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Russia, under President Vladimir V. Putin, has been clamping down on freedoms that once permeated its internet landscape, tightening control to levels unseen since the Soviet era. Imagine this as a digital iron curtain descending on the web. Social media platforms like Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter have long been blocked, while TikTok had to severely curtail its functions due to a stringent censorship law. Now, Putin has trained his sights on the last major Western tech platform still breathing within Russian cyberspace—YouTube.
But here’s the twist: YouTube isn’t outright banned. Not yet, at least. Instead, Russian authorities have employed more subtle—but highly disruptive—tactics, like throttling YouTube’s speed to a crawl. It’s one of those classic cases where the absence of a direct prohibition creates just enough plausible deniability while still achieving the desired suppression. And why is YouTube in the Kremlin’s crosshairs? Well, for starters, the platform is seen as an unruly gatekeeper of antiwar content and non-state-approved information. It has also removed numerous Russian propaganda channels and even sanctioned musicians’ videos for violating Western sanctions, much to Moscow’s irritation.
So, how does this digital chokehold work in practice? Over the summer, Russian internet users began noticing major slowdowns when accessing YouTube, especially on desktop computers. Watching a video suddenly felt like a test of patience—endless buffering, pixelated images, and laggy loading times. By last month, this artificial drag had expanded to mobile networks as well, essentially turning video streaming into an exasperating experience for millions across the country. Philipp Dietrich, a researcher from the German Council on Foreign Relations, said there’s no doubt the slowdown is “100 percent artificial”—a deliberate effort by Russian authorities.
For the Kremlin, taming YouTube has always been a daunting task. YouTube is not just a video-sharing site in Russia; it’s a cultural fixture. Whether it’s nostalgic replays of old Soviet films, children’s content, food tutorials, or hard-hitting political exposés, Russians consume it all. As of July, before the slowdown began, nearly 96 million Russians over age 12—or about 79 percent of that demographic—were active monthly users, according to research group MediaScope. For many, YouTube represents both digital escapism and a rare space for alternative perspectives.
But YouTube’s relationship with the Kremlin has always been fraught. It became a launchpad for figures like Aleksei A. Navalny, a prominent opposition politician. Navalny’s exposé on Putin’s lavish Black Sea palace, streaming on YouTube since 2021, garnered a whopping 133 million views. It was an enduring symbol of the platform’s power to challenge authority—a thorn in the Kremlin’s side for years.
The Kremlin has now escalated its efforts to tilt the digital battlefield in its favor. Russian internet traffic to YouTube is down dramatically—just one-third of what it was this time last year, according to Google’s reports. Concurrently, state-controlled platforms like VK (a local alternative to YouTube), are experiencing traffic surges and positioning themselves as viable substitutes. Take VK Video, for example, which enthusiastically announces gains in viewership as YouTube slows. On the surface, it might appear that Putin’s gambit is working.
But technology, as is often the case, finds a way. Russians, particularly the tech-savvy ones, are sidestepping this throttling with VPNs (virtual private networks). VPNs enable users to reroute their internet traffic through servers in other countries, effectively bypassing Russian restrictions. Plus, VPNs mask user identities, making it easier for people to dodge surveillance. It’s hard to quantify exactly how many Russians use VPNs, but Mikhail Klimarev, head of the Internet Protection Society, estimates over half of the country’s internet users—nearly 60 million people—know how to use one. The irony here is that Putin’s clampdown may inadvertently teach more citizens about the broader web, exposing them to a world far beyond the Kremlin’s reach.
That said, not everyone is making the jump to VPNs. Political shows critical of the Kremlin, often filmed abroad, have seen relatively minor dips in traffic, thanks to an audience highly motivated to circumvent restrictions for access. On the flip side, casual viewers—those watching entertainment content like cartoons or cooking tutorials—may find it easier to migrate to domestic platforms like VK or RuTube. From political analyst Dmitry Kolezev’s perspective, this divide creates what amounts to an “information bubble.” Politically engaged Russians will stay on YouTube with their VPNs, while more apolitical or casual users drift toward Kremlin-controlled platforms, largely insulated from dissenting narratives.
This splintering of the internet, dubbed the “splinternet,” is precisely what the Russian government seems to be engineering. Domestic platforms—with state-friendly algorithms—offer controlled realities, reinforcing Moscow’s narratives. Digital rights activist Anastasiya Zhyrmont describes the strategy as an attempt to build a closed-off Russian ecosystem online, splintering Russia’s internet from the broader global web.
We’re already seeing this play out. Artur Dneprovsky, a YouTube creator behind popular children’s cartoons like Blue Tractor, notes a sharp decline in traffic on his YouTube channels—down 20 to 50 percent—thanks to the platform’s throttling. Simultaneously, his content has gained traction on Russian platforms like RuTube, with over 400,000 subscribers coming onboard during the slowdown. It’s a clear sign of audiences migrating under pressure.
That’s not to say Russian content creators are thrilled about these alternatives. Despite state support for platforms like VK and RuTube, they can’t match YouTube’s global reach, advanced recommendation algorithms, monetization tools, or user base. For instance, Maxim Katz, an exiled opposition figure who runs a political YouTube show from Israel, saw a 45 percent drop in Russian viewers. Yet his overall numbers remained steady, suggesting that many Russians had switched to VPNs, appearing as viewers from other countries. Katz remains defiant: “People simply switched to using VPNs en masse and are continuing to watch YouTube.”
It’s worth noting that this isn’t a new battleground for Putin. Since his invasion of Ukraine in 2022, the Kremlin and Google have been locked in an escalating standoff. Google has blocked over 1,000 Russian propaganda channels globally, suspended ads in Russia, and refused multiple demands from Moscow to remove content critical of Putin’s government. Last July, the company further provoked the Kremlin by enforcing European Union sanctions and deactivating channels run by pro-Kremlin musicians. Shortly after, YouTube service disruptions began in earnest.
Yet Putin continues to spin the narrative differently to his domestic audience. At a recent call-in show, he accused Google of orchestrating the disruptions and serving U.S. political interests. “If they want to work here,” he declared, “let them act in accordance with the laws of the Russian Federation.” His government has also amplified efforts to control VPNs, targeting app stores like Apple with demands to remove VPN software. Android’s Google Play, however, has so far resisted these pressures, making Android phones an enduring alternative.
Even with these dramatics, many creators, even those supporting Putin, still cling to YouTube. Take Vlad Bumaga, a popular Russian-speaking YouTuber. Although he signed agreements with VK and other state-backed platforms, Bumaga continues posting videos on YouTube, where his views and engagement dwarf what he achieves on domestic alternatives.
For now, Putin’s efforts to fully throttle YouTube remain a tug-of-war between technology and control. While millions are being funneled into the Kremlin-approved “splinternet,” many Russians are using VPNs to preserve their window to the wider world. The irony here is undeniable: the more restrictive the Kremlin becomes, the more creatively Russians find ways to resist. Yet the divide is growing, carving a digital chasm in Russian society—the politically engaged on one side, armed with VPNs, and the apolitical masses lured into state-controlled platforms on the other. What remains clear is that the battle isn’t just about YouTube—it’s about the soul of Russia’s internet and how much it belongs to Moscow versus the world.
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