A Romanian Presidential Election Interfered with by Crypto Traders
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A Romanian Presidential Election Interfered with by Crypto Traders
The Romanian Election Puzzle Under Digital Manipulation
Navigating Web3 tides with focused insightsBy Simona Weinglass, Bloomberg
Translated by Saoirse, Foresight News
In the real world, Bogdan Peșchir is a 36-year-old cryptocurrency trader from Brașov, a fairy-tale town in Transylvania. From his balcony, he gazes upon red-roofed houses, Gothic churches, and the seasonal shifts atop Mount Tampa. On TikTok, he’s known as Bogpr—the largest “tipper” on the platform in Romania.
Peschir especially enjoys spending money on livestreamers. If you’re broadcasting on TikTok and do something that catches his attention or earns his approval—like jumping into a canal or performing a backflip—he might tune in and send animated virtual gifts that sweep across the screen. These gifts range in price from a few cents to hundreds of dollars, and recipients can convert them into cash. At this scale, digital gifts are no longer just strangers’ likes.
Peschir tips relentlessly, amassing nearly 200,000 followers. His sustained spending unlocks ever more dazzling—and expensive—gifts: virtual Thunder Falcons, Fire Phoenixes. In autumn 2024, he reached TikTok’s highest level—50—securing his status among Europe’s top tippers. He also earned a rare privilege: the ability to send soaring animated Pegasus gifts to streamers he approves of. It’s a distinctive kind of fame—but Romanian prosecutors say such influence carries extraordinary power. They arrested Peschir, accusing him of leveraging money and clout to help an eccentric far-right candidate, Călin Georgescu, win the first round of Romania’s November 2024 presidential election.
Georgescu’s rise was meteoric. Three weeks before the vote, polls showed him with just 1% support—so low he didn’t even qualify for major national TV debates. Yet he secured 22.9% of the vote in the first round, outperforming all 12 other candidates. Within three days, Romania’s Supreme Council of National Defense declared the election compromised by external interference. Authorities declassified five partially redacted intelligence reports accusing a “state actor” of meddling in the vote. Germany and the U.S. pointed directly at Russia.
The entire operation unfolded online—primarily on TikTok. Tens of thousands of fake accounts created the illusion of massive popularity for Georgescu, pushing his content onto everyone’s feeds. According to a French government report, the hashtag #calingeorgescu racked up 73.2 million views on TikTok in seven days—a record-breaking number for a country of 19 million people, roughly 9 million of whom use TikTok. Prosecutors allege Peschir participated: he redirected his tipping toward creators promoting Georgescu and liked and commented on pro-Georgescu content. In a text message to an acquaintance, he wrote: “I’m doing everything I can here to boost his visibility.”
Călin Georgescu two days after winning the first round of Romania’s presidential election—and ten days before his victory was annulled. Photographer: Andrei Pungovschi / Getty Images
Prosecutors suspect these actions were pivotal—and possibly coordinated—to Russia’s broader plan to install Georgescu in office. They describe Peschir’s role in inflating Georgescu’s support as “decisive.” Nicușor Dan, who was elected president after Georgescu’s disqualification, publicly named and criticized Peschir. Yet Peschir has not been formally charged. He insists the government’s claims are baseless: he simply enjoys generously tipping TikTok influencers with money he earned independently—and happens to be a fan of Călin Georgescu.
For Romania—which endured Soviet-aligned authoritarian rule from 1944 to 1989—the notion of Kremlin election manipulation strikes a particularly sensitive chord. The Romanian authorities’ response has been exceptionally forceful for such incidents. In December 2024, Romania’s Constitutional Court invalidated the election results, citing violations of electoral law: first, the “non-transparent use” of digital technology and artificial intelligence; second, unreported sources of Georgescu’s campaign financing. The court ordered a new election in May 2025 and barred Georgescu from running.
