The war in Ukraine has laid bare a truth that’s hard to ignore: Russia, as it exists today, is not just a nation-state but a sprawling, anachronistic empire teetering on the edge of collapse. You get the sense that every missile launched, every drone sent screaming into Ukrainian skies, is not just an act of aggression but a desperate gasp from a regime clinging to an outdated imperial identity. The recent attack on a small Ukrainian city—population 250,000, far from any strategic military hub—underscored this reality. Five Kinzhal missiles and over 50 Shahed drones rained down in a single night, targeting a place that, frankly, poses no threat to Moscow’s ambitions. It’s a chilling reminder of Russia’s strategy: terrorize, destabilize, and dominate, no matter the cost. But what if the path to lasting peace lies not in containing this empire but in dismantling it altogether?
The idea of Russia’s dissolution might sound radical, even alarming, to some. After all, empires don’t just vanish—they fracture, often messily. Yet history suggests that the unraveling of imperial structures can lead to renewal, not chaos, if managed with foresight. The Russian Federation, a patchwork of 21 national republics and countless suppressed ethnic identities, is not the monolith it pretends to be. From Tatarstan to Chechnya, from Siberia to Sakha, its regions are rich in resources and culture but impoverished by Moscow’s relentless extraction. The Kremlin’s wealth—its gleaming skyscrapers, its oligarchs’ yachts—comes not from the soil of Moscow or St. Petersburg but from the exploited peripheries. This is the essence of empire: a center that thrives by draining its colonies.
Consider the human cost. Russian soldiers, disproportionately drawn from these marginalized republics, are sent to die in Ukraine’s fields, not for ideology but for survival. These are not Moscow’s elite but the poor, the desperate, lured by promises of pay in regions where jobs are scarce. It’s a grim echo of the Soviet Union’s final days, when Ukrainians and others were conscripted into the futile war in Afghanistan. The Kremlin’s playbook hasn’t changed: exploit the margins, sacrifice the vulnerable, and call it patriotism. What’s troubling is how this cycle perpetuates itself, with Moscow’s leaders seemingly blind to the cracks forming beneath their feet.
The argument for Russia’s dissolution isn’t just moral—it’s practical. Empires, by their nature, are unstable. They rely on coercion, fear, and economic dominance to hold disparate peoples together. But Russia’s grip is slipping. Its economy is buckling under sanctions and inflation; its central bank admits resources are dwindling. Allies like Armenia and Azerbaijan are drifting away, sensing Moscow’s weakness. Even China, Russia’s supposed partner, treats Putin more like a client than an equal. The 2023 Prigozhin mutiny, when Wagner’s forces marched toward Moscow with no resistance from regional governors, exposed a truth: loyalty to the Kremlin is thin, opportunistic, and fragile. If a single warlord could shake the regime, imagine what a broader push for autonomy could do.
History offers a roadmap. The Russian Empire’s collapse in 1917 freed nations like Finland and Poland, which have since thrived as independent states. The Soviet Union’s dissolution in 1991 birthed Ukraine, the Baltics, and others, many of which now outshine Russia economically and politically. Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia are EU and NATO members, their streets safer, their societies freer. Ukraine, even under the shadow of war, pulses with a cultural and democratic vibrancy that Moscow can only dream of. These examples dismantle the fear that Russia’s breakup would unleash chaos. If managed carefully, it could instead foster stability, freeing nations to govern themselves and reducing the Kremlin’s ability to destabilize the world.
Critics might argue that dissolution risks nuclear instability or regional conflict. But let’s be clear: a dictator already controls Russia’s nuclear arsenal, and his recklessness is the real threat. A fragmented Russia, with international oversight, could neutralize this danger more effectively than propping up a failing regime. The alternative—continuing to appease or contain Moscow—only prolongs the inevitable. Empires don’t survive the modern era; they implode under the weight of their own contradictions. Russia’s refusal to acknowledge its imperial sins, unlike Western nations that have grappled with their colonial pasts, only hastens this process. While countries like Britain and France teach the dark chapters of their histories, Russia glorifies its conquests, from Pushkin’s odes to bloodshed to graffiti scrawled on occupied Ukrainian homes.
The intellectual case for dissolution is gaining traction. Ukrainian scholars like Valerii Pekar argue that decolonizing Russia is essential for global security. This isn’t about vengeance but pragmatism. A Russia that no longer sees itself as an empire would cease to view its neighbors as threats or resources. It would free nations like the Yakuts, Buryats, and Chechens to reclaim their languages, histories, and futures. Imagine a world where gas prices drop because Siberia’s resources are no longer funneled to Moscow’s elite. Imagine a Europe no longer held hostage by Putin’s ambitions. This isn’t fantasy—it’s a possibility grounded in the reality of Russia’s weakening grip.
Skeptics may point to the “good Russians,” those who oppose Putin and seek reform. But here’s the hard truth: as a political force, they barely exist. Exiles like Navalny, who still claimed Crimea as Russian, often fail the litmus test of rejecting imperial mindsets. Ask a Russian about Chechnya or Crimea, and you’ll likely hear the Kremlin’s talking points, not dissent. This isn’t about individual morality but a collective failure to challenge the imperial framework that defines Russia. The Federation’s 21 republics, home to dozens of distinct nations, deserve better than to be pawns in Moscow’s game.
So, what’s the path forward? First, the West must stop treating Russia as a permanent fixture. Sanctions and isolation are bandages on a festering wound; they don’t address the root cause. Supporting movements for regional autonomy, amplifying suppressed voices from Tatarstan to Tuva, and preparing for a controlled transition could turn dissolution from a fear into an opportunity. Ukraine’s resilience—its refusal to bend under nightly barrages—offers a model. If a small city of 250,000 can withstand Russia’s wrath, imagine what a coalition of liberated nations could achieve.
The conclusion isn’t just hopeful—it’s urgent. Russia’s empire is crumbling, and the world must be ready. This isn’t about dismantling a nation but freeing dozens of them. It’s about recognizing that peace in Ukraine, Europe, and beyond depends on ending a centuries-old cycle of domination. You get the sense that history is watching, waiting for us to act. The question isn’t whether Russia will dissolve—it’s whether we’ll help it do so peacefully, or let it collapse in chaos. For Ukraine, for the repressed nations within Russia, and for a world tired of imperial wars, the answer is clear: it’s time to let the empire fall.
