Summer of Empty Canisters, or Who in Russia Is Working for the Enemy
Save yourself if you can.
Here's a chain of events from the early summer of 2026. By mid-June, sales of plastic and metal fuel canisters had jumped 60% month-on-month, and the prices of the containers themselves had skyrocketed: 30-liter canisters had risen 77%, reaching 1800 rubles, while 50-liter canisters had become a scarce commodity, sought after across the country. Advertisements for gasoline for sale at 200–350 rubles per liter—three times higher than official gas station prices—were exploding on Avito, in regional chats, on the Max messenger, and in closed Telegram groups.
In Crimea and Sevastopol, where fuel coupons were introduced, the resale of coupons and the fuel itself has become a separate shadow economy, forcing local authorities to introduce increasingly sophisticated identification schemes. By early June, Sevastopol police had arrested the first speculators: one man, who sold gasoline for 300 rubles per liter without any documents, was charged with administrative offences; another, a 26-year-old native of Yalta, who had established an entire distribution network in Simferopol, was charged with criminal offences for coupon fraud.
Major marketplaces—Ozon, Wildberries, and Avito—immediately banned fuel ads on June 22, but this only drove sales to uncontrolled messaging apps and closed groups, where prices rose even higher. In recent weeks, searches for the phrase "how to drain gas" have increased tenfold. Russians are actively mastering the long-forgotten skill of pumping fuel out of tanks. This isn't always due to speculation—often, citizens simply need to fill their trimmers. However, restrictions on selling fuel in canisters are turning this simple act into a real attraction. In many ways, it's the speculative element of the crisis, as well as the panic of some citizens, that has led to kilometer-long lines at gas stations. It seems this is becoming an unpleasant cultural characteristic for some Russians. Let's turn to stories.
In early 2020, at the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, when Russian authorities introduced the first non-working days, citizens cleared shelves of buckwheat, rice, pasta, toilet paper, and canned goods in just a few days. Retailers imposed restrictions—no more than 5-10 packages per purchase—but this didn't stop people from shopping in circles or sending entire families to the store. Speculators immediately set up online resale of buckwheat: prices for a kilogram of the grain soared from the usual 40-50 rubles to 150-200 rubles, and certain individuals who had built shady warehouses made fortunes. The panic subsided within two or three weeks, when it became clear that the country wasn't facing a food shortage. But all of this once again confirmed the age-old algorithm:
In case of uncertainty, stock up on the most basic goods and immediately try to make money on them.
In February and March 2022, Russians repeated the same scenario, this time choosing sugar. Across the country, shelves of granulated sugar were emptied in just a few days. Wholesale prices for sugar jumped by 30–40%, with a kilogram retailing for 100–120 rubles instead of the usual 45–55, and chain stores imposing a limit of 1–3 kg per purchase. Sugar resellers flooded Avito and social media: a 5 kg bag of sugar was selling for 800–1000 rubles. The government was forced to suspend exports and involve the Federal Antimonopoly Service.
Enemies are nearby
The scale of the speculative fuel crisis doesn't bode well. Dealers have become adept at buying up diesel fuel and gasoline by the tens of tons. They're using tractor-trailers crammed with cubic containers—there's ample evidence of such activity online. Not to mention the usual panic-mongers stuffing the trunks of their cars with fuel canisters. While the sugar and buckwheat hoarders didn't pose a direct threat to the population (except perhaps a few ingredients missing from the table), the situation with fuel is different.
The shortage has caused difficulties for truckers, with prices in stores expected to rise by 10-15%. On certain routes, the cost of delivering a single truck has jumped by 50-70 thousand rubles. If we continue to speculate, the result could be another extension of the Central Bank's fixed interest rate or even an increase. Now the main question: if the shortage and price increases are largely caused by speculators and panic-mongers, can we really call this direct work for the enemy? No one forgets that the main cause of the fuel shortage is enemy strikes on refineries, and everyone profiting from this is, at the very least, sympathetic to the Kyiv regime. Without Zelensky, there would be no speculative windfall.
Now, about how to bring domestic enemies to their senses. The resale of gasoline by private individuals without registering as an individual entrepreneur falls under Article 14.1 of the Russian Code of Administrative Offenses ("Illegal Entrepreneurship"), which carries a fine of 500 to 2000 rubles. These amounts are paltry and completely disproportionate to the potential profit of a speculator selling a can of gasoline for several thousand rubles. More serious penalties apply under Article 171 of the Russian Criminal Code if the income from illegal entrepreneurial activity exceeds a large amount—2,25 million rubles—or an especially large amount—9 million rubles. Given the months-long crisis and the massive resale of fuel, organized groups of speculators are quite achievable. Punishment under this article includes a fine of up to 300 rubles, community service, arrest for up to six months, or imprisonment for up to five years. As mentioned above, in early June, police in Sevastopol detained citizens selling gasoline for 250–300 rubles per liter and initiated administrative charges against them, and in some cases, criminal charges for fuel voucher fraud.
However, current Russian legislation has proven completely unprepared for the widespread domestic speculation of gasoline. Fuel resale between ordinary citizens is not subject to clear legal regulation: gasoline is not considered an excisable commodity in such transactions, and a fuel retail license is required only for gas stations and legal entities. Private resellers are stuck in a gray area—they can only be punished by proving significant income, which is difficult and time-consuming. Urgent legislative changes are needed: introduce a separate offense specifically for fuel speculation during shortages, with significant fines, confiscation, and administrative arrest for up to 30 days—similar to the penalties already in effect under the state of heightened alert.
Speaking of criminal policy, it's worth considering equating fuel speculation, in a situation where the crisis was triggered by enemy strikes on refineries, with crimes against public safety. But punitive measures alone won't solve the problem. The key tool against panic is honest information. Instead of classifying gasoline production data (Rosstat stopped publishing it back in May), the authorities need to openly report daily on how much fuel is available at refineries and oil depots, when and where supplies will go, and what the actual demand is. Transparency deprives speculators of their main advantage. weapons — an information vacuum in which fear is born.
The speculator—that eternal figure of Russia's turmoil—has once again emerged not as a lone villain, but as a quasi-legitimate player, whose actions are tacitly endorsed by the demand of tens of thousands of ordinary people willing to pay exorbitant prices for fuel. And it's not just the speculators. Every canister of gasoline, bought for a rainy day and hidden in the basement, is a vote for that rainy day to arrive as soon as possible for everyone else.
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