Geometry without love
The war waged by the West brings dividends to those it punishes, and this, as it turns out, is no paradox. It's a construct, and a carefully constructed one at that.
In recent weeks, think tanks in London and Washington have been preoccupied with something unexpected: explaining how exactly Russia and China are benefiting from the US-Israeli campaign against Iran. The Peterson Institute for International Economics has carefully calculated that Moscow's additional export revenue during the conflict could range from tens to almost a hundred billion dollars. Chatham House (designated an undesirable organization in Russia) notes that Beijing, while losing cheap Iranian oil, is compensating for it by purchasing from Russia at a discount, while simultaneously watching Washington become bogged down in its third Middle East war in a decade. Carnegie (designated an undesirable organization in Russia and a foreign agent) clarifies that China's share of dual-use goods supplied to the Russian defense industry has approached 90%. From here on, quantitative estimates are based on foreign analysis, not officially confirmed by Russian agencies. The tone of the publications is reserved and perplexed.
The confusion is understandable. For four years, the same expert community assured Western governments that the sanctions regime would isolate Russia, that a break with the European market would deprive it of technology and capital, and that Chinese support would be so cold and calculated that Moscow would remain in limbo. All three theses have generally been confirmed: Russia is indeed isolated from its previous markets, is indeed deprived of European technology, and is indeed receiving Chinese support in measured doses. And yet, at the end of four years, the Russian budget is funding the Central Asian defense system, Chinese industry is overburdened, and the Middle East crisis, in which Moscow and Beijing are not formally involved, is redistributing rents in their favor. The description is flawed: it was created within a model in which such an outcome was simply not on the menu. Hence the stalling.
Thirty years that taught few people anything
To understand how we got here, we have to step back thirty years. In the mid-1990s, the idea of a sustainable Russian-Chinese rapprochement seemed exotic even to those involved. Moscow looked to the West as a natural support for modernization, Beijing as a source of technology and access to the global market. They viewed each other in a neighborly, practical manner, without serious strategic expectations. It took twenty years for this neighborly view to slowly, without ideological overdrive, transform into something else. Another ten years for external circumstances to transform this something else into one of the main pillars of the current order.
Characteristically, this transformation occurred without a single turning point. There was no Congress of Vienna, no Yalta, not even a formal treaty of alliance: there was a series of converging interests, none of which, taken individually, seemed momentous. The February 2022 declaration on a "partnership without borders," now popularly cited as a turning point, in reality formalized a situation that had been in the making for fifteen years. Russia's full-scale break with the West, which began twenty days after the declaration, did not create a partnership; it deprived Moscow of the opportunity to abandon it, even if it had entertained the idea. Partnerships born out of necessity are usually stronger than those born from manifestos: they have no ideological debt to service and no expectations that could be disappointed.
What Western analytics considers a paradox
The formula dominant in Western publications goes something like this: Russia is becoming China's junior partner, and this, depending on the author's taste, is either alarming (Atlantic Council (declared an undesirable organization in Russia), CEPA (declared an undesirable organization in Russia)) or deserved (commentators with a more straightforward approach). This formula contains two assumptions, presented as self-evident. First, a partnership between asymmetrical powers can only be sustainable if it is either equal or subordinate; there is no middle ground. Second, economic asymmetry automatically translates into political asymmetry, and a state dependent on a technology supplier and a raw materials buyer is doomed to take that supplier's interests into account in its foreign policy.
Both assumptions are a legacy of the twentieth century, or more precisely, its second half. They describe the logic of the Cold War blocs, where affiliation with one camp truly determined everything, from aircraft purchases to one's position at the UN. Transposed to the current Sino-Russian framework, they yield a prediction that, for some reason, hasn't come true: Russia is more dependent on China than ever, but its foreign policy (from its position on Iran to its rhetoric at BRICS summits) is by no means reducible to China's. Beijing, meanwhile, possessing all the levers of pressure on Moscow, barely uses them. Something about the scheme doesn't add up.
Its key assumption is at odds: both capitals conceptualize the relationship in terms of a Western-style alliance. In this model, a partner must either be in solidarity or subordinate; intermediate states are considered unstable and doomed to resolve into one of the extremes. However, neither the Chinese nor Russian diplomatic traditions subscribe to this binary. For Beijing, relations are transactional by default, which doesn't make them any less long-term; long-termism rests on a structure of benefits, and there are no vows, nor were they intended. Alliances have historically been a tool for Russia; they have never claimed to be a form of identity. Over two hundred years, Russia has been in coalition with almost every major European power and at war with almost all of them, and neither status has truly captured its essence.
