By Xhabir Deralla

Russia’s proposal for a brief ceasefire around its 9 May military parade raises a simple but unavoidable question: Is this meant to protect Ukrainian civilians, or to secure a spectacle of military power in Moscow? This question extends far beyond a single event. It reflects how the Kremlin has weaponized diplomacy—and the very meaning of ceasefire and peace.

At first glance, any ceasefire sounds like progress. In reality, not all pauses in violence carry equal meaning. On the contrary, a few hours of silence timed to protect a state spectacle showcasing the military power of the aggressor cannot be equated with a genuine step toward ending a war. At best, it is a symbolic gesture. At worst, it is a carefully staged political and propaganda maneuver.

Ukraine has called for a just peace since the first day of the invasion—demanding an end to attacks on civilians, homes, and critical infrastructure. Those calls have been answered with drones, missiles, and destruction. The continuous waves of attacks—with hundreds of drones, missiles, and bombs, day and night—only reinforce a pattern that has defined this war for more than a decade.

Even now, as discussions of a ceremonial ceasefire circulate between Moscow, Washington, and Kyiv, air raid sirens continue to sound across Ukrainian cities. That is the reality behind the rhetoric.

Under International Humanitarian Law (IHL), the rules are clear and non-negotiable. Civilians must not be targeted. Military objectives may be engaged, but only under strict conditions: distinction, proportionality, and precautions. These obligations apply at all times, regardless of the conduct of the opposing side. The Kremlin has violated them for over a decade—systematically since 2014, and with devastating intensity since 2022.

Russia’s proposal for a temporary pause tied to a ceremonial event exposes a deeper contradiction. A ceasefire, by definition, is meant to protect human life. A pause designed to ensure the smooth execution of a military parade raises the question of whether “peace” is being instrumentalised not as a humanitarian necessity, but as a logistical convenience.

Some analysts argue that the 9 May parade—featuring military personnel and equipment directly linked to Russia’s war effort—could, in principle, be considered a legitimate military objective. Striking such a target would carry symbolic weight, demonstrating Ukraine’s ability to project force deep into Russian territory and disrupting a carefully staged display of power.

This is a war in which Russia has bombed theatres, maternity hospitals, and kindergartens into rubble—reducing cities like Mariupol and Bakhmut to ruins. Red Square, with its lavish ceremonies and displays, is not outside that reality. It is part of the same system of war and propaganda.

The operational impact of a strike on the 9 May parade is uncertain—it could be significant in certain scenarios—but the risks are profound. One rule still holds: where civilians are present, the use of force is bound by the strictest legal limits.

Within the narrow window set by International Humanitarian Law, any potential Ukrainian operation targeting Red Square on May 9 must be governed by an uncompromising commitment to the principle of distinction. To remain within the bounds of legality, such a strike would need to be strictly surgical, directed exclusively at verified military objectives—such as active-duty personnel, command leadership, or operational hardware—while ensuring that the civilian spectators unavoidable at such an event are protected from disproportionate harm.

Alternatively, a strategy that prioritizes the IHL principle of precaution would see an attack launched in the hours preceding the parade’s commencement. By targeting military assets before they are surrounded by civilian crowds, Ukraine would fulfill its legal obligation to minimize incidental loss of life, regardless of the extent to which the Russian side disregards these same standards. This approach is particularly relevant in 2026, as the Kremlin’s decision to remove heavy armor and missile systems from the parade—citing security fears—has already altered the density of high-value targets available in the city center.

The Kremlin’s decision to scale back heavy equipment in the 2026 parade—citing security concerns—only underscores how the composition and location of targets shape both the operational calculus and the legal assessment. More importantly, it reflects a broader pattern: in this war, narrative is managed as carefully as military posture itself.

The Kremlin has never demonstrated concern for the loss of human lives. What it consistently prioritizes is appearance. The emphasis on controlling the conditions around the parade reflects something deeper. In a system built on false projections of grandeur and strength, the greatest risk is not a strike itself, but the visible loss of control. Air raid sirens, disrupted ceremonies, or civilians seeking shelter in the heart of Moscow would undermine the very image the event is designed to project. In that sense, managing perception becomes as critical as security itself.

All of this becomes even more significant in context. Even in the face of genocidal attacks on Ukraine, now in the fifth year of the full-scale invasion, the presence of civilians changes everything. Ukraine has demonstrated, time and again, that it seeks to uphold the rule of law even while defending itself against an aggressor that systematically disregards it. That distinction is decisive.

This is where law and politics intersect. Ukraine is not obliged to accept a short, symbolic ceasefire that leaves the broader machinery of war intact. It is entitled to question the purpose of such a pause—especially when it coincides with an event designed to project strength, unity, and power. At the same time, international law does not permit retaliation or symbolic targeting that risks civilian lives. One side’s violations do not justify the other’s.

This is the uncomfortable reality of modern warfare: legality is not determined by intent, but by outcome and risk. But neither should it obscure a more fundamental point. A ceasefire designed to protect a military spectacle, while the war continues elsewhere, is not a step toward peace. It is a performance. It shields an image, not human lives. It pauses the image of war—not the war itself.

None of this is new. The proposed “ceasefire for a parade” is not an isolated maneuver—it is part of a consistent pattern in how the Kremlin understands diplomacy. In this framework, negotiations, ceasefires, and public statements are not instruments of peace. They are instruments of war.

The record is clear. In February 2022, just days before launching the full-scale invasion, Russian Foreign Minister Sergey Lavrov publicly insisted: “We have no plans to attack anyone.” The invasion began shortly thereafter. This was not a miscalculation. It was a deliberate use of diplomacy as deception—buying time, shaping perception, and disarming international response.

The same logic has been repeated throughout the war. Announced “humanitarian corridors” that become targets. Declared pauses that coincide with military regrouping. Negotiations used not to end the war, but to manage its tempo. In this context, the proposed ceasefire around 9 May follows a familiar script: a temporary pause designed not to protect lives, but to protect an image.

This is the core of the problem. When diplomacy is reduced to a tactical tool, its meaning changes. A ceasefire is no longer a step toward peace. It becomes a pause in pressure, a repositioning of forces, a recalibration of narrative. It pauses the image of war—not the war itself.

In such a system, words do not restrain violence. They accompany it. And that is why it must be scrutinized. If there is to be a ceasefire, it should protect civilians—not ceremonies. It should reduce suffering—not a stage-managed show of power. It should signal de-escalation—not reinforce Russia’s war narratives. And it needs to last in order to give peace a chance. A just and lasting peace, respecting Ukraine’s right to existence in its full constitutional form. 

Anything less normalizes a dangerous idea: that war can be paused for display while Ukrainians continue to suffer and die. That is not peace. Not a ceasefire either. It is a bloody theatre—with real civilian victims.

Xhabir Deralla is a journalist, political and hybrid warfare analyst, and President of CIVIL – Center for Freedom.

© Xhabir Deralla / CIVIL – Center for Freedom, 2026.
Republishing permitted with prior written consent.

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