After Alexei Navalny

Reimagining resistance in an age of global authoritarianism.

Editor’s Note:

Hello there! It’s Aron Ouzilevski, DOXA’s newsletter editor here to guide you through all things Russia—in English.

February 16 will mark a year since opposition leader Alexei Navalny died in a Russian prison colony. To many, he was a hero—to others, as reflected in our opinion pieces, a divisive figure who was never given the chance to break free from a political legacy marred by controversial remarks and a platform criticized for its lack of inclusivity.

As a publication committed to fostering a diverse range of opinions, we have chosen to refrain from making a collective editorial statement. Instead, I will share some personal reflections from the day of his death

That morning, I received a message from a close Ukrainian friend. Despite her deep skepticism toward what she sees as a lackluster and self-interested Russian opposition, her words were moving. She spoke about how Navalny’s death was, above all, a tragedy for the Russian people—that he had instilled hope, galvanized thousands of young Russians to believe in change, and awakened political consciousness—if even for a fleeting moment—in a society that had long been deeply depoliticized.

Such an unequivocal tragedy—an act of blatant malice by the Russian regime—created a rare moment where differences were set aside.

At the time, I was in Tbilisi, Georgia, researching Russia’s exile movement. Russian émigrés quickly organized a demonstration outside the remnants of Russia’s consular presence, which had been shuttered after the 2008 war.

On my way there, my Georgian taxi driver, unaware of the news, spent the ride excitedly praising his car’s new auto-assist feature. As we approached the gathering, he suddenly asked, “Is this a protest?”

I nodded.

“Who are they?”

“Russians,” I replied. Then, barely believing it myself, I croaked, “Navalny died.”

He paused for what felt like an eternity. Then, in a quiet, knowing voice, he muttered, “They killed him… they killed him after all.”

In my year and a half observing the divisions deepened by Russia’s brutal invasion of Ukraine, this, too, felt like a rare moment of shared humanity—a recognition that, in the end, the imperialist structures that killed Navalny, that seek to control Georgia’s future and deprive Ukraine of one, are a common enemy.

With that, I leave you with the first of two essays examining Navalny’s legacy. Today’s is by researcher and Visiting Fellow at London School of Economics’ Center for Women, Peace and Security Natalia Baranova, while the second, to be released in a few days, will be by UC Berkeley visiting scholar Ilya Matveev.

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By Natalia Baranova

Collective mourning as political organizing

I was in the library when the news broke. We all knew this day would come, but it still felt unreal. I took a deep breath and began to cry. I had never backed Alexei Navalny’s politics or his movement, but the shock hit me all the same.

Throughout nearly three years of Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, 17 activists have died in Russian prisons.

In 2024 alone, 12 political prisoners perished behind bars, according to the human rights organization OVD-INFO. We know little about most of them. The anti-war composer and writer Pavel Kushner gained recognition only after his death. He protested Russia’s invasion of Ukraine and went on a hunger strike following his arrest in May 2024, later refusing water. He passed away quietly two months later, days before a planned swap involving more prominent dissidents. His life, like so many others, deserves to be grieved as well.

I was fortunate and privileged enough to escape Russia. In May 2022, I was labeled a “foreign agent” before the government opened a criminal case against me and placed me on a wanted list for allegedly violating the “foreign agent” law. Had I remained in Russia, I would have been sentenced to two years in prison.

I’ve worked with civil society and independent media for over a decade, starting at 18 when I first noticed a surge in political activity in my hometown, Kirov (Vyatka)—especially after Navalny’s campaign set up a regional headquarters there.

I vividly remember the collective mourning that followed Navalny’s death on February 16, 2024. I cried again watching his funeral, televised by independent Russian media, in Moscow. Crowds shouted “Stop the war” and “Love is stronger than fear,” while women fell to their knees in tears at the Wall of Grief.

Anger, wonder, and hope are all vital to collective political action, writes postcolonial scholar Sara Ahmed. In her book The Cultural Politics of Emotion, she argues that solidarity “does not assume that our struggles are the same struggles, or that our pain is the same pain, or that our hope is for the same future.”

Rather, she continues, “[solidarity] involves commitment and work, as well as the recognition that even if we do not have the same feelings, or the same lives, or the same bodies, we do live on common ground.”

During Navalny’s mourning demonstrations, people found common ground in shared emotions—grief, anger, defiance. In a time of extreme repression and bans on public gatherings, such collective action carried real weight.

As we mark the anniversary of Navalny’s death, it’s crucial to reflect on his impact on Russian politics and activism. Let’s ask questions that matter: How did his politics reinforce or challenge gender norms? Why does the vision of a "Beautiful Russia of the Future"—the main slogan of Navalny’s 2017 presidential campaign, now taken up by the broader Russian opposition—fall short of systemic, radical change?

Do we risk perpetuating structural violence and inequality by isolating ourselves to his vision? What does solidarity mean, and how can we organize politically against the rise of the far-right?

Feminist theory, as Durba Mitra describes it, is a “project of dreaming otherwise in the language of critique,” offering a framework to critically reimagine the world.

Nation, Masculinity and Gender stereotypes

Russia’s politics are shaped by traditional gender roles, sexism, militarized masculinity, nationalism, and imperialism. Even Alexei Navalny, despite his advocacy for democracy, has not been immune to these influences—a point frequently raised by Ukrainian activists. His career has been marked by controversy, from his participation in the far-right "Russkiy March" to his 2014 stance on Crimea, when he ruled out returning the peninsula to Ukraine. Only years later, while imprisoned, Navalny outlined a revised political platform in letters, calling for respect for Ukraine’s 1991 borders, Crimea’s return, reparations to Kyiv, and an investigation into war crimes.

