Prigozhin’s ‘March for Justice’ follows in a long-standing Russian tradition of attempted military takeovers. Many Muscovites lived through one such coup d’etat in 1991, when communist hardliners made a last-ditch effort to avoid the implosion of the Soviet Union. However, in the aftermath of Wagner’s drive to Moscow, most commentators drew a different historical parallel: the 1917 Kornilov Affair. It is understandable why this comparison arose given Putin himself alluded to the events of 1917 in his address to the nation on June 24th (“A blow like this was dealt to Russia in 1917 when the country was fighting in World War I, but the victory was stolen from it: intrigues, squabbles and politicking behind the backs of the army and the nation turned into the greatest turmoil”). But this comparison raises important questions: is the Kornilov Affair an accurate or useful comparison? Might there be more apt historical analogies to understand the fate of Putin’s regime? And most importantly of all, why has Putin invoked this period and what role do historical allusions play in upholding the Putin autocracy?
Following the abdication of Tsar Nicholas II in February 1917, Russia experienced a tectonic shift in its political landscape. The February Revolution had established a provisional government composed of moderate liberals and socialists, with Alexander Kerensky at its helm. However, the country remained deeply divided, with the Petrograd Soviet, a council of workers and soldiers, representing a radical alternative to the provisional government’s rule. Amidst the turmoil, General Lavr Kornilov, a decorated military leader, emerged as a charismatic figure with ambitions to restore discipline and authority to a war-weary Russia. With growing concern over the rising influence of Bolshevik elements in the Petrograd Soviet, Kornilov saw himself as a defender of order and sought to wield military power to achieve his vision. In September 1917, the Petrograd Soviet formed the Committee for Struggle Against Counterrevolution to defend against General Kornilov’s advancing troops. Led by the Bolsheviks, including Leon Trotsky, they obstructed Kornilov’s army by working with rail workers, infiltrating the army for sabotage, and convincing soldiers to desert. Kornilov’s forces gradually thinned on route to Petrograd and the affair ended without bloodshed on 13th September 1917, when Kornilov surrendered.
The resemblance of the Kornilov Affair to the Wagner coup is evident. In both cases, a military leader responded to failures of war by marching on the capital with the aim of restoring discipline. Both Kornilov and Prigozhin never reached their intended target and were stopped with minimal blood spilt. The conclusion frequently drawn from the Kornilov Affair is that although Kornilov’s coup was unsuccessful, the damage done to Kerensky’s legitimacy and the stability of the Provisional Government was significant – as Kerensky was ultimately toppled by the Bolsheviks in October. Similarly, while Prigozhin’s march may have failed, Putin’s image of stability has been dealt a severe blow which raises questions about the survival of his regime and the longevity of the war.
Despite the prevalence of the Prigozhin-Kornilov metaphor, there are crucial differences between these two cases: while Kornilov was a strong supporter of continuing World War I, Prigozhin has not been so supportive of the War in Ukraine. Indeed, the latter has questioned Putin’s rationale for the ‘special military operation’ in the first place. Furthermore, Kornilov represented the Russian military high command as the commander-in-chief of the Russian Army, while Prigozhin rebelled against such a centralised command under Shoigu and Gerasimov. Kornilov was ideologically opposed to the Bolsheviks and would die a year later fighting the Reds in the Russian Civil War; meanwhile, it is unclear whether Prigozhin stands for anything above himself and the survival of his personal mercenary force. Putin’s regime is also not as flimsy as the provisional government; despite the rebellion, the Putin autocracy maintains tight control of the security and state apparatus.
Alternative allegories have been given, such as that of Vladislav Zubok, Professor of International History at the London School of Economics. He has suggested that the 20th century is not the right place to look for a historical comparison and instead associates the Wagner coup to Russia’s Time of Troubles (or Smuta) from 1604-13 in which the Rurikid dynasty collapsed, resulting in a decade of chaos and war as elite clans squabbled for control of the tsardom. The Smuta was an anarchic period; for example, in 1606 the warlord Ivan Bolotnikov led a makeshift army to Moscow to appoint a ‘people’s tsar’, only to be betrayed by his allies. Interestingly, while many Western commentators were quick to jump on Putin’s allusion to 1917 the day of the attempted Wagner coup, a few days later Putin also compared the coup to the Smuta.The purpose of Putin in invoking the Time of Troubles is to emphasise the scale of chaos that could emerge from civil strife as roughly a third of the Russian population was decimated during the Smuta.
Not everyone has been satisfied with these comparison. In particular, Alexander S. Burns, Assistant Professor of History at the Franciscan University of Steubenville, has argued that a more fitting comparison comes from Medieval England: at that time, rebellions against monarchs rarely demanded the king be deposed, but rather that ‘wicked advisors’ who were supposedly misleading the benevolent monarch be blamed. In October 1536, a revolt known as the Pilgrimage of Grace erupted in Northern England against Henry VIII’s church reforms. They blamed ‘persons of low birth and small reputation’ for advising the king poorly, not the king himself. Burns suggests this is similar to Prigozhin’s call to remove Gerasimov and Shoigu – rather than Putin himself. Unfortunately for Prigozhin, the Pilgrimage of Grace did not end well: while Henry VIII initially agreed to their demands and even established a parliament to discuss their concerns, this was ultimately a decoy as the king soon had their leaders executed and reneged on the agreement.
The question is not whether these anecdotes map perfectly on the current state of Putin’s regime, but rather what implicit political messages can be gleaned about the fate of Prigozhin and Russia. Perhaps Prigozhin is a Kornilov, heralding the inevitable end of Putin’s rule; or his fate is more akin to Bolotnikov and will end in chaos and bloodshed; or maybe Wagner’s ‘March for Justice’ will resemble the Pilgrimage of Grace and that Prigozhin’s days are numbered. Regardless of the outcome, these narratives play an important role in the Putin regime; the current Tsar has explicitly compared ongoing events to Russia’s history of ‘traumatic spasms of chaos’ to convey just how bad things could be without him.