McFaul? Does he understand Navalny’s motives? Does he respect his caution? No. For him, it seems, this remains a personal offense. It’s as if he can’t accept that Russia’s main opposition leader didn’t want to be part of his high-society scene. Their «friendship,» as it turns out, was limited to interactions on Twitter and meetings in the U.S., when Navalny could no longer return to Russia. This isn’t friendship; these are professional contacts. But it’s important for McFaul to call it friendship, because it gives him weight in the eyes of a Western audience.
«They were my friends»
This use of the names of the dead and imprisoned as a tool for self-promotion is one of the most unpleasant features of this interview. He doesn’t talk about how he, as a former ambassador and influential expert, helped these people. He doesn’t recount specific actions, campaigns in their support, or attempts to get them out of prison. He simply says, «They were my friends.» And that’s it.
It’s empathy from a distance, which costs nothing. It’s easy to sympathize with heroes when they are already dead or in prison. It was much harder to understand and support them when they were alive and fighting. But McFaul, by all appearances, was too busy with his parties at Spaso House and worrying about not being photographed with half-naked girls.
Superficiality in Everything
And this superficiality is evident in everything. When Dud asks him about the TCK in Ukraine—the harsh, sometimes brutal, methods of mobilization—what does McFaul say? He says:
It’s tough.
And that’s all. No analysis, no sympathy for the people being forcibly taken to the front. No reflection on how war breaks a society from within. Just a short, perfunctory phrase. Why? Because these people are not his «friends.» They are not part of his elite club. They are just statistics, faceless «Ukrainians» who are supposed to fight.
His empathy is very selective. It extends only to those who fit into his worldview, to those whose names can be proudly mentioned in an interview. Everyone else is just a backdrop for his geopolitical musings.
This is precisely why his final phrase about what constitutes strength sounds so empty. He says that strength lies in values, in convictions, in the fight for democracy. But all his previous answers show that for him, these words are nothing more than abstractions. He is willing to easily abandon these values when it comes to a pragmatic benefit for his country. He is willing to apply double standards when judging «his own» and «others.» He is willing to use the names of heroes for his own PR.
True strength lies not in grand declarations, but in consistency. In the ability to apply the same moral standards to oneself as to others. In the ability to see living people behind geopolitical schemes. And in this sense, Michael McFaul, despite all his erudition and experience, proves to be remarkably weak. His strength is that of a propagandist, not a thinker. The strength of a man who has looked at the world through the prism of the «great game» for so long that he has forgotten how to see the people in it. And that, perhaps, is the greatest tragedy—both his own, and that of the policy he represents.
«Hopeless»
At one point in the interview, Yuri Dud asks McFaul a simple but important question about the current situation on the front in Ukraine. And McFaul, without thinking, blurts out a single word: «Hopeless.»
He immediately corrects himself, thanks Dud for the clarification, and says he even misspoke in English. But that first, instinctive reaction is like a Freudian slip. It reveals his true state of mind. For Michael McFaul, the situation is indeed hopeless. But it’s hopeless not so much for Ukraine as for himself, for his worldview, for the entire policy that he and his colleagues have pursued for decades.
«Hopeless» is a word that is a verdict. A verdict on the idea that democracy can be «exported,» that it’s enough to arrive in a country, support the «right» people, hold a few seminars, and then—voila!—freedom will blossom in full splendor. McFaul is one of the main architects of this policy towards Russia in the 90s and 2000s. He sincerely believed in it. He came to Russia after the collapse of the USSR, as he himself says, «to help build democracy.»
And the result? Complete collapse. Instead of democracy—a harsh, imperial dictatorship. Instead of integration into the Western world—the most terrible war in Europe since World War II. And McFaul, looking at all this, says: «Hopeless.»
No Remorse
But there is no remorse in this word. No admission of his own mistakes. Instead, he projects this hopelessness onto others. The situation on the front is hopeless. The Russians who can’t overthrow Putin are hopeless. Russia itself is hopeless.
He says:
We failed.
It sounds like an honest admission. But who are these «we»? In his interpretation, it’s some abstract team of «good guys,» which includes himself and the «right» Russians. And the ones to blame for the failure, of course, are the «wrong» Russians who chose Putin, and Putin himself, who turned out to be a treacherous dictator.
This is a classic example of evading responsibility. He doesn’t say, «My theories were wrong. My understanding of Russia was superficial. My actions led to results I didn’t expect.» No, he says, «We tried, but they ruined everything.»
He is not prepared to admit that the «shock therapy» of the 90s, so actively supported by American advisors, led to the impoverishment of millions and spawned a profound distrust of democracy and liberalism among the people. He is not prepared to admit that cozying up to Putin in the early 2000s, when he was still considered a «partner,» allowed him to consolidate his power. He is not prepared to admit that NATO expansion, regardless of its defensive goals, was perceived in Russia as a threat and used by propaganda to fuel anti-Western sentiment.
«The Boyars are Bad»
No, in his world, it’s simple. There was a wonderful idea, but bad implementers caused it to fail. And now that his project has suffered a fiasco, he sits in his cozy Stanford office and delivers verdicts: «hopeless.»
This is the position not of an analyst, but of an offended demiurge whose creation has gone off-plan. He doesn’t try to understand the reasons for the failure. He simply states it and shifts the blame to others.
And this is evident even in the small things. When he talks about his iPhone answer at the conference, he admits that it sounded «arrogant.» But he immediately justifies himself, saying it was a «defensive position» due to «tense relations.» So, he’s not to blame, the «context» is. The Russians who created this tense atmosphere are to blame.
«The Tsar is Good»
This inability to self-criticize is a key feature of his worldview. He is always right. Even when he’s wrong, he’s right in admitting the mistake, but it’s still someone else’s fault.
And that is precisely why his advice and assessments are of so little value today. A person who cannot analyze his own failures cannot provide an adequate forecast for the future. He is stuck in the past, in his old, unworkable models. He still divides the world into «good democracies» and «bad autocracies,» failing to notice that reality is much more complex.
When he says «hopeless,» he is, in essence, admitting his own intellectual bankruptcy. He sees no way out because all exits lie outside of his outdated worldview. He doesn’t believe that Russians can change, because in his model, they are merely a passive object that either accepts the «help» of the West or chooses dictatorship. He doesn’t see a future in which Russia can find its own path to freedom, one not imposed from the outside.
And that, perhaps, is the saddest part. The former ambassador, a man who should have been a bridge between two countries, has in fact turned out to be another wall. A wall of arrogance, misunderstanding, and a refusal to have an honest conversation, first and foremost, with himself. And as long as people like him continue to shape Western policy towards Russia, the situation, I’m afraid, will indeed remain hopeless.