Peschir’s arrest in March 2025 made headlines. Wearing a hat, mask, and sunglasses, he entered Bucharest’s police headquarters—and reluctantly removed them under television cameras, revealing a neat haircut and a lean, sharply defined face. Prosecutors charged him with “electronic bribery of voters” and requested his detention while finalizing their indictment. He was released about a month later. Since then, a police drone has hovered outside his balcony for months, and every new laptop he purchased was seized by authorities.
Prosecutors state that in the 10 months leading up to the election, Peschir spent nearly $900,000 on TikTok gifts, tipping over 250 Romanian influencers. In the final 31 days before the first round, he sent $381,000 worth of gifts to accounts supporting Georgescu. The government labels this undeclared, illegal campaign financing.
Peschir vehemently denies wrongdoing. “The government has produced not a single piece of evidence,” he wrote in an email to Bloomberg Businessweek. “This is a completely fabricated story—designed solely to justify invalidating the election.” He denies taking orders from Moscow, stating, “No one commands me except God—and I haven’t taken a single cent from anyone in years.”
Police say the investigation remains ongoing. Businessweek reviewed Romanian intelligence reports, a hundred-page archive of Peschir’s text messages, and conducted interviews and email exchanges with him. These texts offer a window into the eerie world of social media–driven campaigning—a reclusive man unexpectedly becoming the emblematic figure of what may be the most successful Russian election interference operation of the 21st century.
Bogpr has been active on TikTok since at least 2023, but truly exploded in March 2024—eight months before the election—when he sent tens of thousands of dollars in gifts to Romanian singer Nicolae Guță. According to Peschir, this earned him the domestic nickname “TikTok King.”
TikTok’s economic model revolves around virtual coins purchased on-platform. In Romania, one coin costs slightly over one cent. Peschir could spend one coin on a virtual rose, 30,000 on a lion, or 44,999 on a “Universe.” (Whether he ever bought the Pegasus gift—priced at 42,999 coins—is unknown.) Recipients convert gifts into virtual diamonds, which they exchange for real money—roughly half the amount the tipper spent, with the rest going to TikTok as commission. (The company declined to disclose its exact commission rate.)
In the early months, Peschir’s tipping appeared almost entirely unrelated to the election. He responded to appeals for donations—for example, parents of children with terminal illnesses; he tipped young female lip-syncers who didn’t speak; he gifted people who merely filmed themselves driving or splitting firewood.
“I’d go live, wear a dress, play an NPC—the non-player character in a video game—to catch his attention,” said Romani hip-hop artist Gheorghe-Daniel Alexe (online alias Bahoi). Prosecutors say he received $2,400 worth of gifts from Peschir. Alexe says others tipped too—but Peschir operated on an entirely different level.
Almost no TikTok creator knew Peschir’s real name or appearance. Alexe recalls he rarely shared personal details—only saying he believed in God and considered giving money his greatest joy. “He told me, ‘I have so much money that nothing excites me anymore—I’m no longer stimulated by anything,’” Alexe recounted. “Only giving stimulates me.”
Peschir’s generation grew up amid profound societal transformation. In 1989, the Ceaușescu regime collapsed alongside the Iron Curtain, ending the Soviet-anchored communist dictatorship established after WWII. Romania opened to the West, joined NATO in 2004, and the EU in 2007. Over subsequent years, Romania’s economy soared—from a nation once infamous for orphanages to the second-largest economy in Eastern Europe, trailing only Poland. Today, Bucharest resembles many European capitals, with street performers, specialty coffee shops, and co-working spaces. Yet large numbers of Romanians remain left behind. According to EU statistics, nearly 30% face poverty or social exclusion—the second-highest rate in the EU.
Romania’s far-right forces began emerging online as early as the early 2010s. Oana Popescu-Zamfir, director of Bucharest think tank GlobalFocus Centre, says these groups included extremist football fans, hip-hop enthusiasts, anti-LGBTQ activists, and advocates of Romano-Romanian unification. Gradually, they coalesced around a new political party—the Alliance for the Union of Romanians (AUR)—nationalist, nostalgic, and criticized by some as authoritarian, with core principles centered on tradition and Christianity.
