Spain has suddenly become a stark reference point for the way Ukraine’s struggles have unfolded on the world stage. When Zelensky drew a parallel to Gernika before Congress, it was almost inevitable that Moscow would react by doubling down on a divide at home. The following day, Dmitry Medvedev, once seen as a guard of policy against sanctions on oligarchs, openly challenged Europe’s stance, likening its posture to a modern version of a historic inquisition. In a world where autocrats increasingly code their flaws onto their opponents, the pattern is familiar: blame the other side not to confess fault, but to project power and embolden the crowd to back harsher, more aggressive actions.
Today’s Russia shows echoes of a darker era, with features that many observers tie not only to political tactics but to a theological rhetoric that underpins the conflict in Ukraine. Putin’s pronounced Orthodox faith, his public baptism aboard a luxury vessel, and a political messaging strategy that disguises real aims with euphemisms all converge into a narrative that treats the battlefield as a moral theater. He has framed operations with language that shifts from battlefield labels to more palatable terms, which the public has absorbed with a mix of fear and compliance. The risk is not merely the immediate danger of war, but the long-term effect of a society that internalizes silencing and censorship as a routine part of policy making. This shifting lexicon creates a climate where dissent is muted and calculated risk is accepted as normal, while real consequences accumulate in the lives of ordinary people.
The familiar myth of the inquisitor, threaded through literature by the figure of a powerful chief who substitutes coercion for voluntary faith, surfaces as a contemporary political allegory. Dostoevsky’s portrayal of the abbot who seeks order to suppress freedom offers a lens to understand how power can justify repression in the name of stability. Between the enduring power of traditional institutions in the Catholic world and the brutal, indiscriminate bombings that punctuate this conflict, the enduring appeal of a simplistic black legend remains a troubling and lucrative export. In this moment, references to the Inquisition appear not as mere historical allusion but as signs that the machinery of coercion—whether in religious garb or in the brand of political rhetoric—continues to operate in predictable, harmful ways. The post by Medvedev on a social channel underscores that such symbols linger in public discourse, shaping perceptions and confirming a narrative that violence can be legitimized by fear and inevitability, even when it leaves a scar on countless lives.