Unyielding activism: How Russia’s urban preservation movement continues its fight under military dictatorship

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Monuments opened to development

In late December 2024, Russian Prime Minister Mikhail Mishustin signed amendments to the “Regulation on Protection Zones of Cultural Heritage Sites” that put thousands of surviving historic buildings in Russia at risk. Until recently, the regulation granted protected status to all historical and cultural monuments, banning or restricting construction in their vicinity and also forbidding the installation of billboards, signage, cell towers, and facilities that pose a fire hazard. The changes signed by Mishustin strip significant portions of that legal protection.

Beginning in spring 2025, any sites that are “completely hidden underground or underwater” lost protection, as did categories including burial grounds, memorial apartments, and works of monumental art. By 2028, protective status will also be abolished for “landmark sites” and the monuments and ensembles located on them. That designation currently applies to places such as Kulikovo, the site of a landmark 14th-century battle, and Borodino, the site of the eponymous 1812 battle against Napoleon’s forces.

Konstantin Mikhailov, co-founder of the preservation group Archnadzor (“Architecture Watch”), noted that the decree effectively allows construction on sites including medieval fortresses, historical settlements, and ancient earthworks. Former St. Petersburg legislator Boris Vishnevsky warned that the reforms could have catastrophic consequences for thousands of cemeteries, burial sites, notable buildings, battlefields, and historic city centers.

Against the backdrop of Russia’s cult of victory in World War II, a policy shift revoking protected status for war memorials like Mamayev Kurgan in Volgograd strikes critics as the height of cynicism. Under the new rules, a building of any height could be constructed directly at its base. “For example, one tall enough to look the Motherland statue in the eye from the top floors,” said Yevgeny Sosedov, deputy head of the All-Russian Society for the Protection of Historical and Cultural Monuments (VOOPIiK). He directly accused the Construction Ministry and large developers of lobbying for the legal changes under the pretext of needing to stimulate the economy during wartime.

At the end of February, the Ministry of Culture responded to the backlash with a press release saying the new rules did not weaken protections, but only “eliminated excessive regulations.” Protection zones were being abolished solely for objects that do not extend above the surface, it said. Safeguarding the surroundings of landmark sites was “not expedient,” since “special urban planning rules” already applied. Burial sites, the ministry argued, did not need protective status because “such objects must be assigned a territory within which capital construction is prohibited.”

Moscow’s heritage left unprotected

Another case — regional but no less striking — unfolded in Moscow, where more than 1,500 identified cultural heritage sites lost protection all at once on July 1, 2025. These structures were still awaiting review for inclusion in the register of protected objects and, under the old rules, would have been shielded from demolition and unapproved alteration until that process was complete.

Archnadzor activists said the Moscow mayor’s office blocked new applications for historical and cultural reviews back in 2019, and that the authorities were reviewing an average of only 14 of the already-submitted applications per year. At that pace, preservationists calculated, it would have taken the Moscow Heritage Department 123 years and five months to evaluate all of the city’s identified cultural heritage sites.

But that timetable is now irrelevant. In November 2024, the Moscow City Duma passed a new version of the law “On Cultural Heritage Sites in Moscow,” which stipulated that buildings not reviewed by July 1, 2025, would automatically lose their protected status. The Moscow Heritage Department did manage to evaluate 120 sites and add them to the state register, but legal protections for the rest were lifted when the new law came into effect.

Among the sites that lost their protected status were 17th-century churches and chambers, baroque and neoclassical monuments, more than 370 graves and headstones, addresses tied to the Silver Age of Russian culture, and even Moscow’s legendary Khitrovka District, immortalized by writer Vladimir Gilyarovsky. “Moscow’s heritage is on the brink of catastrophe,” said Archnadzor coordinator Rustam Rakhmatullin, adding that the scale of destruction can be compared only to the period of the late 1990s and early 2000s.

Archnadzor has challenged the amendments to Moscow’s cultural heritage law in court. Activists argue the changes contradict federal law, which does not set deadlines for expert reviews. But heritage activist Ivan [name changed for safety reasons] said their chances of winning are slim, given that city authorities deliberately engineered the situation and activists were unable to mount effective resistance.

“Until 2015, we could bypass the regional heritage office, which was often uninterested in preservation, and request expert reviews directly at the federal level. Then that was banned. New, fairly opaque decision-making methods were introduced, but authorities still occasionally approved applications from preservationists. Since 2019, not a single one of our applications has received a positive decision. In 2020, because of COVID restrictions, we lost the ability to stage any street actions. Now we are witnessing a complete demolition of all principles of heritage protection in Russian law, and the preservation movement has not been able to develop any strategy to resist it.”

