As Ukrainian Drones Strike Deeper Into Russia, Cracks Emerge in the Kremlin’s Social Compact With City Dwellers
When Elena Vladimirovna woke to the buzz of drones over her apartment in Zelenograd, a satellite city of Moscow, she initially thought the danger had passed. Then an explosion shattered the night.
“Below us, under the balcony, there is a canopy. The drone fell on that canopy, and then it burst into flames, black smoke started coming,” the 56-year-old recalled. A room on her fifth floor caught fire. She and her son grabbed buckets — then heard a second blast and fled with their dog.
Elena’s building was one of dozens hit during a mass Ukrainian drone attack on May 17 that, according to Russian officials, killed at least three people in the Moscow region. The assault marked another escalation in Kyiv’s campaign to bring the war to Russian soil — a strategy that, until recently, left residents of the country’s largest cities largely insulated from the conflict now entering its fifth year.
That insulation is eroding. Ukraine’s long-range strikes are no longer rare or symbolic. They are becoming a regular feature of life in Russia’s urban centers, puncturing the Kremlin’s carefully curated narrative that the “special military operation” is something happening far away.
Beyond the immediate danger from drones, Russians are confronting new hardships: fuel shortages caused by Ukrainian attacks on refineries, rising taxes, tighter internet controls, and the blocking of popular messaging apps like WhatsApp and Telegram. The state’s push to replace them with a government-backed messenger called Max has been met with defiance — some residents buy “burner” phones, dubbed “MAXophones,” to keep private chats off state servers.
“I even have two phones now — one for MAX, one just mine,” said Elena’s neighbor Maxim, who asked not to be fully named. He returned to his Zelenograd apartment after the drone strike to find authorities had broken down his door to inspect the damage. “Who told them they can do that?” he said, frustration evident.
The creeping sense of disquiet is reflected in opinion polls. The independent Levada Center found in April that 62% of Russians favor moving to peace talks, while only 27% want the military operations to continue. Although the survey predates the latest wave of strikes, analysts say it captures a growing wariness, especially among those who once felt the conflict was distant.
Social anthropologist Alexandra Arkhipova, who now lives in exile and was labeled a foreign agent in 2023, notes that after the full-scale invasion in 2022, authorities in Moscow appeared to strike an informal bargain: “Live your life, there is no war for you.” That commitment, she argues, is now showing strain. “The mayor of Moscow put a lot of effort into making it look like there is no war going on,” she said. “But the drone strikes, the blocked apps, the extra taxes — the façade is cracking.”
On the eve of the St. Petersburg International Economic Forum, Ukrainian drones swarmed President Vladimir Putin’s hometown, sending black smoke into the sky as delegates arrived. Residents were later told to stay home after a second attack on the final day of the event. In Kronstadt, a port city near St. Petersburg, one woman described the walls of her home shaking from 3 a.m. as drones buzzed overhead and Russian anti-missile systems fired back.
In Khimki, northwest of Moscow, a drone struck a residential tower just 100 feet from Victory Square — which features a monument linking Russia’s World War II victory to its current “special military operation.” The inscription reads: “By preserving the past we defend the future!” Four days later, Nadezhda stood outside looking up at the blackened hole. She had watched the drone fly overhead on May 17. “I flinch at everything now, even firecrackers,” she said.
Another resident, Yelena, walking past the damaged building with her 10-year-old son, said her family woke to the buzzing drones that night. “It just went on and on,” she recalled. “I’d like peace. I wish this would all end soon.”
Those sentiments are echoing more broadly. Elena, whose apartment still has a gaping hole in the wall days later, expressed hope the war would end. “I hope no more of them come,” she said quietly. “We’re still alive. That’s the most important thing.”
Yet for many Russians, the war remains a background hum — present but not all-consuming. Unlike Ukrainians who have endured direct bombardment, urban Russians have largely been able to go about their routines. The drone strikes, however, are erasing that distance, one explosion at a time.
Ukraine’s President Volodymyr Zelensky called the May 17 strikes “entirely justified,” saying they sent “a clear message to the Russians: their government must end this war.” Whether that message is being received in the way Kyiv intends is another question. What is clear is that the social contract that once allowed Moscow’s residents to feel safe while the war raged hundreds of miles away is fraying — and the Kremlin’s hold on the narrative may be loosening.