The 21st-century economy is globally integrated. A simple example: the auto industry. Take Toyota, which works with thousands of suppliers in more than 40 countries, building just-in-time supply chains and assembling cars from parts arriving from all over the world. Or Volkswagen, even more telling: the group has over 100 production sites in 27 countries, with suppliers and sales spanning 150 countries. A car you buy in Berlin or Milan is a puzzle made of Japanese electronics, German software, Mexican body parts, and Turkish leather for the seats. And every single one of these components requires negotiations, certifications, logistics, and coordination.

Now let’s look at Russia’s “national pride” — AvtoVAZ. Official rhetoric insists its cars are “100% Russian.” But the numbers again tell another story. Even the most “domestic” model, the Lada Granta, is only 45.7% localized. That means more than half the parts come from abroad. For the Lada Vesta, the piston group comes from Germany, electronics and systems from China, headlights from India. In fact, industry experts estimate that in 2024 AvtoVAZ was still using around 1,500 imported components. So the supposedly “fully Russian” car looks more like an international LEGO set — only without the instruction manual.

In this context, the idea of a “national messenger,” confined within one country, looks absurd. A modern automaker cannot survive without global supply chains and communication with dozens of countries. Limit Toyota to only Japanese-made parts, and you’d end up with an expensive, outdated, and uncompetitive car. The same goes for communications: when the world demands global interaction, building a digital “Lada” for domestic use only is like proudly releasing a car without air conditioning or ABS — while insisting it’s “the best in the world.”

Supporters of national messengers argue: “But China made it work.” True, WeChat has over 1.3 billion users and has grown into a digital ecosystem. But China has a market of 1.4 billion people and effectively banned competitors like WhatsApp and Telegram. Russia, with 85 million internet users, or Kazakhstan with 17 million, simply cannot replicate this model. Even if every single user switched to a state-owned messenger (which itself sounds like a bad joke), the result would still be 10–15 times smaller than WeChat — and far below Telegram’s 950 million users.

Now for the economics. For a messenger even to break even, it needs massive scale. Annual costs for development, servers, security, and support can run $50–100 million (Telegram’s costs exceeded $300 million in 2022). The average annual revenue per user in messaging apps is just $1–2.

• In Russia, covering $80 million in costs requires 40–80 million active, paying users. But there are only 85 million internet users in the country — which means every pensioner, schoolkid, and even those with old Nokia bricks would need to sign up.
• In Kazakhstan, break-even requires at least 40 million users. The country’s entire population? 20 million. Even if everyone registered twice, the math still doesn’t add up.
• In the UAE, you’d need 30 million users to cover costs. The entire country has about 10 million people. That’s not business — that’s a miracle play.

Now compare this to the giants. WhatsApp, with 2 billion users, is still cautiously searching for monetization through business accounts. Telegram, with 950 million users, struggles to make ends meet with ads and premium subscriptions. The math is almost comical: if even the giants with hundreds of millions of users are struggling, what chance does a small state-owned messenger with a few million users stand? It’s less of a business plan and more of an expensive hobby for governments.

And here’s the paradox: while global economies are building digital bridges, national messengers are busy constructing digital fences. The funniest part? These fences are so low that users simply step over them with a VPN — without even taking off their headphones.