The Death of an Empire and the Shadow of Victory Day

On 3 May 2026, an extraordinary march was held in Washington DC. Hundreds of people walked among the monuments of the American capital, carrying portraits of Red Army soldiers. Children waved Soviet flags, and an orchestra played war songs at the World War II memorial. The Russia embassy had obtained permission, and police escort was provided. Russian state media claimed that with Donald Trump's return, historical truth had also returned to America. One of the organizers told Russian state television, "We love and respect Russia, and we honor the memory of our heroes."

Similar marches took place in Paris, Amsterdam, and Busan. In Berlin, officials announced that Soviet flags, Russian symbols, and military marches were banned during the 8-9 May commemoration events. However, in Moscow, Victory Day was overshadowed by fear. For decades, 9 May had been Russia's most sacred political ritual; it united victory, patriotism, and state power. But this year, Kremlin spokesman Dmitri Peskov announced that the Immortal Regiment march would continue in Moscow only in "electronic format." The traditional parade was canceled, military equipment was removed, and mobile internet access was cut.

In St. Petersburg, the number of spectators was reduced from thousands to a few hundred, and the parade in Kaliningrad was completely canceled. Russian media published extraordinary reports claiming that Vladimir Putin had retreated to fortified shelters due to fears of Ukrainian unmanned aerial vehicles and assassination attempts. The Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs called on foreign governments to evacuate their embassies in Kyiv and threatened massive retaliation if Ukraine targeted the celebrations. Subsequently, Volodimir Zelenskiy announced that, following temporary ceasefire negotiations, he had removed Red Square from Ukraine's operational attack plans.

Watching all this, I wondered whether the collapse of the emotional systems created by empires is even more difficult. The Soviet Union dissolved more than 30 years ago, but it continued its existence by transcending architectural boundaries, diasporas, and rival political projects built around victory, sacrifice, and historical resentment. What began as the Soviet salvation myth transformed into a transnational political discourse where governments, activists, diasporas, and rival ideological movements compete for legitimacy, victimhood, and belonging.

In Coda, we have watched for years how the memory of World War II became the center of Putin's legitimacy and repression machine. After Putin came to power, Russian public culture was filled with Great Patriotic War stories. New films, textbooks, TV series, speeches, parades, and television special programs made victory the emotional foundation of Putin's Russia. Experts on Russian memory politics explained that under Putin's rule, the collective memory of the war became a tool for gaining legitimacy, discrediting the opposition, and presenting the Russian state as the eternal defender against fascism. This resonated because it touched upon genuine feelings passed down through generations; it was never just propaganda, it was built upon the private grief carried by millions of families.