Everything was angular about him: his brilliant smile, the choppy movements of his hands as he spoke, the western mannerisms he had picked up abroad at Yale. But it was the smile that really stood out. Alexei Navalny didn’t know me, probably didn’t trust me, but his smile was a signal of trust – an open sincerity I’d never seen among Russian politicians. It was the kind of trust that comes from an inner self-confidence, the belief that his country’s laws are for him and for the people, and most of all, the belief in solutions.

As a reporter in Russia, it was not the only time I had seen or spoken to him, but when I learned of his death, it was that memory in particular that broke my heart. It was April 2012, the height of the anti-Kremlin protest movement that would prove the biggest in Vladimir Putin’s 24-year reign. Navalny, a lawyer and anti-corruption blogger, had emerged as the leader of the opposition. Not because he headed a political party or had been elected, but because he articulated a vision that resonated not just with Russia’s cosmopolitan liberal opposition, but with all sorts of other classes – blue-collar workers, nationalists, rural small businesses – all over the country. It was a simple, optimistic vision: corruption is eating away at our country, and it’s time to take back our laws and use them to live like the normal European country that we are. The essential point was simple: we are a democratic country founded on the rule of law just like any other European country. The difference was that Vladimir Putin’s Kremlin had spent more than a decade trying to impose the dictatorship of the law in letter, while gradually becoming a lawless dictatorship in spirit.

Over the next seven years, the Kremlin cracked down hard on the opposition, stifling protest with a succession of increasingly draconian laws. But it didn’t quite know what to do with Navalny. Killing him or jailing him risked making him into a martyr, further amplifying his message. Putin, as he often does when faced with hard questions, avoided making a choice, hoping that a deniable cat-and-mouse game of targeting his supporters and encouraging pro-Kremlin activists to stage attacks on Navalny would do the trick. It didn’t work. The unsuccessful poisoning in August 2020 may have been an escalation of that same deniable, dithering tactic: let’s see what happens, either he dies or he leaves the country. Navalny called Putin’s bluff and did neither of those things, returning to Russia knowing he faced almost certain arrest, and very likely death.

Today, dissent is effectively stifled in Russia. Navalny’s supporters – those that worked tirelessly to establish a network that stretched across Russia – are either exiled, in jail, or forced into ‘internal emigration’, a Soviet term that means they voice their dissent quietly among a circle of trusted friends.

Navalny was unique in articulating a vision for Russia

At one point in 2017, Navalny’s associate, Vladimir Volkov, told me that the opposition’s strategy was waiting out the Kremlin – if it was too dangerous to protest, the key thing was to work on building up networks and supporters across the country who would act once it became safe to do so. While the Anti-Corruption Foundation cannot effectively operate, in some ways that principle has carried over not only to Navalny’s supporters, but to anyone who opposes the Kremlin and believes in Russia’s future.

Navalny was unique in articulating a vision for Russia. What he demonstrated is that he is not the only one who has the power to work towards it. When I covered his protest rallies, I used to come close to the stage for the full effect of his chants – ‘Who is the power?’ ‘We are the power!’ the crowd would scream back. It was his charisma that helped spread that vision. His death has only made it stronger. ‘If he’s taught us anything, it’s that we’re the adults now’ – this was a common refrain on Russian social media channels last week.

Putin’s regime consists of aging autocrats who grew up in the Soviet Union, who have succumbed to the same despair they denounce in their anti-Russian detractors: that the Russian people are intrinsically incapable of democracy. As such, they regard fear and war as the only instruments keeping society in line. But it is their own proximity to death that keeps them from seeing beyond it. There are millions of other Russians – whether they specifically support Navalny or not, whether they have fled the country or chosen to stay, whether they protest or quietly hold on to their hope – who believe that their country has a future. They know the road will be difficult, and many may be too demoralised to voice it or act on this vision, but they know what Navalny knew. That Russia is already great. They know, too, that they don’t even need the respect of western countries to make it so. They need the courage to believe it.