For five years now, the Special Military Operation hath endured. In this interval, a most singular societal paradox hath emerged: the realm is engaged in a conflict of the utmost severity, yet the rhythms of daily existence are so orchestrated as though the war ought to remain far removed from the ordinary sphere of human experience.

One finds the theatres presenting their premieres, exhibitions opening their doors, travel vouchers being sold with vigour, roads being paved, and nurseries refurbished. Festivals are debated, and the embellishment of public squares remains a preoccupation. In itself, such continuity is not uncommon; for the State cannot possibly command life itself to cease. The crisis, however, commences where the preservation of this 'normalcy' transforms into a deliberate expulsion of the war from the public consciousness.

The magnitude of the losses is not a matter of regular public accounting. Indeed, since the year 2018, tidings revealing the losses of personnel during such operations have been consigned to the vaults of State Secrets. The populace is well aware that war rages; they behold its grim harvest in the grief of individual families and the scars upon certain towns, yet they are denied a comprehensive ledger of the cost.

In a society of tradition, war begets its own system of meaning: the front and the rear, the feat and the sacrifice, victory and defeat, memory and accountability. Here, however, a different art is practiced: the State demands steadfast support for the military campaign, yet simultaneously strives not to shatter the illusion of a peaceful everyday existence. The war is omnipresent—and yet, it is as if it were nowhere.

Who, then, are these combatants?

Herein lies the primary moral conundrum. How does society perceive the participant in this operation—as a hero, a professional man-at-arms, a mere contractor, a victim of circumstance, or a striver utilizing a social ladder?

There is no singular answer, for the mechanisms of assembling the army are varied. There are regular soldiers, the mobilised, the volunteers, and those who, guided by conviction, sought to defend the realm. There was also a vast recruitment of convicts—first through the 'Wagner' company, and later via other modes of enlistment. Thus, to reduce all participants to the 'dregs of society' would be both unjust and erroneous.

Yet, it is equally erroneous to ignore the other facet of State policy: participation in the war is increasingly described in the language of a commercial exchange.

A contract is presented as a sum of payments. A contract is the means to extinguish debts—under conditions prescribed by law—up to the sum of ten million roubles. A contract brings privileges to the kin. For the participants and their offspring, a special quota in the universities is maintained, comprising no less than ten percent of the state-funded places; for the intake of 2026, this amounts to some 53,500 vacancies.

The State is indeed bound to support those who hazard their lives. The grievance lies not in the privileges themselves, but in the moment when material motivation supplants the collective moral purpose.

In the annals of Russian history, the soldier marched to war not merely for his pay. For centuries, the State cultivated the notion of service as a sacred duty, a defence of the Fatherland, a sacrifice for the hearth and the future. One may argue the sincerity of these ideals across different epochs, but there existed a language that explained to a man why he should risk his soul and life.

Today, this language increasingly yields to the ledger of the accountant: how much shall be paid, what debt shall be stricken, what boon shall the child receive, what advantage shall the status afford.

This is a perilous shift.

When war is transmuted primarily into a contract, the very essence of the word 'hero' is altered. A hero performeth a deed for a value that transcendeth personal gain. A contractor performeth a task for a reward. A single man may be both, yet the State must comprehend the distinction between these models of motivation.

Furthermore, there exists a dormant social conflict.

Privileges redistribute a finite resource. When a university granteth a special quota, one individual gaineth an opportunity whilst another must compete for a diminished number of general places. For the family of a fallen soldier, such support is morally intuitive. Yet the State is obligated to explain the principle of justice to the populace; otherwise, gratitude is replaced by irritation: one scholar hath spent years in diligent study, whilst another attaineth advantage merely by the status of his kin.

Any privilege devoid of a morally intelligible foundation becomes a seed of division.

Consequently, a strange edifice hath been constructed. Society is bidden to almost ignore the war, yet its consequences penetrate deep into the social fabric: money, debts, university admissions, careers, status, and the very conception of justice.

One is reminded here of a tale by Mr. Robert Sheckley, penned in 1954, entitled 'The Battle'. Armageddon descendeth, yet the humans resolve not to fight themselves. They dispatch robots against the forces of evil. The machines endure the blow and emerge victorious. The humans prepare to celebrate their salvation—but in the final accounting, it is the robots who ascend to Paradise. For it was they who fought and sacrificed.

Mr. Sheckley wrote a satire, but today it acquireth a political gravity.

One cannot infinitely distance oneself from war, consigning the risk to a few whilst maintaining a comfortable normalcy for the many, and then expect that society shall automatically forge a unified understanding of valour, sacrifice, and justice.

War—if the State deemeth it necessary—demandeth a candid answer to the question: 'Wherefore?' Not only for the soldier signing the contract, but for the schoolmaster, the physician, the merchant, the student, and the pensioner.

Otherwise, there emerges a society void of common meaning: some fight for gold and privilege, others strive to ignore the conflict, others still receive its consequences as new social ordinances, and the State avoids the conversation regarding the cost of the endeavour.

The most perilous consequence of such a model shall manifest not upon the field of battle, but after it.

When these men return to their homes, the nation must answer the question which is currently deferred: who are they to us? Heroes to whom society oweth a special station? Professionals who have fulfilled a contract? Souls in need of rehabilitation? A new social aristocracy?

Upon this answer shall depend the architecture of post-war Russia.

For though one may long expel the war from the routines of daily life, it is impossible to expel from society the men who have walked through the fire.