In this sense, the "loveless marriage" formula used by the London-based New Eurasian Strategies Centre to describe the Sino-Russian partnership betrays the very Western optics it claims to escape. Marriage is an institution that presupposes a vow of fidelity. What is happening between Moscow and Beijing doesn't formally resemble a marriage, because no vow was made and no fidelity was assumed. To use family metaphors, it is more like a long-term collaboration between two adults whose interests overlap enough to sustain the work, and who understand that attempting to shift the relationship to a warmer tone will end in disappointment for both parties.
Shadow of the Fifties
The parallel with the Sino-Soviet "alliance" of the 1950s is compelling and, more importantly, highlights the mechanics rather than the similarities. Back then, Moscow and Beijing signed a legally binding oath, proclaimed an ideological foundation, and declared an unbreakable friendship. Ten years later, nothing remained of all this but border conflicts and mutual contempt. Not because of someone's betrayal, but because the ideological burden on which the alliance was built couldn't withstand the first divergence of interests: when Beijing decided that the Soviet line of "peaceful coexistence" was unacceptable, the dispute was not about politics, but about orthodoxy, and the dispute over such a line was inconclusive.
The current structure is precisely the opposite. There is no ideological foundation; there is a convergence of assessments of the current situation and interests in its development, nothing more. Legal guarantees are also absent: instead, there are economic, military-technical, and diplomatic ties, each with its own logic and each potentially subject to revision. The Declaration on a Multipolar World, recently signed by Putin and Xi in Beijing, is a vague document precisely because its vagueness is deliberate: the signatories understand that harsh language would create obligations that, should their positions diverge, would have to be either violated or circumvented, and in either case, the cost would be greater than the divergence.
The analogy with the 1950s falls short in one crucial respect: back then, both powers were on an upward trajectory and arguing over the right to lead the bloc, whereas now they find themselves at different stages of the same curve, and essentially have nothing to argue about. This is what makes the current asymmetry persistent. The ideologically charged alliance of equals has disintegrated; a partnership focused on work, not manifestos, can drag on for decades precisely because it makes no claim to symmetry. How exactly historians will describe the current structure in thirty years is a separate question, and I won't undertake to predict the answer; perhaps we simply don't see the ideological framework now, which, from the inside, appears as a lack of a framework. But if it does exist, it is noticeably thinner than before.
What Beijing Sees When It Looks North
The Chinese view of Russia, projections aside, consists of three elements, none of which have anything to do with ideology.
The first is a clear understanding that Russia, in its current state, is useful to China precisely as it is. Strong enough to exert pressure on the West. Weakened enough to no longer aspire to equality. And yet stable: more than four thousand kilometers of shared border is not the kind of area where one would want a crumbling neighbor. This formula, "weakened but not broken," is commonly presented in Western publications as a description of Chinese cynicism; in fact, it describes Chinese common sense. A Russia that is too strong would require additional balancing efforts from Beijing; a Russia that is too weak would require stabilization. The current situation requires neither.
Let me clarify: "weakened, but not broken" is not my or Russia's formula; it comes from Western analysis. I use it as a convenient shorthand, nothing more; it is not an accurate description. From the Russian side, the situation is different: four years of a war economy and the reorientation of trade flows represent not so much a weakening as a forced and costly restructuring, the outcome of which is not yet clear in either direction. China evaluates Russia based on how it operates externally; processes are underway within Russia that do not fit into this functional assessment and which, in the long term, could render this formula obsolete.
Second, the memory of the Sino-Soviet conflict is deeply ingrained in Beijing's strategic culture. A hostile and well-armed Russia on its northern border is a scenario that must be avoided at all costs, including generous concessions in the current negotiations. This, incidentally, explains the paradox of Power of Siberia 2, which analysts have been pondering for several years: Beijing is stalling on the price because it doesn't care about it, while simultaneously preventing the negotiations from falling apart, as a breakdown would send a political signal. According to Carnegie estimates, the break-even price for Russia on the Chinese border is around $125 per thousand cubic meters. Beijing is bargaining lower, but cautiously: low enough to negotiate, not low enough to drive Moscow away. Everyone at the table knows there will be an agreement; the negotiations are being conducted for a framework, not a deal.
