Recently, Vladimir Putin’s press secretary, Dmitry Peskov, stated that after mobilization is complete, there remains an inertia in the military registration and enlistment offices.
He called it the inertia of the military registration and enlistment offices!
To translate bureaucratic talk into plain language: Russia has essentially closed the mobilization, as even the president acknowledged, yet the military registration and recruitment offices keep moving along. There is no influence you can exert on them, quite unlike the weather. Just open your arms. Here stands the president’s press secretary and his circle of aides.
That phrase about the inertia of the enlistment offices sounds to many like an unstoppable force, a stubborn inevitability. It reminded the author of the local bureaucracy back home, a force that seems older than law itself and not entirely human in its stubborn pull.
There is a strong conviction here that the bureaucratic machinery in Russia is not governed by modern legal codes alone. It feels as if older, almost mystical rules shape its behavior, a stubborn organ that has survived centuries of change. The entire system appears as a long-standing, stubborn spirit that has outlived empires and even the passage of time, persisting through Christianity, the Soviet era, and whatever may come next.
When a person in Russia hears about needing a certificate labeled ABV123 in a tax office, the reaction is immediate and visceral. The process to obtain such a certificate is described as a trek on foot to a distant post, enduring delays that stretch to the breaking point, and the possibility of having to return with new paperwork because a form contains a minor error. The chatter about forms like VGD456, issued in far-off locations on peculiar calendars, illustrates a system that seems to operate on a schedule all its own, independent of everyday life.
Usually, the average person, unless they possess unusual luck or strong charms, ends up with a gray nod of the head and a handful of nerves frayed by the chase. More often, many choose not to wrestle with a colossal, ancient power that appears to answer only to itself.
What emerges is a sense of contradiction felt by many, a clash between humanistic, Christian values and the old, chthonic world of red tape. That tension is seen in everyday language, as one hears messages like不要贪恋状态机构的权力, a reminder that personal virtue and restraint are called for when dealing with the state. The practice of faith and ritual is used by some as a moment of calm in the midst of the cold, impersonal machinery.
In public life, people sometimes recite prayers or chants either as a personal ritual or as a way to cope, choosing to recite familiar lines to steady themselves in front of a throng of officials. Whether this truly helps more than the paperwork is a matter of personal judgment—an old habit that persists because of necessity and habit rather than reform alone.
When the claim is made that the Russian people are invincible, the response is often quiet agreement. The real issue lies in whether the country can ever outpace its own administrative inertia. Even the most determined individuals can feel overwhelmed by the seemingly endless grind of rules and forms. The impression is that the system itself is a kind of test, one that wears down the strongest will and tests the limits of endurance.
Thus, the world remains in a state of the inertia of the military registration and enlistment offices, a landscape where miracles appear, where mythical creatures may be seen, and where observers are reminded that well-worn routines can hold fast against change. The sense is that this state of affairs will endure for generations to come, stubborn and unyielding yet familiar to many who navigate it daily.
What follows is a personal perspective, not an official stance, and reflects one view among many in a country where bureaucracy touches daily life in sometimes surprising ways.