“The Eye was rimmed with fire, but was itself glazed, yellow as a cat’s, watchful and intent, and the black slit of its pupil opened on a pit, a window into nothing.” The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R. Tolkien
In J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, the Eye of Sauron is not merely a symbol of evil, it is a strategic instrument of domination. Suspended atop Barad-dûr, it surveys Middle-earth with tireless vigilance. Its power lies not in direct action, but in perception: the Eye sees not only armies and fortresses, but intentions, fears, and the faint stirrings of rebellion. Its gaze distorts reality and suppresses opposition by reshaping behavior through the mere threat of being seen. This mythology resonates far beyond fantasy. In the aftermath of World War II, the Soviet Union constructed its own version of this gaze, less fantastical, but no less pervasive. The Eye of Kreml was omnipresent, unblinking, and psychologically invasive, an architecture of power built not only on tanks and treaties, but on observation, coercion, and strategic ambiguity. Like Sauron’s Eye, its strength lay not in what it did, but in what others feared it might do.
Unlike its literary counterpart, the Eye of Kreml did not hover above a single tower. It was embedded in institutions, alliances, doctrines, and created dependencies. Military garrisons, ideological orthodoxy, secret police networks, and economic coercion all served as conduits for its gaze. Institutional integration, through the Warsaw Pact and COMECON formalized dependency, subordinating national defense and economic priorities to Moscow’s oversight. Ideological conformity was enforced through education, media, and public discourse, pathologizing dissent as deviation. Internal surveillance completed the architecture of control: the Stasi, Securitate, UB, and their counterparts wove a dense web of informants, eroding trust and making silence a survival strategy. Economic leverage, via trade, energy, and industrial planning, was weaponized, making dependency a deliberate tool. To challenge the Eye was to risk isolation and instability or in rare cases the Eye would orchestra an invasion from all other members, of the Warsaw pact, to make sure they all stayed in line and showed true loyalty to the Eye. Each instrument reinforced the others, creating a system that was not omnipotent, but omnipresent, its influence woven into every branch and root of the Eastern European order.
No system of control endures indefinitely. By the 1980s, the Eye of Kreml began to fail, not due to military defeat (the Afghan campaign did little to instill fear), but because its internal contradictions became unsustainable. Economic stagnation, ideological exhaustion, and the emergence of civil society movements revealed the inherent limitations of surveillance as a mechanism of governance. The Soviet Union’s collapse was not a sudden implosion, but the slow erosion of its foundations, proof that even the most intricate architecture of control is susceptible to relative weakness and the enduring human drive for autonomy. Ultimately, overextension breeds internal instability, economic strain, logistical dysfunction, and heightened exposure to external threats. The unraveling played out over a decade: Warsaw Pact nations broke free first, setting the stage for the Soviet Union’s eventual implosion.
In Tolkien’s mythology, Sauron did not always appear as the all-seeing Eye. For centuries, he lingered in the shadows as the Necromancer of Dol Guldur, his power diminished, his identity concealed. The 1990s marked a similar interregnum for Russia, the major power within the Soviet Union. The collapse of the Soviet Union left the former superpower weakened and fragmented. Russia was uncertain of its place in the world. Its military was in disarray, its economy in crisis, and its political system in a poor state. For a time, Russia seemed to have retreated from the stage of great power politics, its ambitions reduced to survival and internal stabilization. Yet, as with Sauron’s slow return, the signs of resurgence were always present for those who looked closely. Not all was weak in Russia. Its intelligence services remained active, networks of influence persisted, and the memory of past power (both in terms of Soviet Union but also Imperial Tsar Russia) continued to shape both Russian identity and the anxieties of its neighbors. The 1990s were not a period of disappearance, but of transformation, a time when the architecture of Soviet control was dismantled in public, even as the foundations for renewed influence were quietly preserved.
This legacy endured in former Warsaw Pact states, were collective memories of Soviet and Tsarist domination shapes political culture and strategic choices. The result is a persistent “Don’t poke the bear” mentality: a cautious pragmatism rooted in the knowledge that the Eye, whether sleeping or awake, is never far from the forest’s edge. Like the people of Middle-earth who learned to move quietly under Sauron’s watchful gaze, societies in Eastern Europe have internalized both the risks of defiance and the necessity of vigilance. The perceived threat from Russia is always present, as all known, the bear awakes in the spring and is hungry again.
