Ukraine would permit Russia to hold its celebration unmolested
On the anniversary of Soviet triumph, Vladimir Putin stood before a diminished parade and proclaimed Russia's inevitable victory — yet the locked-down square, the absent tanks, and the North Korean soldiers marching past told a quieter, more revealing story. What was staged as a celebration of strength read, to careful observers, as a portrait of a war that has outlasted its own justifications. History has seen this before: the rhetoric of certainty persisting long after the conditions that once supported it have quietly dissolved.
- A 45-minute parade stripped of tanks and missile systems — where thunderous hardware once rolled, organizers substituted a video of drones and nuclear weapons, a substitution that spoke louder than any speech.
- Moscow was placed under siege-like conditions on its own holiday: internet cut, security cordons drawn tight, the protection of the president himself treated as an open and urgent problem.
- Ukraine responded to Putin's ceasefire request with pointed theater — issuing a formal decree 'permitting' Russia to hold its celebration unmolested, inverting the power dynamic in a single diplomatic gesture.
- The Russian economy, long propped up by war spending, is now buckling under inflation and record deficits, while Putin's approval ratings have begun the kind of slide that precedes harder reckonings.
- With the Kremlin demanding full Ukrainian withdrawal from Donetsk as a precondition for talks — a demand Kyiv has flatly refused — the war grinds on past the length of the entire Soviet campaign against Nazi Germany, with no breakthrough in sight.
On a Saturday in early May, Vladimir Putin stood on Red Square and declared Russia's victory assured. But the stage contradicted the speech. Moscow was locked down — internet cut across the city, security cordons drawn around the square — in precautions that Russian authorities themselves described as protection for the president, an acknowledgment that carried the weight of an admission.
The Victory Day parade, a Soviet-era ritual Putin had expanded over the years, was this time cut to forty-five minutes and stripped of its traditional military hardware. In place of tanks and missile systems, organizers screened a video of drone capabilities and nuclear weapons. The delegations watching included Belarus, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan — and a column of North Korean soldiers, a visible measure of how Russia's circle of reliable partners has contracted and changed shape.
Putin had wanted the occasion to coincide with a ceasefire, pressing Zelenskyy directly. Ukraine's president obliged with theatrical precision, issuing a decree announcing that Ukraine would 'permit' Russia to hold its celebration unmolested — framed as a courtesy to the American president. The drones stayed grounded. The message did not: Ukraine was granting permission where Russia once might have issued demands.
Beneath the familiar rhetoric — Putin again drew the line between the Second World War and his invasion of Ukraine, invoking the 'generation of victors' — the war's realities were becoming harder to paper over. The conflict has now lasted longer than the entire Soviet campaign against Nazi Germany. Russian advances have slowed toward stasis. Casualties continue to mount across Donetsk, with Ukrainian forces holding fortified positions at enormous cost to both sides.
At home, the Russian economy is beginning to buckle after years of war-driven spending. Inflation is rising, the budget deficit climbing. Internet blackouts imposed before the parade, justified as security measures, landed on ordinary Russians as something closer to siege conditions. Putin's approval ratings have begun to slip. Yet the Kremlin signaled no movement toward compromise, with an aide stating that Moscow saw no basis for negotiations until Ukraine withdrew entirely from Donetsk — a condition Kyiv has rejected without hesitation. The parade ended. The ceasefire expired. The war continued.
On a Saturday in early May, Vladimir Putin stood on Red Square and declared that Russia's victory was assured. The words came easily enough—he had spoken them before, would speak them again. But the stage on which he delivered them told a different story entirely.
Moscow that morning was locked down. Internet services had been switched off across the city. Security cordons ringed the square. The precautions were not subtle, and they were not presented as routine. Russian authorities made clear they were there to protect the president himself, an acknowledgment that landed with the weight of an admission: the calculus of this war had shifted in ways that could no longer be hidden.