From protest to negotiation: How Moscow’s preservation movement changed

According to Ivan, Muscovites concerned with protecting the city’s historic character traditionally rallied around two major organizations: VOOPIiK, which dates to Soviet times, and Archnadzor, founded in 2009.

The All-Russian Society for the Protection of Historical and Cultural Monuments (VOOPIiK) was established in 1965 by nationalist-leaning intellectuals, for whom caring for prerevolutionary monuments became one of the few legal ways to express their views. Soon, however, VOOPIiK also began attracting people who were simply interested in protecting the country’s cultural heritage, and the movement grew into one of the USSR’s largest civic organizations. Its peak came in the 1970s and 1980s, when membership topped 10 million and the authorities started paying real attention to its opinions.

“By the 1990s, VOOPIiK’s resources were running out,” Ivan recalled, “and many of its activists unfortunately became politicized in an extremely conservative direction. Groups like Pamyat and other antisemitic organizations gained popularity in those circles.”

Archnadzor, which Ivan also joined, was at first an informal network of volunteers. They fought illegal construction at heritage sites and on surrounding land. Activists coordinated with VOOPliK’s Moscow branch to block unlawful work by staging demonstrations at building sites — drawing attention from the media and the police.

“In the early 2000s, we could boast of many high-profile public campaigns,” Ivan said. “Walking through Moscow, I could point to buildings and say: this house survived thanks to our efforts, even though a demolition contract had already been signed. But from 2013–2014, Archnadzor’s leadership began distancing itself from street protest actions and started leaning more toward behind-the-scenes negotiations with city officials. Most importantly, I don’t consider their new approach successful at all. The overwhelming majority of attempts to change situations where investment contracts had already been signed have been completely unsuccessful in recent years. By effectively abandoning protests, the movement lost media influence — and gained nothing in return.”

Mikhail Lobanov, a politician who took part in many protest campaigns in Moscow and ran for the State Duma, confirmed that the state of preservation efforts in the capital had been steadily deteriorating for at least five years before the invasion of Ukraine.

“In recent years, the balance of power in Moscow has shifted sharply in favor of developers and officials,” Lobanov said. “By the late 2010s, the authorities decided to simply ignore all citizen preservation initiatives. They had long since learned how to break up local communities. They used smear campaigns and disinformation to mislead residents about the real terms of projects. Officials were even given special training on how to handle protests and discontent, how to disorient people.”

Before the war, a few controversial construction projects were still sometimes halted in their early stages, before serious money was invested. Lobanov cited a high-profile case from late 2020 involving the ruins of the Krynkin restaurant on Vorobyevy Gory (Sparrow Hills), which city authorities had put up for auction. In theory, a new owner could have demolished the “support structure” and started construction directly inside the nature preserve. But under public pressure, the mayor’s office was forced to abandon the plan.

After that, successful actions became much rarer. The same year the Sparrow Hills site was saved, “COVID restrictions” led to in-person public hearings being replaced with online voting via the “Active Citizen” portal, a measure that gave officials the opportunity to manipulate survey results.

In 2022, shortly after the start of the war in Ukraine, Putin granted regions the right to impose moratoriums on public hearings for urban planning issues, saying the measure would “support the industry under sanctions.” Moscow’s government immediately took advantage of the new rule and has extended the ban every year since. The law allowing moratoriums is set to expire in 2025, but the authorities are planning to make it permanent. Sergey Kolunov, deputy chair of the State Duma’s construction and housing committee, said the experiment has “proved its effectiveness.”

Since 2022, Moscow has lost landmarks such as the former Brest cinema in Kuntsevo — part of an architectural ensemble dedicated to those who died in World War II — and the Trekhgorny (Badaevsky) Brewery in the Dorogomilovo District, one of the capital’s oldest breweries. A 50-story business center is set to rise on the first site, while the second was handed over for a luxury housing project built on 35-meter stilts, quickly dubbed the “cockroach house.”

The same fate awaits the legendary Krasny Oktyabr (Red October) factory on Bersenevskaya Embankment, which survived the revolution and two world wars — but not the city administration’s decision to build a premium residential complex. Only two factory buildings recognized as cultural heritage sites will be spared.

A toxic city for developers: How St. Petersburg defends its historic character

In St. Petersburg, whose historic center is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, preservation practices have taken a different path. Since 2008, the city has operated under its own heritage protection law, which mandates rules stricter than those at the federal level. It covers not only designated cultural monuments, but also any historic buildings. In the city center, it is forbidden to demolish structures built before 1917, while in other districts, those built before 1957 are protected.

Still, the age of buildings is often deliberately understated during historical and cultural reviews, which serve as the basis for issuing demolition permits. Preservationists say St. Petersburg’s Committee for the Protection and Use of Monuments (KGIOP) lobbies for the construction industry.