His patriotism closely aligned with the idea of a nation-state and masculinity. While his political platform emphasized the importance of education and social reforms, it also asserted that "the Russian army should be the best armament in the world." Feminist groups often demanded that he include protecting women’s rights in his political agenda. In a country where domestic abuse is decriminalized, this should have been a priority. However, it was an issue he addressed only briefly.

The legacies of the Soviet-Afghan and Russian-Chechen wars—now compounded by Russia’s invasion of Ukraine—continue to leave generations of men with untreated trauma. Violence from these conflicts keeps seeping back into Russian society, disproportionately harming women and other vulnerable groups.

The statistics are shocking. Sixty-six percent of Russian women murdered in 2022 and 2023 were killed by their partners or relatives, according to Algorithm Sveta, a women’s rights NGO. From a feminist perspective, war is not an isolated event but a continuation of patriarchal violence. Any meaningful reform must go beyond conflict itself to address the structural insecurities—social, economic, and cultural—that perpetuate violence. Russia’s state must be radically reimagined, with demilitarization, conflict prevention, and the fight against sexual and gender-based violence as urgent political demands.

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After his death, leadership was symbolically passed to his team and widow, Yulia. In reality, there is no single leader of the so-called "Russian opposition" in exile. The very idea of a singular leader feels outdated, reinforcing hierarchies of power rather than challenging them.

Resistance against the Putin regime must be horizontal. A multitude of organizations—far more diverse and resilient than those of traditional exiled politicians—have emerged to challenge the system.

As I wrote in a 2022 article, the core principles of Russia’s grassroots anti-war movement are solidarity, horizontality, and a rejection of hierarchies. Decentralization expands outreach and makes participation accessible across social groups. Movements such as the Feminist Anti-War Resistance, Vesna, Antijob, the Free Buryatia Foundation, and Asians of Russia—alongside the Movement of Conscientious Objectors, partisan groups, and coalitions like the Platform of Anti-War Initiatives—have built an alternative resistance network.

Russian independent media also plays a crucial role in countering disinformation, exposing propaganda, and investigating war crimes. This resistance is broad and intersectional, spanning environmental, decolonial, feminist, anti-fascist, anti-capitalist, and queer initiatives—all confronting the structural violence underpinning Russia’s wars.

Resistance doesn’t need a single leader to challenge the global war economy and transnational repression, where dictators, oligarchs, and tech corporations form a potentially devastating alliance. We need systemic action and a fundamental overhaul of the global order, which perpetuates imperialism and structural injustice. The response must be collective and strategic—not only countering Putin’s aggression and his alliances with fellow dictators but also addressing the root causes of modern wars and the repeated failures of international institutions to prevent them.

Practising Hope and Care within Communities

Navalny’s simple message—"Don’t give up"—was powerful. But what does it mean in the context of global resistance?

As a community organizer and feminist scholar living in exile, I am always looking for the answer to this question. I feel rage, and fear as fascism and right-wing ideas take center stage. The so-called negotiations between President Donald Trump and President Vladimir Putin to end the war in Ukraine are alarming. They follow an age-old script: when peace is on the table, the voices of civil society and women’s rights initiatives are excluded.

To fight back is to promote care and solidarity in our collectives and broader groups.

We must remember that we have always been here, resisting against a continuum of violence. As Sara Ahmed writes in the Feminist Killjoy Handbook, “when you have to fight for an existence, fighting can become an existence.” Let us celebrate the strength of collective resistance and harness its transformative power to craft winning strategies. Reflecting on and expressing gratitude for our shared efforts must be a daily practice.

Russia’s diverse grassroots initiatives have long endured, organizing and resisting despite repression. We have always been part of a transnational movement against the far right. I only wish our voices—along with those resisting every other dictatorship—had been heard more clearly, then and now, to inspire greater solidarity and action.

As Ruha Benjamin writes, we must “remember to imagine and craft the worlds you cannot live without, just as you dismantle the ones you cannot live within.” The struggles against patriarchy, capitalism, colonialism, and militarism are deeply interconnected, requiring an intersectional and holistic response.

I draw inspiration from recent collective efforts such as Gender, Justice and Security: Structural Challenges, Feminist Innovations and Radical Futures, developed by 150 organizations worldwide, as well as the respective grassroots Ukrainian and Russian peace manifestos. These initiatives demonstrate that hope and solidarity are not luxuries but political necessities.

I remember January 2021, when Alexei Navalny returned to Russia after being poisoned and was immediately arrested. In the wake of unprecedented protests in his support—which were brutally suppressed by the state—I organized a public act called Conversation of Care, where I spoke with strangers in Moscow about their emotions and how they were navigating a political climate where space for protest was disappearing. I sought common ground. People shared their fear, anxiety, and uncertainty, but also a sense of belonging and hope.

Navalny was not without flaws, but he mobilized Russians to take action and organize. He confronted the realities of centralization, corruption, and oligarchy, challenging the growing atomization of Russian society—a trend that is no longer unique to Russia. “One for all and all for one,” he repeated at demonstrations. In a time of collective loss and grief, we must continue to show up for one another, practicing hope, care and transforming our emotions into a source for resistance.