Greenpeace has been carrying out dramatic, attention-grabbing actions for more than 40 years, often in parts of the world far removed from the public eye. In doing so, the organisation has served as a global environmental conscience, and thorn in the side of major corporations and governments. Since its early days protesting at atomic bomb testing and baby seal killing, its modus operandi has become well known, including in Russia. Indeed, Soviet whalers were among the first to experience Greenpeace's innovative protest style in 1975, when a handful of individuals tried to intercept whaling vessels in a media-ready passion play of cetacean blood and human bravado.

Russian authorities thus knew full well, when 30 Greenpeace activists attempted in September to scale a state oil platform in the Pechora Sea, that the non-profit group was seeking to raise awareness, not to inflict injury or property damage. Anything else would undermine the organisation's scrupulous commitment to non-violence, a hallmark as crucial to Greenpeace's image as coolness is to Apple's. Theatrical protests, however, risk theatrical responses. By initially charging the activists with piracy and threatening them with 15 years in prison, Russian authorities made brutally clear they would brook no dissent.

Such heavy-handed retaliation is nothing new to Greenpeace. Like the Gandhian non-violence and the US civil rights campaigns the organisation first modelled itself on, Greenpeace and its representatives have long engaged in a delicate dance with opponents who, if they chose to, could crush them like bugs. Most often, both sides' tacit understanding of the rules of engagement has ensured that Greenpeace actions are merely denounced or disregarded. From time to time, however, targets of the group's melodramatic stunts have responded far more aggressively. In each instance, it has been because states' strategic interests – not merely the blood of sentient beasts – have been at stake.

Greenpeace's first entanglement with state retribution occurred in the early 1970s during protests against French nuclear testing in the South Pacific. After chafing against Greenpeace's presence for several days, a French naval vessel simply decided to ram the group's boat. French commandos later illegally boarded the vessel and severely beat its captain, future Greenpeace International leader David McTaggart. When even this attack proved unsuccessful in driving the group away, France went on to instruct its agents in 1985 to attach a bomb to the Rainbow Warrior's hull while it was anchored in Auckland harbour, thereby destroying the ship and killing a Greenpeace photographer in the process.

The threat of lengthy prison sentences also isn't new. In 2000, Greenpeace activists were arrested in California for protesting about a missile launch that was part of the Pentagon's Star Wars programme. Seventeen activists were charged with conspiracy to violate a safety zone and threatened with 11-year prison terms. The US attorney's office kept the accused in suspense for six months before finally dropping the charges. In exchange for clemency, however, Greenpeace had to agree to halt civil disobedience at all US military installations involved in the Star Wars programme and pay a $150,000 fine.

Hopefully for the Arctic 30, the story will play out much the same way in Russia. After playing hardball for several months, the Russians will back away from the charges while extracting some kind of legally binding promise from Greenpeace to cease protesting about Russian oil drilling in the Arctic. While this would be a relief to those currently incarcerated, it would constitute one more blow against Greenpeace's ability to cast light on state activities in far-off places, the ripple effects of which encompass us all.