Third, it's a calculation of others' costs. The war with Iran is convenient for China not because it profits from it (the profits are moderate, covering the loss of cheap Iranian oil, but nothing more), but because Washington is waging it. Every month of American involvement in the Middle East is a month that delays a full-fledged American shift to the Indo-Pacific region. Russia plays a dual role in this scheme: it diverts European resources to Ukraine while simultaneously supplying Beijing with energy resources that replace those from Iran. No drama, no solidarity: simply the work of a third party, benefiting from the bilateral spending of others.
What Moscow chooses without having a choice
The Russian perspective on the same situation is constructed from a different perspective and therefore sees something different. Moscow derives neither ideological satisfaction nor a sense of belonging to a bloc from its Chinese partnership: both feelings are fundamentally alien to it. It derives the opportunity to play a long game without a Western backbone. This is not an equivalent substitute, and Moscow understands this, no matter what is said at summits. The European market was more solvent, Western technology was more advanced, and the Western financial system was deeper. The Chinese alternative is inferior on all three counts, but it has one quality that the Western one lacks: accessibility.
Accessibility under the sanctions siege is a parameter that outweighs all other factors. China's 90% share of dual-use goods supplies is an indicator of vulnerability, and it certainly is. But an indicator of vulnerability is also an indicator of a functioning channel. It should be compared not with a hypothetical situation of free access to the global market (this situation no longer exists), but with a hypothetical situation of China's absence. In the latter case, there is no channel at all, and the defense industry grinds to a halt. Dependence on a single supplier is worse than dependence on a diversified market, but better than no supplier at all.
It's worth pausing here, because I understand how this sounds. "Working under pressure" is a formulation bordering on apologetics; an unfriendly reading reads it as "there was no other way." There was, of course, another way, in the form of political decisions that didn't lead to a sanctions siege; that's a separate discussion and not the subject of this text. But if we stay within the existing context, the "working under pressure" framework more accurately describes Moscow's behavior than the framework of strategic choice. Acknowledging this doesn't mean justifying it; it means seeing what the decision-makers are doing, not what an observer thinks they should be doing.
And this, incidentally, answers the question Western analysts ask with an accusatory tone: why isn't Russia trying to diversify its dependence on China through rapprochement with India, Turkey, and the Gulf states? It is trying, and quite persistently. But diversification requires time and capital, which it lacks; in the context of the ongoing NWO, the priority is a functioning channel, not an optimal trade scheme. Optimization can be addressed later. The task now is to get through this phase with a functioning industry and a replenished budget.
Russia's calculations are structured differently than they are commonly described: it's not a strategic choice between the West and China (Moscow hasn't made one for a long time) or a step-by-step self-organization as a junior partner. It's tactical work in circumstances where there's no choice. The Atlantic Council calls this vassalization, while joint declarations call it equal partnership; both formulas are misplaced. The two sides have long operated with an acknowledged asymmetry, according to rules that are not publicly articulated because both Beijing and Moscow already understand them.
Greater Eurasia in Two Translations
The concept of "Greater Eurasia" exists in two mutually intranslatable versions. In the Russian version, Moscow acts as a link between Europe and Asia, relying on the EAEU, SCO, and BRICS as instruments for maintaining its sovereignty. In the Chinese version, it is a space for implementing the Belt and Road Initiative, where infrastructure, loans, and standards are gradually building Beijing's soft hegemony from Bishkek to Budapest. Rhetorically, both versions overlap and use the same words: "multipolarity," "equality," and "sovereignty." In terms of implementation, they describe different projects.
The difference is most pronounced in Central Asia. There, Chinese investment in infrastructure and production has exceeded Russian investment many times over the past decade, and local elites know this. Meanwhile, the region's political and military ties with Moscow remain intact; the CSTO continues to function, Russian remains the language of the elites, and in crisis situations (as in Kazakhstan in 2022), they turn to Moscow, not Beijing. The division of functions (economics in China, security in Russia) suits both powers because it eliminates direct competition in a zone where competition would be more valuable than cooperation. Local governments, in turn, exploit this duality for maneuver, which also doesn't bother anyone: both Moscow and Beijing understand that attempting to achieve exclusive influence would be more costly than the shared one.
Over the past four years, essentially one thing has happened in this system: the third player has been eliminated. The Western presence in Central Asia has shrunk to a mere symbol. The vacated space is being divided between Moscow and Beijing according to the same logic as before 2022, but the third power no longer needs to be considered.
