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The latest reports of a sharp upsurge in Russian casualties are not just another data point in a long war of attrition; they are a signal of something deeper.
As I have previously reported, battlefield dynamics are shifting, and with them, the Kremlin’s grip on both the war narrative and its own population.
Recent Ukrainian General Staff figures suggest losses of more than 3,000 Russian personnel in just 48 hours.
While such figures should always be treated with caution, the broader trend is undeniable. Western intelligence estimates now place total Russian casualties, killed, wounded, and missing, at well over one million since the full-scale invasion began in 2022.
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Against this backdrop, the Kremlin is already preparing recruitment drives for 2026, a clear indication that this is not a war going to plan. More than four years into what was intended to be a rapid, decisive campaign, Russian forces remain still locked in grinding battles for control of the Donetsk oblast, territory Moscow claimed to have annexed in 2022.
The need to continually replenish manpower at this scale points not to momentum, but to attrition. This is no longer about victory in the conventional sense; it is about sustaining a war effort that continues to consume men, equipment, and resources at a rate that shows little sign of slowing.
It is a war of industrial-scale attrition, where drones, artillery, and precision strikes grind down manpower at a relentless pace, one that in my view increasingly favours the defender. Ukrainian officials have repeatedly pointed to drones as a decisive factor, with some estimates suggesting they now account for the majority of Russian battlefield losses.
The Ukrainian village was under Russian occupation for about 10 minutes. pic.twitter.com/RZQf6neCQ5
— Shaun Pinner (@ShaunPinnerUA) March 19, 2026
But the real story is not just on the frontlines.
It is inside Russia.
As casualties rise, so too does the Kremlin’s need to control the narrative, and increasingly, the flow of information itself. In recent weeks, Moscow has experienced widespread mobile internet blackouts, officially justified as a security measure against Ukrainian drone coordination. In reality, the impact has been far broader with businesses being disrupted, financial systems strained, and everyday life forced back towards analogue alternatives.
More tellingly, the language of instability has begun to re-emerge. The word “coup” — once thought buried after the Wagner mutiny — has resurfaced in public discourse, a stark reminder that the legacy of Yevgeny Prigozhin has not been fully contained.
The economic cost alone is significant, with estimates suggesting millions are being lost daily in the capital due to these restrictions, alongside growing frustration inside Russia itself. The Kremlin has pushed citizens toward its state-backed “Max” system, but reports from within the country suggest the rollout has been anything but smooth. As one observer noted bluntly, “they introduced it, but no one was going to use it,” highlighting the lack of public confidence in the platform.
In reality, adoption has relied less on demand and more on coercion, with authorities throttling or blocking alternatives such as WhatsApp and Telegram to force migration. Even pro-war bloggers and Russian soldiers have voiced rare criticism, warning that restrictions on communication tools are undermining effectiveness both on and off the battlefield.
But the political cost may be even greater.
Limiting access to independent information, throttling platforms, and pushing citizens toward a system widely viewed as insecure and state-monitored points to a government increasingly concerned about what its population might see, or conclude.
This tightening control reflects a simple reality: the war is no longer distant, and Moscow is not winning.
Ukraine’s expanding long-range strike capability has fundamentally changed the geography of the conflict. Drone attacks now reach hundreds of kilometres into Russian territory, striking military infrastructure and forcing authorities to acknowledge that no region is entirely safe.
Even Moscow, once insulated from the war it launched, is now regularly targeted. Airspace closures, intercepted drones, and recurring security disruptions have become part of life in the Russian capital.
This is perhaps the most striking reversal of all.
In February 2022, Russia expected to take Kyiv in three days. Instead, more than four years later, Ukraine has not only survived but has pushed the war back across the border, bringing it into the heart of Russia itself.
Rising casualties are no longer just a military problem for Moscow; they are a political liability. Russia does not have unlimited resources. Internet restrictions are not simply about security, they are about control, and the growing reach of Ukrainian strikes is not just tactical; it is psychological.
As any soldier understands, once you lose the initiative on the battlefield, it is incredibly difficult to regain.
For the Kremlin, the challenge is no longer simply winning the war. For now, it is about regaining the initiative after another failed winter campaign, and containing the consequences of a war that is increasingly visible, increasingly costly, and increasingly close to home.
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