At the Cathedral of the Nativity, in the middle of Moldova’s capital Chisinau, many of those bowed in prayer before the icons are visitors to the country. Few among them know how long they must stay.
The orthodox liturgy plays out across the surrounding park through loudspeakers, tempering thundery late August heat with the surging tones of the choir. Finally, as the church empties, the members of the congregation emerge to cross themselves, then lower their heads at the door, before returning to what for now passes as normal life. Many are refugees, and for them genuine normality can only be a distant imagining. Rain suddenly falls.
A reliable way to upset a Moldovan is to describe the country as ‘the poorest in Europe’. It’s not a self-image anyone would wish to project. Nor is it any longer true: the war in Ukraine has made that country poorer yet.
Instead, it is as hosts of the highest per capita number of displaced Ukrainians that people here would naturally, and truthfully, like to be thought of. Moldova has taken on a colossal burden that would otherwise fall upon countries further west.
But while GDP figures are left unspoken, it remains true that a hobbled economy gives Moldova little room for false steps in a straitened neighbourhood. If across Europe we are concerned at the prospect of a chilly winter, think of this country’s 100 per cent dependence on Russian gas, and an inflation rate approaching 35 per cent. The vulnerability to Kremlin caprice is abject.
Moscow certainly has a several trump cards in its hand, and has now begun to play them. Moldova’s Transnistria region is in essence a Russian proxy. A ‘peacekeeping’ garrison of Russian troops has been deployed there since a short civil war in 1991 led to the formation of an unrecognised breakaway statelet. It is characterised by a monopoly retailer, well-organised crime, alongside Soviet emblems and regalia, all preserved in geopolitical aspic. This suits Russia well – it is the prototypical ‘frozen conflict’, to be warmed over at will, should a former possession become irritatingly uppity.
A senior Russian general earlier this year suggested that Transnistria could be the next drop zone for the armed forces at his command. A series of unexplained explosions there – a ‘false flag’ operation, people asked? – caused fear that the scene was being set, and minds conditioned, for an invasion proper.
Fear may in fact be sufficient, given that Moscow is self-praisingly adept at what it likes to term ‘hybrid’ warfare. Why would you risk boots on the ground if you could cause Moldova to cave without a single shot being fired? With sufficient tribulation, and an economy on the skids, the population itself might topple the young, Europe-leaning government. It would be the inverse of the many ‘colour revolutions’ in his backyard that Putin so despises and fears. And it would be an easier win, he will know by now, than sequestrating and retaining lands in Ukraine.
‘In the last few years, Moldova has seen a new way of doing politics, with a brand new party, financed transparently, with young politicians and a woman president. But it’s no secret that there are forces within Moldova which are aligned with the interests of the Kremlin,’ says Mihai Popsoi, vice-chair of the governing party and leader of its faction in parliament. Like many in power today, he has travelled widely and studied abroad – in his case, at the University of York, as part of an MA in public policy.
Moldova has taken on a colossal burden that would otherwise fall upon countries further west
‘These people don’t shy away from saying that they would welcome a change of rule’, he adds. ‘And you don’t need to be a geopolitical strategic genius to understand it that if it could, Moscow would build a land bridge to Russia through Moldova. The only thing that’s stopping them is the bravery of Ukraine’s armed forces.’ It’s one reason why the country feels duty-bound to do the right thing by the refugees.
But the Kremlin is also applying economic thumbscrews in ways it has honed before, in Georgia and Ukraine: through import embargoes.
In this case, Moldovan fruit. Iurie Fala heads the national fruit trade association: ‘The crises have all come at the same time this year – a long drought, which means watering crops is difficult, and making for a lower yield; higher prices for energy and fertiliser; and disruption to logistics.’ Before the war, Moldova exported almost all of its cherries, grapes, apples and plums north to Russia. ‘Now we’ve got a Russian import ban – this is serious, and some small farmers won’t be able to survive,’ he says at an apple orchard in the north of the country. ‘Producers will be nostalgic for the old Russian markets – they’ll expect a response from the government.’
Russia may also be behind up to 60 per cent of cyber-attacks on Moldova, according to a source in the security services. That’s on top of near-daily bomb threats at the international airport and some public buildings.
‘The bomb threats are like the “boiling a frog” idea – eventually the population is supposed to get used to them. It’s worse if the intelligence sector does. But we are responding to every single one,’ he says. ‘I saw them try the same tactic in Ukraine. But one good thing about being a small country is that it’s easier to find out who’s behind such activities.’
He adds: ‘There are some politicians here who’d like to do a deal with the Russian leadership on neutrality and demilitarisation. But it comes down to this – “Please don’t attack us Mr Putin!” I think that’s perhaps a naïve strategy, or idealistic thinking.’
Mihai Popsoi says the government is preparing for all eventualities this winter. ‘Moldovans have got a taste for freedom and democracy, and they know it comes with a high price. They also know that the cost of dictatorship is higher still.’
Nonetheless, he knows it is finely balanced: ‘In the current climate, things could unravel very rapidly indeed,’ he says.