Ultimately, the Eye would return, not as it once was, but adapted to a changed world, ready to exploit new vulnerabilities and reclaim its place as a central actor in 21st-century geopolitics. This new eye of Kreml is fueled by Russian imperial nostalgia. In this narrative, the West, is not a partner but a thief, stealing allies, encircling Russia, and threatening its sovereignty. NATO’s expansion eastward is interpreted not as a defensive measure nor a voluntary and democratic decision by the peoples of former Warsaw pact countries in NATO but as an act of aggression. The Eye of Kreml was reborn from this paranoia, tasked with watching the “lost lands” and ensuring they do not drift too far. The eye wants its sphere of coercive influence back. The time to act was here.
The 2008 war in Georgia marked a turning point, as Russia combined rapid military intervention with cyberattacks and information operations to support separatist regions, South Ossetia and Abkhazia, both of which remain “frozen conflicts” under Russian protection. In Ukraine, the 2014 annexation of Crimea and the subsequent conflict in Donbas showcased the use of “little green men”, local proxies, and a sophisticated campaign of disinformation and cyber sabotage. The Donbas region, like Transnistria in Moldova, has become a zone of controlled instability, where Russia sustains separatist administrations and prevents full reintegration with the parent state. The bear was awake again. Today, pipelines transporting oil and gas from Russia to former Soviet client states remain overwintered structures of economic cohesion, casting shadows that still provide tools of dominance for the Eye to use. Information itself was weaponized: cyber operations, disinformation campaigns, and digital surveillance extended the Eye’s reach deep into the heart of rival societies, blurring the line between war and peace, truth and fiction. The eye tries to recreate its old sphere of coercive influence.
In Tolkien’s legendarium, the Eye of Sauron does not merely watch, it searches, probes, and tests the vigilance of its adversaries. Its gaze sweeps across the borders of Mordor, seeking weakness, sowing uncertainty, and reminding all who dwell nearby that no boundary is truly secure. The Eye’s power lies not only in what it sees, but in the psychological pressure it exerts on those who know they are being watched. This psychological pressure is part of the strategy. By maintaining tension, through military exercises, energy blackmail, and diplomatic provocations, Russia keeps its neighbors off balance. The goal is not always domination but destabilization. A country that is divided, distracted, or demoralized is easier to influence. This is the domain of the Eye.
Fear of the Eye runs through The Lord of the Rings, as characters grapple with its unrelenting gaze. Yet their dread is tempered by insight: Sauron’s obsession with power narrows his vision. He sees only domination and ambition, and thus fails to grasp motives rooted in selflessness, courage, or love. This metaphor resonates with the Eye of Kreml, whose strategic worldview diverges sharply from that of Western nations. For Russia, war is not a discrete event but a continuous state, an evolving instrument of both hard and soft power, interrupted by occasional periods of low-intensity warfare rather than true peace. This perspective drives a relentless search for vulnerabilities in military and political structures at potential adversaries, while overlooking the grassroots aspirations of ordinary people. When global leaders claim that Russia only understands the language of military strength and power, they are acknowledging this fundamental difference in how power, conflict, and legitimacy are perceived.
Recent Russian maneuvers along NATO’s eastern flank reflect a calculated strategy: probing for weakness and sowing disunity among alliance members in both EU and NATO. In Estonia, Russian fighter jets have repeatedly violated airspace with transponders switched off and radio contact ignored. Similar provocations have occurred in Poland, where drone incursions prompted NATO jets to scramble and led Warsaw to invoke Article 4 of the alliance treaty. Romania, Lithuania, Denmark, and Norway have also reported violations by drones and aircraft, some allegedly operated by Russian agents or proxy actors. Each incident appears carefully choreographed to test NATO’s cohesion and readiness. These are not navigational mishaps; they are deliberate signals. Like the Eye of Sauron, Russia’s actions serve as constant reminders to frontline states that the Kremlin’s gaze is fixed and unrelenting. The psychological impact is significant: heightened uncertainty, a sense of porous borders, and the persistent perception of an imminent threat. The Eye does not merely demand submission; it seeks to compel NATO’s retreat from what Russia views as its rightful sphere of coercive influence.
The vision of the Eye is to gather the Russian lands; a concept steeped in the imperial traditions of both Tsarist Russia and the Soviet Union. This ideology does not merely evoke nostalgia; it actively challenges the legitimacy of the current international order, particularly the borders established after the collapse of the Soviet Union and the dissolution of the Warsaw Pact. In practical terms, this doctrine implies that the territorial boundaries of post-Soviet republics and former Eastern Bloc nations are viewed by the eye not as fixed or sovereign, but as temporary and historically flawed. These borders, drawn in the wake of geopolitical upheaval, are seen as artificial constructs that unjustly separated Russian-speaking populations and fragmented what the eye considers, the historical Russian world.
