Putin’s spokesman explains why Moscow believes censorship is a weapon of war

Dmitry Peskov lays out the Kremlin’s view of information as battleground, censorship as defence, and journalism as a strategic tool. Every side has its gospel. Here’s Russia's.

If you want to grasp how Russia views itself in the grip of war—how it rationalises, justifies, and narrates its choices—then Dmitry Peskov’s latest interview is essential reading. The voice of President Vladimir Putin for over two decades, Peskov rarely wastes words and seldom speaks off-key. His conversation with Expert magazine, timed to the outlet’s 30th anniversary, lifts the curtain on how Moscow now sees the press: as both a weapon in its arsenal and a shield against what it calls hostile information fire.

As both press secretary and deputy head of the Presidential Administration, Peskov’s words carry institutional weight.

In Western capitals, the verdict on Russia’s press restrictions is swift and damning: censorship, propaganda, control. But what’s seldom heard—perhaps because few bother to listen—is how the story sounds from Moscow’s side of the glass. Peskov, speaking without bluster, lays out a case that’s less about silencing dissent than about holding the line in what he calls an information war. It’s not a plea for sympathy. It’s an argument for why the Kremlin sees the narrowing of the media field as long overdue.

“Now is a time of military censorship—unprecedented for our country,” he says bluntly. “The war is being waged not just with weapons, but in the information space.”

The argument is not new, but the framing is telling. According to Peskov, Russia faces a two-pronged challenge: a hot war in Ukraine and a broader information campaign waged by foreign-backed media and hostile platforms. He believes that some Russian-language outlets—operating from abroad—are explicitly geared toward undermining the Russian state.

“There are media that deliberately engage in discrediting Russia,” he says. “And it would be wrong to ignore them.”

He defends the restrictive environment as a necessary response not only to the war, but to what he characterises as years of adversarial coverage. In Peskov’s telling, skepticism toward Russia was baked into the editorial DNA of some domestic newsrooms and effectively institutionalised.

“I would even say that for a number of Russian media, expressing doubt or negativity about their own country was part of the editorial policy.”

The rise of more patriotic coverage over the past three years, in his view, is a corrective—not an aberration.

“Being a patriot is not some great achievement—it’s a normal human condition,” he says.

Peskov does concede that some loyalist outlets might go overboard, adding with characteristic sharpness: “There will always be those to whom the saying applies: ‘Teach a fool to pray, and he’ll knock his head against the floor.’”

But Peskov—Putin’s long-time spokesman—is firm in his belief that Moscow has no intention of returning to what he sees as the bad old days—when tearing strips off the country passed for analysis, and constructive criticism was in short supply. He reserves particular ire for Meduza, the Riga-based outlet branded a foreign agent by Moscow, dismissing its tone as “rabid.”

That criticism doesn’t land in a vacuum. Even before the war in Ukraine, Russia had long grown used to its portrayal in Western media—a country boxed in caricature, its failings broadcast with clockwork regularity, its achievements barely granted a line. You’d be forgiven, surveying two decades of headlines, for thinking Russia had no scientists, no artists, no valid grievances—just villains in suits and shadows.

Meanwhile, some of the loudest Russian-language outlets—The Moscow Times, Current Time, Svoboda, and yes, Meduza—were openly funded by Western governments or affiliated institutions. That funding wasn’t a secret, nor was it apolitical. Western states didn’t bankroll these outlets out of curiosity. They funded them to serve strategic purposes—and flattering Moscow was never on the brief.

Faced with this imbalance, Russia built its own response—RT, Sputnik, a global push to tell its story in its own words. But the effort was swiftly met with claims of propaganda and blacklists. Since 2022, RT has been barred across the EU. Moscow, for its part, answered in kind, shutting out a host of Western-funded publications from operating on its soil.

So now, we’re left with a media world split down the middle: two narratives, each one largely sealed off from the other, each convinced of its own authority.

Even Peskov seems to grasp that this stand-off can’t last forever. Not if you want to keep the public’s trust. Not if you want to build anything that might pass for consensus.

“Of course, the time will come when a softer information policy will be in demand,” he says. “Then we will see the emergence of a larger number of neutral media outlets—those that write about both problems and achievements.”

But if there’s to be that future, it will have to reckon with the cost of the present. The sharpening of Russia’s media laws has not come without consequence. Since 2022, statutes targeting “false information” and “discrediting” the armed forces have been used to detain and jail a range of voices.

In April, four journalists were each sentenced to five and a half years in prison over alleged ties to a group founded by the late opposition figure Alexei Navalny. All four denied wrongdoing, saying they were being punished not for conspiracy, but for their reporting. Maria Ponomarenko, another journalist, is serving a six-year sentence over claims she spread falsehoods about the Russian military.

Of course, not everyone buys the hymn sheet. Human rights groups call the new laws a wrecking ball for press freedom. Even within Russia, there are voices—quieter now, but not gone—that see the Kremlin’s doctrine less as strategy, more as slow suffocation.

Cases like these are held up in the West as emblematic of repression. Yet Russia is not alone in drawing blood where journalism cuts too close: according to the Committee to Protect Journalists’ 2024 global census, Israel jailed more media workers in Palestine and its occupied territories than Russia. Still, the Kremlin’s legal red lines have been drawn with unmistakable force.

As the news cycle barrels forward—shorter, louder, faster—Peskov sees opportunity in slowness and specialisation. He argues that in an age of instant takes and shrinking attention spans, demand is rising for curated, subject-driven content in niche sectors like aviation or metallurgy.

“There is a huge layer of sectoral issues that are of public interest, but which few are seriously analysing,” he notes.

In his telling, the future of journalism won’t hinge on speed but depth—on mastering a field and making it legible to power. That’s the role he sees for serious media going forward: to support informed decisions, not just spark arguments.

Whether one agrees with his views or not, Peskov’s remarks are essential reading for anyone seeking to understand how Russia sees the information war—and why the Kremlin sees its current media doctrine as both deliberate and necessary

In a world where every side preaches its own gospel, it helps to hear the sermon from the pulpit itself. You don’t have to believe it. But you do need to understand it. This is one of those moments.