“Under [former governor Georgy] Poltavchenko, there were fewer demolitions than under [current governor Alexander] Beglov, and the authorities were more inclined to talk with the preservation community and resolve issues in a civilized way,” said St. Petersburg activist Yuri [name changed for safety reasons]. “In the mid-2010s, we could still win cases in court. Now there are almost no such examples, and many city media outlets are blocked from even mentioning the preservation movement. On top of that, COVID restrictions are still formally in place in the city, making mass protest actions impossible.”

Since the start of the war in Ukraine, the destruction of St. Petersburg’s architectural heritage has accelerated. According to the Living City movement, 12 historic buildings were demolished or partly dismantled in 2022, another 13 in 2023, and 15 more in 2024, even within designated protection zones

One of the earliest — and most controversial — cases was the demolition of the Manege of the Life Guards Finnish Regiment on Vasilyevsky Island. Authorities refused to classify the 1854 building as a historic monument, citing its conversion into a bread factory in the 1930s and the addition of a second floor. They categorized it instead as a Soviet-era site. In its place, officials approved a luxury housing complex called Bolshoi, 67, with planned developer investments of about 2.7 billion rubles ($29 million).

Another high-profile campaign erupted in 2023 over the demolition of the Basevich House on Bolshaya Pushkarskaya Street. On the day work began, dozens of activists gathered, forming a human chain around the building and forcing their way inside to try to block the demolition. Three activists were arrested for petty hooliganism, and one was expelled from St. Petersburg State University.

Alongside the destruction of historic architecture, city authorities also cracked down on the preservation community. In summer 2022, film director Alexander Sokurov wrote an open letter to Governor Beglov, accusing officials of having “taken advantage of the difficult military-political situation” to “remove all preservationists from the city’s key professional organizations.” Sokurov’s preservation group, which sought to build a dialogue between experts and the government, had been active in the city since 2010. In his letter, the filmmaker described the group as “crushed.”

That summer, St. Petersburg’s branch of VOOPIiK was effectively taken over in what activists described as a hostile raid. Historian Anton Ivanov, suspected of ties to the construction industry, was elected chairman. His candidacy was backed by more than 200 “new members” who had never before taken part in the group’s work. Former chairman Alexander Margolis, who had led the branch since 2017, was removed, and four well-known preservationists — Boris Vishnevsky, Anna Kapitonova, Alexei Kovalyov, and Alexander Kononov — were expelled from the organization.

A year and a half later, a court annulled the election results and declared the new leadership illegitimate. In the meantime, the ousted activists founded their own group, Old Petersburg. Other preservation initiatives remain active as well — among them the Living City movement, which continues staging street actions despite a ban on mass events, and Goloday, a foundation created by preservationist Oleg Mukhin to protect the cultural and historical heritage of northwest Russia. Goloday combines activism with systematic legal work. Its staff also run a Telegram channel called “SOS Demolition Chat,” created to inform residents about urgent cases of illegal demolitions.

“Right now the city has more than 40 grassroots environmental and preservation groups, and in recent years many new people have become involved in activism,” explained Yuri. “On the other hand, this is offset by the fact that many people who were active in the movement ten years ago have left the country, while most of those who stayed have gone into internal exile, sitting at home frightened and demoralized.”

Activists contest demolition orders in court, raise alarm in the media, enlist world-renowned architecture experts for reviews, and organize exhibitions and artistic demonstrations. For years, residents have gathered weekly for “people’s meetings” to defend the All-Union Pulp and Paper Research Institute (VNIIB) building and oppose development of the Okhta Cape. Authorities have not broken up those gatherings. According to Yuri, 15 to 20 people attend them each week.

In 2022, after a group of local lawmakers appealed to law enforcement, a criminal case was opened against former KGIOP chairman Sergey Makarov, who was accused of abusing his power. Investigators said Makarov deliberately removed the Life Guards Finnish Regiment Manege from the heritage register, causing the city more than 144 million rubles ($1.5 million) in damages. He faces up to 10 years in prison.

A similar charge was brought against his deputy, Galina Aganova, though prosecutors repeatedly overturned the decision to open the case and sent it back to the Investigative Committee for further investigation. Aganova nonetheless left KGIOP, and around 10 historic buildings facing destruction remain in limbo as material evidence in an embezzlement case.

Still, preservationists scored a notable 2022 victory in a long-running battle to save the former medical unit of the Kalinin Factory on Vasilyevsky Island. Officially, the building was dated to 1957, but activists argued it was much older and that the documents only reflected the year it was reconstructed.

In 2023, activists saved 165 historic buildings in the Narvskaya Zastava District that had been slated for demolition under the city’s renovation program. A broad public campaign led lawmakers in the St. Petersburg Legislative Assembly to impose a moratorium on demolition until 2029, when the renovation program ends, effectively saving the buildings.

