In a country where journalism is no longer a profession but a discipline of loyalty to the regime, the article in the Russian Kommersant about the alleged deterioration of relations between Serbia and Turkey due to the delivery of drones to Kosovo reads like a grotesque moral lesson. If it were not tragic, it would be comical: the media, which for years has not been able to ask a single question about the Russian wars, is now diagnosing the “hysteria” and “out-of-line statements” of the Serbian president. Yes, precisely them—from a country that has turned war into a permanent state of the nation.
In the article by Gennady Sisoyev, Kommersant’s permanent correspondent in the Balkans, the reader finds everything that Russian propaganda offers today: a cold tone, an appearance of professionalism, and editorial selectivity that always leads to the same conclusion—Vučić is to blame. The article makes no mention of Turkey’s delivery of weapons to Kosovo, a “state” whose security-related actions frequently escalate tensions in the Balkans. There is no mention of why Turkey, as a NATO member, supplies offensive weapons to a territory that is still subject to dispute and negotiations under the auspices of the same NATO.
Instead, there are plenty of quotes from so-called “opponents of the regime,” so that the text appears pluralistic. Vučić’s cabinet? Ministry of Foreign Affairs? Embassy of Serbia in Moscow or Ankara? None of them were contacted. Sisoyev did not even attempt to check for any official reaction from Belgrade. In Russian journalism today, this is not considered a shortcoming—on the contrary, it is a method. Truth is not verified but shaped.
In the text, Kommersant portrays Aleksandar Vučić as a leader who “reacts emotionally,” “attacks both NATO and Turkey in the same breath,” and “isolates Serbia.” Familiar, right? This is the old model of Russian “analysis”—to create the impression that a friend is unpredictable and in need of paternalistic correction.
Today, Russia, in a “friendly” manner, explains to Serbia that it should remain silent while Ankara arms Kosovo, while at the same time Kommersant in Moscow publishes articles about how Serbia has lost “Turkey’s political investment.” Therefore, the Russians are concerned about drones coming from a country with which they maintain military-technical contacts. They worry about the stability of the region—this, from a country that has been bombing its neighbor for more than three years.
This concern is, of course, selective and above all cynical. Kommersant will never question why Russia is waging war in Ukraine, why it destroyed Mariupol and Kharkiv, why it is bombing Odessa and Kherson, or why it calls the three-year aggression a “special military operation.” They will not ask why Russia destroyed its own international reputation and turned diplomacy into an extension of the military. Instead, they analyze the tone of the president of a small Balkan country, as if the source of instability lies in Belgrade and not in the Kremlin. This is the essence of Russia’s moral paradox—a country that destroys while giving lessons about peace; an occupying state that accuses others of destabilization.
It is also notable that the Russian media, at a time when Serbia is under the heaviest pressure from the West, has decided to further burden its position. If Kommersant is the voice of the Kremlin—and it likely is—then a simple question arises: what kind of friends use every opportunity to weaken your position?
Let us consider the case of NIS, where the Russian owner behaves as if Serbia is his spoils of war, not a partner. After the company came under US sanctions, Moscow did nothing to help Serbia resolve the impasse. On the contrary, every initiative from Belgrade to find a solution that would allow business without sanctions is met with cold blackmail: if you do that, gas deliveries will stop as of December 31.
This is not a policy of friendship but of dependence. It is no coincidence that, in such an environment, an article appears in Kommersant portraying Vučić as an “unreliable partner” and an “emotional leader.” This is the Russian version of diplomatic pressure—through newspaper commentary. The irony is that those who claim to resent Belgrade’s “emotions” themselves behave like offended protectors of their own interests whenever Serbia attempts to act rationally.
Kommersant represents the most sophisticated form of the state media apparatus in Russia. It does not rely on open propaganda but through the appearance of rational analysis and controlled language. Its task is not to inform but to shape perception and to frame every article in support of Kremlin policy. Its real strength lies in the illusion of reasoned discourse while actually repeating the government line in a style meant to appear civil. The article about Serbia was written in that spirit—not as analysis, but as a warning. The message is clear: Serbia should know its place, not dramatize the “drones,” and not suspect Turkey, because the Kremlin and Ankara now have their own pact that must not be disturbed by Balkan tensions.
In this calculation, Serbia is a decoration, not an ally. If Ankara grows stronger, Belgrade must remain silent. If Belgrade resists, Kommersant will declare that Vučić has “crossed the red line.” Meanwhile, gas will once again serve as a political reminder of who controls the valve.
It is not difficult to recognize the logic of the colonial relationship: a great power does not want a partner, but a henchman. In this sense, Kommersant does not write about Serbia—it writes to Serbia. Like a teacher who has lost authority but still shouts to remind everyone who the teacher once was.
Formally, Kommersant is a private newspaper. In reality, it is the paper of Alisher Usmanov, an oligarch very close to the Kremlin, who has not published a single article against it since 2006. Instead, he has built an entire media group that exists to create the illusion of professional journalism. Kommersant does not bear the Kremlin’s seal on the front page, but its handwriting is evident in every sentence.
Sometimes that handwriting is recognized precisely by what is omitted. In the article about Serbia, there is not a single word about Russia’s role in the Balkans, about gas dependence, or about Moscow’s political calculation that any instability in the region benefits only itself. All of that disappears behind the usual narrative: Vučić as a problem, Serbia as a “neuralgic point,” and the Balkans as a training ground for moral lessons from Moscow.
And here we come to the essence: Kommersant is not a newspaper but a reflex of a state afraid of losing its last friends. It does not write to inform the public but to convince the public that Serbia is “not what it used to be”—which, translated from Russian to plain language, means it no longer listens carefully enough.
There is a deeply ironic layer to all of this. While Kommersant resents Serbia’s “hysterical reactions,” in Russia, journalists are imprisoned for publishing facts about the war, and the entire country lives under a constant media blockade. A nation that cannot read its own truth is now writing tutorials about other people’s “emotionality.”
When Kommersant discusses the destabilization of the Balkans, it does so not from the perspective of the region but from the perspective of a power that still believes it has a right to other people’s territories. For the Russian media, the Balkans is not a community of states and interests but an area of influence—a zone of competition where loyalty is measured, not understanding. For the Russian media, the Balkans is not a space for dialogue but a board on which pieces are placed. And Serbia, in that image, is allowed to be only a pawn—one that does not protest when it is moved. If, on the other hand, it rebels, an “analytical text” follows, explaining that this is evidence of political instability.
A world in which Moscow no longer has an idea, only the need for obedience, cannot produce different texts. Behind the polished language is a void. It is no longer journalism but a reflection of a regime that has lost its meaning but not its need to preach to others.
In this case, Kommersant wrote what Russian diplomacy thinks but cannot say out loud. The text is not the product of journalistic insight but of political impulse. Its goal is not to inform the Russian public—which, by the way, knows as much about the Balkans as it does about the geography of the Moon—but to discipline Serbia.
What Moscow calls a “fraternal relationship” increasingly resembles pressure to be silent, to endure, and to give thanks. While Russian journalists in Belgrade write about the “emotional Vučić,” their editors in Moscow faithfully convey the message of their sponsors: friendship with Serbia exists, but only as long as Serbia remains silent.
That is why the text from Kommersant should not be read as news but as a message. There is no analysis in it, only instructions; no concern, only pressure. When a country waging war begins to explain peace to others, it is not just hypocrisy—it is systemic, calculated cynicism. Serbia must remain able to speak for itself—not against Russia, not against the West, but in its own name. For once a country stops speaking for itself, it agrees to be spoken for by others.