Hybrid provocations are a powerful tool for the Eye of Kreml, offering two strategic advantages: plausible deniability and the erosion of the boundary between peace and conflict. Within this arsenal are cyberattacks, GPS jamming, and other forms of digital sabotage aimed at disrupting daily life and sowing uncertainty across Western societies. Added to this is a broader campaign of digital warfare, one that is inherently asymmetrical. Open democracies, with their free press and transparent institutions, are vulnerable to manipulation. Russia, by contrast, shields itself behind controlled media and centralized authority. The Eye thrives in this imbalance, exploiting openness abroad while fortifying its own grip at home. This dynamic is further reinforced through instruments like the “foreign agent” law, which compels NGOs receiving international funding to register as foreign agents. The law serves a dual purpose: it legitimizes the narrative of external subversion and evokes Cold War-era anxieties. Together, these tactics revive the “Don’t poke the bear” mentality embedded in the collective memory of former Warsaw Pact nations, a psychological deterrent rooted in historical trauma and strategic ambiguity.
The Eye of Kreml, like the Eye of Sauron, operates in the grey zone, exploiting ambiguity and testing the resolve of its adversaries without crossing the threshold into open war. For NATO and its member states, the challenge is not only to defend their borders, but to resist the psychological warfare that comes with being under the gaze of a power that thrives on intimidation and uncertainty. The lesson from Middle-earth is clear: the Eye’s power is greatest when its adversaries are divided or complacent. In the real world, this means hybrid tactics and warfare leading to frozen conflicts and weakened international institutions, which provides a new battlefield of words and deceptions. The goal is to create stages of controlled ambiguity, neither fully at war nor at peace, allowing the Eye to exert influence, disrupt reform, and project power without direct confrontation. The Eye of Kreml ensures that former Warsaw Pact countries understand the unspoken rule: do not “poke the bear,” for fear that they draw the full attention of the Eye upon themselves.
In today’s geopolitical landscape, defined by ambiguity and hybrid threats, the Eye has not vanished; it has evolved. It surveils through data streams, manipulates through crafted narratives, and strikes via proxies. The Eye of Kreml operates under no illusions: it views itself as engaged in a low-intensity war with the West, aimed at reclaiming its former sphere of coercive influence in Eastern Europe. Its strategy hinges on exploiting the institutional weaknesses and societal fragmentation of former Warsaw Pact nations, states it seeks to draw back under its strong gaze. In Russia’s strategic worldview, hybrid warfare isn’t a phase, it’s the new normal. It’s a state of constant conflict with shifting intensity, plausible deniability, and, most importantly, no true peace. Yet the Eye’s vulnerabilities persist. It remains shackled by the same fatal flaw that doomed Sauron: the illusion of invincibility. The more it tightens its grip, the more it betrays its underlying fear of losing control. Domination, in this context, is not a sign of strength, it is a symptom of insecurity.
In Tolkien’s epic, the Eye of Sauron is not defeated by armies or alliances, it is undone by the destruction of the One Ring, the true source of its power. The moment the Ring falls into the fires of Mount Doom, the Eye collapses; flaring in panic, searching desperately, and then vanishing. Its strength was never in brute force alone, but in the illusion of omniscience and in the fear it instilled. This metaphor offers a powerful lesson for the architecture of control in our own world. The Eye of Kreml, or any other real-world similarity to Sauron’s Eye, draws its power not only from military might or economic leverage, but from the systems that sustain its myth: surveillance networks, energy dependencies, frozen conflicts, psychological intimidation, soft power, and the values each Eye claims to represent. Like its literary predecessor, its dominance endures only as long as these structures and beliefs remain unchallenged.
The Eye of Kreml may be a metaphor, but its consequences are real. It reminds us that power doesn’t need boots on the ground to exert influence. Even as the world confronts new global challenges, from climate change to pandemics, the shadow of imperial ambition lingers. The Eye watches. It understands that coercive influence thrives on a blend of hard and soft power, amplified by the hybrid warfare doctrine of grey zone conflict, where domination hides in the space between war and peace. The Eye may evolve, but as Machiavelli observed, power rarely disappears; it adapts, taking on new forms and disguises. The Eye may shift its form, but its purpose remains: to dominate through ambiguity and fear. In the age of hybrid warfare, the challenge is not just to resist the Eye, but to outlast it. The future belongs not to those who stare back, but to those who refuse to be shaped by its gaze.