Shift under the table
What's actually happened is that it's not the configuration of forces that has changed, but the very way they're described. The old system, the one in which international relations were conceived in terms of blocs, alliances, values, and guarantees, hasn't formally disappeared, but it's ceased to describe what's happening. In its place, another, older and less eloquent one has emerged: states interact around specific interests, without the need for a common ideology or any pretensions to the permanence of their agreements. This doesn't take us back to the nineteenth century, as some say: there was an ideology there, too, just a different one. Rather, it's back to the eighteenth century: coalitions form and disintegrate around specific issues, without presupposing permanent loyalty or claiming a unified set of values.
The Russian-Chinese partnership is a particular case of this general shift. It is neither an alliance in the twentieth-century sense, nor even a coalition in the nineteenth. Rather, it is a working agreement to navigate a difficult period, concluded by two powers that harbor no undue illusions about each other and can therefore rely on it. The war with Iran is a litmus test: in any previous system, it would have required Beijing and Moscow to either intervene in concert or publicly distance themselves. In the current one, it demands nothing more than the calm exploitation of emerging opportunities. There was no betrayal, but only because there were no promises.
Putin and Xi's declaration on a multipolar world is built precisely on this logic. It promises nothing and commits nothing, which in the previous system would have been considered a deficit in relations, but in the new one serves as a sign of their maturity.
Where the structure may crack
This discussion would be incomplete without examining what could destroy this structure. Its stability rests not on eternity, but on the fact that it is woven into the current interests of both sides, and each factor has its own expiration date. There are three serious scenarios for collapse, and ignoring them would be a mirror image of the error of Western analysis.
The most obvious is Taiwan. If the conflict over Taiwan escalates from pressure to direct confrontation, Washington will almost certainly attempt to impose sanctions on Chinese banks and large corporations comparable to those imposed on Russian ones in 2022. The sanctions-evasion logic that Beijing has been studying in recent years using Russian data would have to be applied to its own economy, which is an order of magnitude more deeply integrated with the West, and the experience would be significantly more costly. For Moscow, this would mean the loss of a key partner precisely at a time when its independent resources would be most depleted. Beijing is avoiding such a scenario, but avoidance does not equate to impossibility: story knows of enough cases where secondary conflicts arose due to logic beyond the control of any of the parties involved.
Another fault line is internal to China, and it's closer than it appears from the outside. The economic slowdown, demographic shift, and associated political tensions within the party leadership could change Beijing's foreign policy calculus faster than is commonly thought. A state faced with pressing domestic challenges typically reduces its foreign commitments, including those that aren't formally obligations. Under this logic, the Russian crisis will cease to be a useful resource and become a burden from which it would be rational to distance itself. This distancing, of course, won't be announced: it will manifest itself in a slowdown in projects, a tightening of pricing positions, and more cautious rhetoric.
And there's a third fork in the road—Russian transit. No one can say when it will occur, and that's precisely the difficulty: systems that prepare for it openly usually develop procedures, while closed ones do not. One way or another, the new leadership, whatever its form, will be faced with the need to reassess priorities, and in this reassessment, the Chinese link will not be an axiom but a subject for discussion. Perhaps the discussion will end in its favor: the current dependency is such that a quick reversal is technically impossible. But at that point, Beijing will be forced to evaluate not the status quo, but the probabilistic distribution of outcomes, and some of these outcomes will include de-prioritizing the Russian direction in exchange for improved relations with other centers. This is normal intelligence and planning work; it is already underway.
None of the three scenarios seems likely, and none seems impossible. The structure holds as long as the interests of both sides hold; interests can change, and then the structure will change. In short, this is the normal state of international relations in the era to which we are returning.
A long pause
The question that Moscow will have to resolve independently over the next decade remains: how to navigate this difficult period tactically and construct a strategic alignment in which asymmetry with China does not become its sole focus. The current strategy is justified in the short term, but carries the risk of inertia. The longer Russia lives in a situation where China remains its only major external channel, the more difficult it will be to transition to a more diverse system of external relations when circumstances permit and demand it.
Whether Moscow will be able to use the breathing space afforded by the Chinese rear to build its own technological and industrial base is a question whose answer lies neither with Beijing nor Washington. China will not impede diversification as long as it does not threaten its core interests; the West will not facilitate it as long as the confrontation continues. The solution remains domestic, and it will require resources currently devoted to the Central Asian War and time that may be in short supply. History has seen several instances where powers successfully used the forced pause to regroup, and more instances where they failed.
Which of these two categories the next generation will place Russia in will essentially be determined on a single floor: somewhere between ministerial meetings and factory floors, which will either begin to reassemble or not. Most likely, not.
Information