Everyone is a terrorist, except himself, though he has been thriving on terror for two decades.
In the aftermath of the deadliest attack on Russian soil in twenty years, a massacre at a Moscow concert hall that claimed 139 lives and was claimed by ISIS-K, Vladimir Putin chose to acknowledge the violence while simultaneously redirecting its meaning. Where Western intelligence and the attackers themselves pointed to an Afghan affiliate of the Islamic State, Putin gestured toward Ukraine — not denying the militants pulled the trigger, but questioning who gave the order. It is a moment that reveals how catastrophic grief can be conscripted into geopolitical narrative, and how the search for truth and the search for utility are not always the same search.
- Four gunmen opened fire at a packed Moscow concert hall on a Friday night, killing 139 people in an attack ISIS-K claimed and Western intelligence confirmed — the worst such violence inside Russia in two decades.
- Despite clear evidence pointing to an Afghan affiliate of the Islamic State, Putin publicly implied Ukraine orchestrated the massacre to boost its own wartime morale, contradicting his own security community's findings.
- The United States had warned Russia in advance under a formal 'duty to warn' protocol, making Putin's pivot toward Ukraine a deliberate narrative choice rather than a product of intelligence uncertainty.
- Unverified videos of detained suspects showing severed ears, bandaged wounds, and visible bruising circulated widely, while the Kremlin refused to address direct questions about torture.
- Ukraine's Zelenskiy fired back, accusing Putin of two decades of state terror and calling the blame-shifting a transparent attempt to obscure the real perpetrators and serve a familiar geopolitical script.
On a Friday night in suburban Moscow, four gunmen entered the Crocus City Hall during a concert by the Soviet-era rock band Piknik and opened fire. When it was over, 139 people were dead and 182 wounded. The Islamic State claimed responsibility almost immediately, and intelligence agencies in both Washington and Paris confirmed that ISIS-K, an Afghan affiliate of the group, had carried out the attack. Russian authorities arrested eleven people, including the four suspected shooters — all Tajik nationals.
Three days later, Putin addressed his security apparatus. He acknowledged that Islamic militants had carried out the massacre, then pivoted. The more important question, he argued, was not who fired the weapons but who stood to gain — and his answer was Ukraine. He suggested the attack was designed to sow panic among Russians and signal to Kyiv that the war was not yet lost, implying the Ukrainian government may have orchestrated the violence as part of a decade-long campaign against Russia.
The evidence did not support this framing. The United States had warned Russia in advance under the diplomatic 'duty to warn' protocol. ISIS-K had released footage and claimed the operation publicly. Four men of Tajik origin were remanded on terrorism charges; several others were detained on suspicion of complicity. Yet the Kremlin's narrative machine ran in parallel to the investigation, not in service of it.
The treatment of detainees quickly became its own crisis. Videos circulating on social media showed men appearing in court with severed ears, bandaged wounds, and visible bruising. When a journalist asked Kremlin spokesman Dmitry Peskov whether torture had occurred, he declined to answer.
Ukraine's President Zelenskiy responded with pointed contempt, saying Putin had spent two decades thriving on terror while calling everyone else a terrorist. Ukraine denied any involvement and accused Putin of a familiar maneuver: using a genuine atrocity to reinforce a pre-existing geopolitical story. The gap between what the evidence showed and what Putin was saying was not a gap born of confusion — it was a gap built by design, the simultaneous acknowledgment of inconvenient facts and the construction of a parallel meaning engineered to serve the state.
On Friday night, four gunmen walked into the Crocus City Hall in suburban Moscow during a concert by the Soviet-era rock band Piknik and opened fire. By the time the shooting stopped, 139 people were dead and 182 wounded—the deadliest attack inside Russia in two decades. Within days, the Islamic State claimed responsibility, the United States and France confirmed intelligence pointing to ISIS-K, an Afghan affiliate of the terror group, and Russian authorities arrested eleven people, including the four suspected shooters.
