First Deputy Prime Minister Denis Manturov, who oversees industry in the government, has pledged to postpone the introduction of higher recycling fees on imported used cars by a month. This came in the wake of a protest in Vladivostok, where several hundred people rallied against the planned hike. On Russia’s Far East, second-hand vehicles from Japan and South Korea remain hugely popular—right-hand drive on Japanese models doesn’t deter locals one bit. They favor proven, reliable tech over shiny new Russian or Chinese alternatives.
Under the new rules the government intended to roll out on November 1, recycling fees for used cars would have ballooned several times over. Officials at the Ministry of Industry and Trade didn’t mince words: post-hike, these imports would cost more than brand-new models, rendering them an economic non-starter. The public wasn’t buying it—Vladivostok’s rally stood out as the most vivid flashpoint, though discontent has mostly simmered online in social media.
Since the full-scale war kicked off, familiar Western, Japanese, and Korean brands have pulled out of Russia, shuttering factories and dealerships. In their place, Chinese cars have surged ahead, with authorities betting citizens would pivot to domestic rides (Chinese models aren’t exactly budget-friendly here). Lada Granta tops the sales charts as the most affordable option relative to rivals (750 thousands rubles — $ 9300). Trailing it is the compact crossover Haval Jolion at around 1.8 million rubles($ 22300), followed by Lada Vesta, and then the Belarusian-Chinese Belgee X50, which nudges close to 2 million($ 24800). Pre-war, two million rubles could snag you a Western-brand car.
But Russians found a workaround: they’re sticking to trusted names by snapping up reseller-imported used cars over Chinese newcomers or homegrown output. For a while, the authorities turned a blind eye, keen to nurture the illusion that the war hadn’t upended daily life. That fit neatly with efforts to keep social peace, and the public’s quick fix for vanishing Western auto brands aligned perfectly with the script. Yet budget coffers are shrinking, new-car demand stays sluggish, and the market keeps contracting. Experts forecast a roughly 30% drop in sales volume this year. Against that backdrop, officials are slamming shut the used-import loophole. The recycling fee bump feels like just one line item in the war’s bill of costs that the Kremlin is starting to present to society.
Citizens aren’t keen to foot it and are pushing back however they can. Tensions run hotter on the Far East, where scoring a used Japanese ride has long been a cherished local ritual—untouched even before the war by the arrival of Western plants in Russia or the influx of then-cheap Chinese options. Primorsky Krai’s leaders get this, so they greenlit the rally to vent the steam while flashing a warning to Moscow about the measures’ unpopularity and the public’s flat refusal. Rallygoers didn’t just demand scrapping the fee hikes; they trashed domestic cars, and a few even called for the ouster of Industry and Trade Minister Anton Alikhanov.
From Manturov’s remarks, it seems the signal reached Moscow loud and clear. For now, the deputy PM is only floating a one-month delay on the new rules, but a rethink—perhaps dialing back the increases—isn’t off the table. The Kremlin could afford to ease off on recycling fees to avoid extra friction amid looming tax hikes and tighter small-business regs aimed at plugging the fiscal gap. The fee’s fate will serve as a litmus test for how far the Kremlin and government are willing to bend to social pushback. If ministers scale back the hike, it’ll signal real adaptability. But if it goes through anyway, even delayed a month, that’ll underscore the leadership’s resolve to stick to its guns, popular opinion be damned.
Governors grappling with gaping holes in regional budgets are already gearing up for local tax bumps. Three regions are eyeing transport tax increases, which officials chalk up to «rising citizen prosperity.» Fat chance locals will send thank-you notes for that—and we’re likely to see Vladivostok-style repeats in spots here and there.
Populism, Uncensored
Samara Oblast Governor Vyacheslav Fedorishchev fired off the Kinel district head, Yuri Zhidkov, right on camera—and laced it with profanity. Odds are, the governor or his political handlers figured this would make for a splashy PR stunt. Governors often dress down municipal or regional underlings in public, even canning them on the spot, betting it resonates with the masses and polishes their own image. Zhidkov was due out in two weeks anyway, making him a sitting duck for the spectacle.
Fedorishchev’s bind is compounded by Kremlin grumblings over his antics; they’re mulling his own dismissal. The Samara boss belongs to a still-rare breed of «new populists«—officials who lean into shock tactics and back Putin-favored policies that play poorly with the public. But Fedorishchev tends to overplay his hand, drawing flak and ridicule. He’s likely staved off immediate ouster thanks to a heavyweight patron: presidential aide Alexei Dyumin. Fedorishchev cut his teeth under Dyumin in Tula Oblast, and it was Dyumin who vaulted him to the plum Samara gig. The governor’s quirks ding Dyumin’s rep but axing his protégé would sting even worse. Once whispers of Fedorishchev’s potential exit hit the air, he swung into overdrive: he sacked the Samara government, cobbled together a fresh cabinet, and took the helm himself—bluntly signaling he wasn’t budging. The theatrical takedown of Zhidkov slotted right into this frenzy.
That said, the firing boomeranged hard. Rather than pinning it on Zhidkov’s specific screw-ups, Fedorishchev unleashed a foul-mouthed tirade and slapped the older man on the shoulder. In the initial clip that blew up in the media, the «why» stayed murky, leaving the governor’s conduct looking unhinged. He later spun it as fury over a shabby memorial stone for Great Patriotic War vets. But that quickly unraveled: the stone was just a placeholder, with the real monument long in place. Pivot complete, Fedorishchev claimed Zhidkov had botched district management and flubbed social-facility repairs. Zhidkov fired back that his patch led in economic metrics, with those fixes slated for later years. Media added that the municipal chief—two weeks from a scheduled exit—landed in the hospital post-clash. The image of an elder statesman battered by gubernatorial whim started tugging at public heartstrings. In the end, Fedorishchev went public with regret over the «profanity-laced sacking» and issued an apology.
This crisis spin—meant to bulletproof Fedorishchev’s own perch—might just hasten his downfall. The dustup went national, forcing the governor to own his «inappropriate» conduct on the record. His Putin-tailored experiments in rough-edged populism flopped here. At first blush, the approach might have tempted other ladder-climbers, but Fedorishchev’s stumbles will likely deter the ambitious from chasing aggressive populism’s siren call.
