Between Russian troops and Soviet nostalgia in Transnistria: Moldova’s pro-Russian fantasy

At the road checkpoint set up at the entrance to a bridge, Russian troops — the country’s flag even appears on the sleeve of a uniform — monitor vehicle traffic between the cities of Bender and Tiraspol. The car carrying the reporters passes without being stopped through the breakaway region of Transnistria, a self-proclaimed republic on Moldovan territory on the left bank of the Dniester River and bordering Ukraine. The Russian banner also appears on the bridge’s structure, on official buildings, in shops, and on some citizens’ vehicles. The Kremlin’s protection is beyond doubt.

Beyond the stale scent of frozen time and Soviet staging, tainted by the flow of modern compact cars amid ancient trolleybuses, the reality is that those tricolor symbols of Moscow represent a genuine power struggle over territory that, in theory, is on course to become part of the European Union.

Moldova and Ukraine were accepted as candidates in 2022, the year Russia launched a major offensive against its neighbor. The quasi-state of Transnistria, along with the autonomous region of Gagauzia, are two obstacles to Moldova’s integration process.

Visitors must show their passport to enter the territory, as if crossing into another country. Documents are checked from booths by officers who do not report to Chișinău, Moldova’s capital. Foreigners are given a paper that acts as a visa allowing a 24-hour stay. A tourist operator’s map welcomes visitors: “Pridnestrovia (the name locals give the territory) is the best country in the world. We make brandy, not war!” reads the English text. But tourists are conspicuous by their absence.

In his Chișinău office, Igor Dodon, leader of the opposition Socialist Party and a proponent of ties with the Kremlin, is clear that decisions in Tiraspol will not be made without Moscow’s oversight.

Meanwhile, the war in Ukraine has had direct consequences for Transnistria, aside from destroying border trade. First, for the Russian soldiers — between 1,000 and 3,000 according to various estimates — stationed in the region who cannot be rotated. Second, for the territory’s economy: free gas from the Russian state giant Gazprom ended after the contract allowing transit through Ukrainian territory expired at the end of 2024.

Relations between Kyiv and Moscow do not allow for that agreement to be extended, and residents bore the cost, often left without heating or hot water in the dead of winter. That energy shortfall is the battering ram hitting hardest in what analysts at the IDIS Viitorul study center call the worst humanitarian crisis the territory has suffered this century.

Economic differences are not only devastating but also growing between Transnistria and the rest of Moldova, according to a report from that center published last January, using 2025 data. The country’s average inflation of 7% jumps to 14.7% in the region; GDP falls 2.7% nationwide versus an 18% drop in the unrecognized territory; average monthly wages are around 15,700 Moldovan lei ($910) in Moldova — double those in Transnistria. Pensions follow a similar pattern, rising to about 4,200 lei ($240) in Moldova while falling to roughly 1,900 lei ($110) in Transnistria. Industry, heavily dependent on Russian gas, suffered a 30% decline in the course of one year, according to the same analysis.

At Bender’s central market, Tamara (not her real name), a 58-year-old vendor and grandmother of four, laments having to keep working despite being retired and a pensioner, receiving the equivalent of $58 a month. “Those at the top decide, not us. We are suffering, but they do not care about us. We should go to the doctor, we need to buy medicine, we need to eat, to help our children and grandchildren, but we can’t,” she says without offering further specifics.

Outside the market, the Orthodox church bells ring four times to announce that four babies were born in the city that day. Both Bender’s and Tiraspol’s markets are full of fruit and vegetables piled high on stalls, though the sellers complain of a lack of customers and narrow, constrained lives. They do not speak of Moscow, nor Brussels, nor, in general, about matters that do not affect them closely each day.

As a result of the crisis damaging Transnistria’s economy, reintegration with the rest of the country is advancing, albeit by force of circumstance. But Nicoleta Hriplivii of Chișinău’s Promolex analysis center, focused on the restive region, believes the government “unfortunately” does not have a plan to advance that reintegration. Meanwhile, she adds, Promolex will continue to act as “a bridge” between populations on both sides of the Dniester.

The European Parliament, in its most recent report on Moldova a year ago, welcomed that “the significant increase in trade between the Transnistria region and the rest of Moldova and its dependence on exports to the EU could create the conditions for convergence” of that territory with Chișinău. That reintegration, it added, “could serve as a pragmatic basis for a peaceful political solution and the eventual reunification of the country” and smooth its path toward the EU.

After the USSR’s collapse in 1991, Moldova was declared an independent state, but war broke out in Transnistria the following year driven by separatist zeal. The impacts of bullets and other projectiles from those days are still visible on Bender’s City Hall building.

“The situation in Transnistria is the worst it has been since 1992, as it is affected by a severe, chronic economic and energy crisis. As a result, many people are forced to go to the right bank (of the Dniester) to access national public services — such as health, education and social protection — and also to seek employment in that area,” says Mihaela Serpi, a human rights specialist at Promolex. “Obviously, all of this will also contribute to the reintegration process,” she predicts, looking to the future.

The horizon also includes the future of the Sheriff conglomerate, owned by local magnate Viktor Gushan, which controls supermarkets, gas stations, construction firms and banks. The star in its logo, reminiscent of the authority in Western films, is easily recognizable in Transnistria.

Gushan even owns the acclaimed Tiraspol soccer team — which has no choice but to play in the Moldovan league — which is also called Sheriff. The club wrote the brightest chapter in its history when it defeated Real Madrid at the Santiago Bernabéu in 2021 in a Champions League match. Videos of the two goals remain on local cellphones as mementos of that feat.

Under the current circumstances, the region’s constrained economy has been forced to go through Chișinău and now has Europe as its main market. Meanwhile, the local population, which holds a Pridnestrovian passport that barely allows them beyond the booths at the false border, increasingly demand Moldovan passports, which grant free movement in the EU.

Vlad (who prefers his real name not be published), a 30-year-old trader, receives his goods from Asia after they clear customs in Chișinău. “I would stay like this,” he answers when asked whether he leans more toward Moscow or Brussels. “Something like Azerbaijan,” he adds, referring to that country’s strategic balance.

Russian barracks

To the visitor’s eye, barracks follow one after another. At one site, with corrugated-roof huts, yellow signs on the whitewashed wall warn in Russian, of course: “Installation of the Ministry of Defense of the Russian Federation. No entry.” The European Parliament also calls in its report for the withdrawal of Russian troops and weapons from Moldovan territory and for respect for the territorial integrity of the candidate country seeking to join the 27 and its shared borders.

Meanwhile, a paradox surrounds recognizing Transnistria as a country, since no state in the world, not even Russia, grants it that status. That option was chosen by its citizens by a large majority — authorities announced 97% — in a consultative vote also lacking legal standing in 2006.

Souvenir mugs alternate, among other motifs, the face of the Soviet dictator Joseph Stalin with that of Vladimir Putin, Russia’s president. At a market stall, among many other Russian and Soviet items, a patch bearing the letter “Z,” the symbol of the Kremlin’s troops in their invasion of Ukraine, is on sale.

Russian is also the dominant language in the geographical and institutional anomaly that is Transnistria — within its own parliament, judiciary, and security forces. But amid the void created by not being recognized as a state, a sort of official joke has taken hold — one that acknowledges the weight of this reality and is even reflected in the fridge magnets sold in souvenir shops: “I’ve been to a country that doesn’t exist,” reads the message imposed over the local flag, which still features the yellow hammer and sickle on a red background.

Sign up for our weekly newsletter to get more English-language news coverage from EL PAÍS USA Edition