But Vladimir Putin had a different story to tell. On Monday, three days after the massacre, the Russian president stood before his security apparatus and acknowledged that Islamic militants had carried out the attack. Then he pivoted. The real question, he suggested, was not who pulled the trigger but who benefited—and by his logic, that was Ukraine. Putin theorized that the attack was designed to "sow panic" among Russians and to signal to Ukraine's population that "not all is lost for the Kyiv regime." He went further, implying that the Kyiv government itself may have orchestrated the violence as part of a broader campaign against Russia stretching back to 2014.
The evidence told a different story. The United States had warned Russia in advance under a diplomatic protocol known as "duty to warn," flagging an imminent attack. Intelligence agencies in Washington and Paris both concluded that ISIS-K was responsible. The Islamic State itself released what it claimed was footage from the massacre and took public credit for the operation. Four men of Tajik origin were arrested at the scene or shortly after; a Basmanny district court remanded them on terrorism charges. Three additional men were detained on suspicion of complicity, and two more—a father and son, both Tajik nationals—were also held. Russian investigators believed some of the detainees had been recruited by others in the group.
The interrogations that followed raised immediate concerns about the methods being used. Unverified videos circulating on social media showed one of the detained men with his ear severed and placed in his mouth. Another appeared in court with his ear bandaged. A third was wheeled into the courtroom in hospital clothes, his face covered in cuts. A fourth stood with visible bruising. When a journalist asked Kremlin spokesman Dmitry Peskov whether the detainees had been tortured, he declined to answer.
Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskiy responded to Putin's insinuations with sharp ridicule. In his nightly video address, he said that in Putin's worldview, "everyone is a terrorist, except himself, though he has been thriving on terror for two decades." Ukraine flatly denied any involvement in the attack and accused Putin of attempting to redirect blame away from the actual perpetrators. Zelenskiy suggested that when Putin was gone, "the need for terror and violence will disappear with him."
The divergence between what the evidence showed and what Putin was saying reflected a deeper pattern in Russian information warfare: the simultaneous acknowledgment of inconvenient facts paired with an alternative narrative designed to serve state interests. Putin did not deny that Islamic militants carried out the shooting. But by raising the question of who ordered it and who stood to gain, he was planting seeds of doubt and redirecting suspicion toward an external enemy—one that conveniently aligned with his broader geopolitical narrative about Ukraine as a proxy of Western aggression.
Meanwhile, the investigation continued. Russian authorities said they believed some of the detained men had been recruited by others in the network. One detainee, according to reports, had owned a car used by the attackers. Another asserted his innocence. The Investigative Committee, led by Alexander Bastrykin, briefed Putin that the death toll had reached 139, with 182 injured. The immediate security response was underway. But the question of accountability—both for the attack itself and for how the detainees were being treated—remained unresolved.
Citas Notables
The question that arises is who benefits from this? This atrocity may be just a link in a whole series of attempts by those who have been at war with our country since 2014.— Vladimir Putin
For the Kremlin leader, everyone is a terrorist except himself, though he has been thriving on terror for two decades. When he is gone, the need for terror and violence will disappear with him.— Volodymyr Zelenskiy
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Putin acknowledged the Islamic State carried out the attack, so why did he then suggest Ukraine was involved?
Because acknowledgment and blame are different things. He admitted the fact—the gunmen, the ideology—but immediately pivoted to motive. By asking "who benefits," he was opening a door to a different narrative, one where Ukraine orchestrated the violence to boost its own morale.
But the US warned Russia beforehand. Doesn't that undercut his theory?
It should, but it doesn't necessarily change the political utility of the claim. The warning proves the attack was real and imminent, but it doesn't prove anything about who ordered it—or at least, that's the argument Putin was making.
What about the detainees? The videos showing injuries?
That's where the story gets darker. You have four men in custody, clearly beaten, and the Kremlin won't answer questions about torture. That silence is its own kind of answer.
Zelenskiy called Putin a terrorist. Isn't that escalating?
It's a direct response to being blamed for a massacre. Ukraine is saying: you're the one who thrives on violence, not us. It's defensive and accusatory at once.
So where does this leave the investigation?
With a fundamental split. The evidence points to ISIS-K. The Russian state is pursuing the detainees and also pursuing a narrative that implicates Ukraine. Both things are happening simultaneously, and they're not compatible.