The Victory Day parade, an annual ritual since the Soviet era, had been stripped to its essentials. Where tanks and missile systems once rolled past in thunderous display—a tradition Putin himself had introduced in 2017—there was now only absence. In their place, organizers showed a video of drone capabilities and nuclear weapons. The parade lasted forty-five minutes. Previous years had run nearly twice as long. The crowd that watched included delegations from Belarus, Kazakhstan, and Uzbekistan, and a column of North Korean soldiers marching across the square, a visible reminder that Russia's circle of reliable allies had grown considerably smaller and considerably stranger.
Putin had wanted the parade to coincide with a ceasefire. He had pressed Volodymyr Zelenskyy directly on the point. Ukraine's president, when he responded, did so with a kind of theatrical precision. He issued a decree announcing that Ukraine would "permit" Russia to hold its celebration unmolested—a gift, he suggested, offered out of deference to a request from the American president. The three-day ceasefire held. The drones did not come. But the message was unmistakable: Ukraine was granting permission where once Russia might have demanded it.
Inside the Kremlin's preferred framing, none of this mattered. Putin invoked the sacrifices of the Second World War, drawing a line he had drawn many times before between that struggle and his invasion of Ukraine. "The great feat of the generation of victors inspires the warriors carrying out the tasks of the special military operation today," he said, using the euphemism the state had settled on years ago. He spoke of heroes moving forward despite being arrayed against NATO itself. Victory, he insisted, had always been and would always be Russia's.
Yet the reality grinding on beneath these declarations was becoming harder to conceal. The war had now lasted longer than the entire Soviet campaign against Nazi Germany. On the battlefield, Russian troops had slowed to something approaching stasis. Neither side appeared capable of breakthrough. Both armies were showing signs of exhaustion. Casualties continued to mount—tens of thousands of lives spent in the fight over Donetsk alone, with Ukrainian forces still holding key cities and fortified positions that Kyiv had defended at enormous cost.
Back home, the strain was visible in the numbers. After years of growth fueled by military spending, the Russian economy was beginning to buckle. Inflation was rising. The budget deficit was climbing to record levels. Public anger had been stoked by internet blackouts imposed in the weeks before the parade, justified by security services as necessary precautions but experienced by ordinary Russians as something closer to siege conditions. Putin's approval ratings, once seemingly unshakeable, had begun to slip.
Yet there was little indication that any of this was moving the Kremlin toward compromise. A Kremlin aide told Russian media that Moscow saw no basis for new negotiations until Ukrainian forces withdrew entirely from Donetsk—a condition Kyiv had rejected flatly and repeatedly. The parade was over. The ceasefire would end. The war would continue, grinding forward into an uncertain future, with a Russian president still speaking the language of inevitable victory while the machinery of state worked overtime to protect him from the consequences of a war that no longer looked winnable.
Citas Notables
The great feat of the generation of victors inspires the warriors carrying out the tasks of the special military operation today. Victory has always been and will always be ours.— Vladimir Putin, at Victory Day parade
It was a modest parade. There are still enormous challenges ahead.— Sergei Markov, pro-Kremlin commentator, on Telegram
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why did Putin bother with the parade at all, if he had to strip it down so completely?
Because the ritual itself matters more than what it displays. Victory Day connects him to the Soviet past, to a moment when Russia was unambiguously on the winning side. He needs that connection, especially now.
But the absence of tanks and missiles—doesn't that undermine the whole point?
It does, which is why they had to acknowledge the security measures so openly. They couldn't hide the reason for the cuts. That transparency, paradoxically, made the weakness more visible.
What did Zelenskyy accomplish with that decree about "permitting" the parade?
He reframed the entire dynamic. Instead of Ukraine being forced to stand down, it became Ukraine choosing restraint. It's a small thing, but symbolically it inverted the power relationship.
Is there any chance Putin actually believes what he's saying about inevitable victory?
Possibly. But belief and strategy are different things. Even if he doubts it privately, he can't say so publicly. The state apparatus is built on the premise that he's right.
What happens when the ceasefire ends in three days?
The war resumes. Nothing fundamental has changed. But those three days will have given both sides a moment to measure what they've lost and what they might still lose.