According to media reports, the Ministry of Digital Development is proposing amendments to the law ‘On Countering Extremist Activity’. The proposals are expected to be considered by the State Duma at second reading as part of a broader package of anti-fraud measures. The changes would regulate access to banned extremist content. Such searches would be allowed, but only for scientific and research purposes, as well as within legislative and law enforcement activity.
In other words, a Russian citizen writing a dissertation on an extremist movement or a historical period where access to banned texts is essential would be allowed to consult such materials. The same would apply to police officers, investigators, prosecutors and, presumably, defence lawyers. In practice, however, this is more likely to lead to greater bureaucratisation than liberalisation. Investigators and prosecutors are unlikely to fall foul of legal contradictions, but academics and lawyers will probably have to prove they harbour no extremist intent. A defining feature of Russian lawmaking is not only its bias towards bans and restrictions, but also the scope it leaves for interpretation. Many provisions, whether permissive or restrictive, can be applied in different ways, leaving enforcement heavily dependent on the discretion and views of those tasked with applying the law.
A law enforcement officer seeking to prosecute someone for searching extremist materials would have to search for them as well, thereby breaking the law. The result is an inherently absurd situation. But that absurdity is not accidental. It follows from the underlying logic, or perhaps psychology, of the lawmaking process and the machinery of enforcement. The starting premise is that subversive forces are operating, or seeking to operate, within the country. This is treated as axiomatic. Their aim is to undermine the state or erode trust in it, including by discrediting its institutions and authorities and posing risks to public safety. Legislators and law enforcement are therefore tasked with identifying such elements. That premise encourages an expansive interpretation of extremism, discreditation and anti-state activity, leaving the scope for prohibitions almost unlimited.
Once set in motion, the machinery of enforcement and punishment cannot simply stop. It can only be halted if the threat is clearly defined and contained, reduced to a specific organisation or movement with an identifiable structure and leadership. Such a group can be banned, its members arrested, its potential supporters constrained by legislation and the authorities can then declare the task complete. But when the enemy is amorphous, the system of prohibitions and penalties has a beginning but no clear end. It becomes a permanent institution, justifying its existence by uncovering ever more ‘subversive’ elements and devising new preventive and enforcement measures to counter them.
Once this logic takes hold, it becomes difficult to step back and assess the broader picture or the long-term consequences. In trying to set traps for extremists, little thought is given to the impact on law enforcement, let alone on academics. In seeking to ban the promotion of certain ideas, lawmakers overlook the centuries-long literary tradition in which virtually any notion or judgement can be found. At the same time, there is little trust in the ability of families, schools and other state-backed institutions to instil a basic sense of right and wrong without constant intervention by officials, police, investigators or prosecutors.