A partial victory came in 2025 in the fight to preserve the Kokorev Warehouses on Ligovsky Prospekt, whose industrial aesthetic has been described as “Russian steampunk.” Authorities initially planned to demolish the warehouses to make way for a terminal of the planned Moscow–St. Petersburg high-speed rail line, but they later agreed to incorporate the structures into the station’s territory. Preservationists still hope to stop construction of the station altogether.

“The best victory for the preservation movement is a battle the developer is afraid to start,” Yuri said. “Any project requires money that needs to be recouped, and freezing a project for years can simply bankrupt a developer. If a builder realizes he could get stuck in court for years — or even lose — he won’t want to get involved. All developers’ projects depend on the ‘climate,’ and in Petersburg this ‘climate’ has been made as toxic as possible, so none of them knows exactly where he might run into a flashpoint.”

How preservation brings people together

Movements to defend the aesthetic of cities are active not only in Moscow and St. Petersburg. In Khabarovsk, residents are gathering signatures to protect a 1915 water tower. In Novosibirsk, activists stage rallies demanding a law to preserve a prerevolutionary military town and notable examples of Soviet architecture. In Yekaterinburg, they hold pickets against the demolition of a DOSAAF dormitory built in the Sverdlovsk avant-garde style.

Given Russia’s ongoing war in Ukraine, activists face the risk that repressive laws against “discrediting the army” or spreading “military fakes” will be used against them. That happened to historian Oleg Bukin, founder of the Ural Chronotope group, which campaigns for historic buildings in Yekaterinburg and the Sverdlovsk region to be officially recognized as cultural heritage sites.

In December 2024, Bukin was fined 30,000 rubles ($330) for “discrediting the armed forces” over antiwar posts he made on the social network VKontakte. The complaint was filed by Yekaterinburg chanson singer Alexander Novikov, who owns several premises in a building that Bukin’s expert review helped classify as an architectural monument.

Despite the repressive atmosphere, large grassroots preservation campaigns are still common. Since 2020, residents of Moscow’s Ivanovskaya Gorka district have fought to save the Institute for the International Labor Movement building and other historic structures at the intersection of Kolpachny and Khokhlovsky lanes.

“Activists and local residents there tried to find a form of protest that was possible in our time: they gathered around a samovar and held cultural events on Sundays,” said Moscow preservationist Ivan [name changed for safety reasons]. “Although the institute building has already been demolished, people still gather to defend Ivanovskaya Gorka every Sunday. I would say this is one of the few surviving examples of grassroots protest self-organization in Moscow between 2022 and 2025.”

At the end of 2025, authorities planned to demolish the Great Moscow Circus building on Vernadsky Avenue, but public outcry stopped them. Residents of the Gagarinsky district formed an initiative group, collected signatures, and appealed to the city government to list the circus as a heritage site. The citizens’ efforts persuaded City Hall to back down, promising to preserve the historic building and construct a new circus in the Mnevniki floodplain instead.

“When the idea arose to demolish the Great Moscow Circus, people living nearby started adding each other to decentralized chats, learning to build horizontal ties and plan their actions,” Ivan recalled. “I don’t feel particular enthusiasm about the building itself, since it has no protected status and attempts to demolish it will continue. But the uniting of local communities is a form of protest many people now see as a source of hope.”

One such story is unfolding in Pushkin, a suburb of St. Petersburg, where residents openly opposed the construction of a “warrior’s church” dedicated to participants of the “special military operation” and other conflicts. Locals sent appeals to the governor’s office, the prosecutor’s office, the presidential administration, and other agencies. Two days after a ceremonial blessing of the foundation stone was attended by a slew of high-level figures — St. Petersburg Governor Alexander Beglov, Foreign Minister Sergey Lavrov, and LDPR leader Leonid Slutsky — a huge banner was hung on a nearby nine-story building reading: “This is no place for a church.”

In March, St. Petersburg hosted a congress of the Coordinating Council of Initiative Groups (KSIG) that brought together more than 40 activist associations. The council’s goal is to coordinate efforts on environmental and preservation issues, from the Okhta Cape development to local campaigns to protect individual parks. KSIG is now trying to launch a citywide referendum on banning the construction of buildings taller than 120 meters (394 feet), “except for engineering and religious structures” — an effort aimed at permanently blocking projects like Gazprom’s skyscraper in Lakhta and other high-rises.

“For now, things are calm in Petersburg, and the preservation movement has shifted to the courts. But it could flare up at any moment,” said Yuri. “Future changes have to be seen dynamically: the construction market is in deep crisis, and developers will keep pushing through reforms in their favor. But if the people who left Russia were able to return, the preservation movement would grow many times over and could swing the pendulum in its direction.”