Central Chisinau has a placid, provincial feel about it. There’s something of the 1990s to the city which manages to be reassuring, somehow unthreatening, for all the political tumult going on beneath the surface. Housewives cast an eye over dinner sets in shop windows. Old men in summer-weight suits and woven sandals potter past well-tended flower beds.
Which is perhaps as it should be. Chisinau after all owes its status as a national capital only to recent events – prior to the second world war, much of Moldova was a province of Romania.
At this point, as is many times the case in central Europe, the arguments ensue about whose invading force was liberating whom from whom. The dispute continues.
A young mother queues beneath the parasols of a ‘Sandra’ outdoor café to buy her children ice cream cones. The children are squabbling, as children must, about who will be first to ride the pedal car mum promised to hire, and what the best flavour of ice cream is in the first place. The mother speaks to the cashier in Russian, with a soft, Ukrainian accent. But she thanks her in Romanian: mersi mult, ‘thank you very much’. Some newly-learned words that the salesgirl, about the same age, evidently appreciates. In this way, small new bonds are being formed in the wake of war.
A quarter of Moldovans, however, speak Russian as their first language. Either because they are ethnic Russians in the first place, or because they were schooled in the language of the Soviet elite as pupils, and never mastered Romanian. Whatever the case, Moscow is keen to position such citizens as discriminated against. It’s a favoured casus belli for selling overseas conflicts back home: your brothers and sisters are being mistreated, and we must put a stop to it!
‘Respect’ from foreigners is a fetishised Kremlin currency, whose value has risen for want of something more readily cherished – such as good governance, free elections, or cars worth driving. That smaller nations might also wish to be respected in their turn is wholly ignored.
‘This is the last chance for us to overcome the past’ says Liliana Vitu, the head of Moldova’s broadcasting regulator. She’s at the frontline of resistance to a daily deluge of Moscow-sponsored fake news. Fluent in English and fiercely intelligent, Vitu could find work in countless think-tanks, or in the western corporate sector. She chooses instead to rise each day for relatively little reward to a task that is limitless. It is a tough call for a perfectionist. So why does she do it?
‘Too many good professional people have left, and too few of us stayed,’ she says, above the din of a band mimicking Paul McCartney outside a street restaurant. ‘If we miss the chance we have now, we all might as well leave. That’s why I believe we are fated to succeed. The only alternative is a land controlled by oligarchs and corrupt politicians.’
At Chisinau’s Triumphal Arch, the national flag laps languidly in the humid air, as if struggling to bat away an obvious incongruence: the edifice was commissioned by a Russian governor to celebrate victory over the previous suzerain, the Turks. It has little to do with Moldovan identity or triumphs, though this weekend the country is marking its independence. Thirty-one years of freedom will be celebrated in the centre of town with wreath-layings and concerts and municipal jollity.
In June, Moldova was granted EU candidate status. ‘But instead of celebrating this huge achievement and pursuing full-on reforms, Moldovans are struggling with the economic fallout from Russia’s brutal war in Ukraine,’ a senior foreign ministry official says.
The ministry is based in a former cultural centre, from the time when Chisinau was just one among the many regional Soviet capitals. A staffer is keen to lead me along the patterned, turquoise carpet runner that lends the small, repurposed building a certain ceremonial panache – though she freely admits it’s quicker to pop up the back stairs.
‘The economic burden of the upcoming cold season may, for some, outweigh the future benefits of a proper democracy and European membership’, her colleague adds.
Another way to lose Moldovan friends is to describe the country as ‘sandwiched’ between Romania and Ukraine, as if it were a sweaty slice of central European processed ham. But the Ukrainian port of Odessa, the prized key to the Black Sea, is only a very short drive away. And everyone knows it. It is much harder to free oneself from the requirements of geography than from flabby journalistic metaphor.
Moldovan officials are anxious to stress the critical role the country plays at Europe’s borders as a bulwark against contraband – of goods, guns, drugs and people. ‘We’re prepared to do our bit,’ the man from the ministry says. ‘But we need help.’
Opposite the triumphal arch, across a wide highway, the vast and monumentally ugly government building squats, the former Supreme Soviet of the Moldavian Republic. In London, one has the luxury of choosing whether to effuse about so-called brutalist architecture: it’s almost a signifier of fine taste. Here in Chisinau, there’s no love for what is just a charmless colonial imposition that blocks out the fading sunlight.
Beyond, in Cathedral Park, it’s spotting with rain again, and getting late: time for the Ukrainian refugee children to go back to their temporary homes. Boys and girls and women, and the occasional grandpa – you see no men of fighting age among them.
‘Let’s be clear, Moldova got candidate status for EU membership in tragic circumstances – it was catalysed by the war in Ukraine,’ Liliana Vitu says.
‘We owe it to the kids, and the people who lost their lives, to work damn hard. To make sure that this path is irreversible.’
At the foreign ministry, the message is blunter still: ‘If we allow the effects of Russia’s aggression to undermine our democratic transition, we would not be the only ones to suffer: you would too. Europe’s stability is also at stake here.’
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