Georgescu had previously been an AUR member, sharing similar worldviews but adding his own flavor. He called Ukraine a “fictional country,” hailed the leader of the interwar far-right “Iron Guard”—a group responsible for murdering Jews and political opponents—as a “hero” who “united tens of thousands through a single goal, one belief, national identity, and the pure unity of Romanians.” He predicted future humans would communicate via telepathy and claimed to have encountered extraterrestrials. (Georgescu did not respond to Businessweek’s request for comment.)
Within mainstream politics, Georgescu was viewed as a fringe oddity. But on TikTok, his image was radically different. In one video, he swam across a frozen lake, showcasing muscular shoulders and arms; in another, he rode a white horse wearing traditional embroidered shirts. He styled himself the “son of a farmer” and the “soul of the nation,” denouncing Romania’s current leadership as corrupt and having “sold the country to foreign corporations.” He positioned himself as the nation’s last hope against globalist forces seeking to destroy Christianity and Romania’s unique identity. Georgescu’s ideology is broadly termed “sovereigntism”—pitting ordinary citizens against elites, the nation-state against the EU and NATO, and tradition against progressivism.
These ideas resonated deeply with Peschir. In a text message, he wrote: “I feel this person was sent by God. Now Romania has a chance.”
Undoubtedly, strange events unfolded in the weeks before Romania’s November 2024 election. Passwords belonging to staff at Romania’s election authority were leaked on a Russian hacker forum. Romanian intelligence reports documented over 85,000 cyberattacks targeting election infrastructure—ostensibly originating from 33 countries, though the report suggests this was likely IP spoofing designed to mislead.
Clearly, one or more powerful actors attempted to subvert Romania’s election—while simultaneously covering their tracks.
According to French media outlet Mediapart, Romania’s intelligence service privately informed French counterparts that it believes these attacks were coordinated by Russia. The report states Romania traced one attack back to APT29 (also known as “Cozy Bear”), a hacking group affiliated with Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR).
In October 2025, President Dan finally went public, stating the government had traced all interference—including Georgescu’s runaway social media campaign—back to Russia. On October 2, Dan presented Romania’s interim investigation findings to European leaders in Copenhagen.
The president said Russia’s operations began as early as 2019, when a Russian firm started building social profiles of Romanians. Years later, numerous Romanian Facebook groups suddenly emerged, focused on alternative medicine, religion, recipes, and named things like “Only the True God” and “The Beauty of Romania.” Dan stated these seemingly harmless groups aimed to test different messaging strategies on various Romanian demographics.
Romanian investigations found Russian digital marketers ultimately identified four themes that most resonated with Romanians: “identity, nostalgia, conspiracy theories, and narratives around religion and alternative medicine,” said Romania’s Chief Prosecutor, Alex Florenta, in a press conference two weeks before Dan’s Copenhagen trip.
For instance, many groups featured AI-generated Romanians claiming they weren’t ashamed of living in rural areas—or simple Romanians who had lost loved ones yet still celebrated birthdays.
As the 2024 election approached, many such groups began posting pro-Georgescu content alongside recipes, inspirational quotes, and heartwarming stories of everyday people. Simultaneously, TikTok flooded with videos and images. Romanian authorities identified one major source: a Telegram group named Propagatorcg, whose administrators centrally managed Georgescu’s promotional materials, distributed them to volunteers, and provided detailed instructions on which hashtags to use, how to edit videos, images, and memes to fool TikTok’s algorithm into treating them as original content.
Then, just as hundreds of influencers posted Georgescu-related content, the third phase of the campaign launched: bot accounts. Two weeks before voting, 25,000 previously dormant TikTok accounts suddenly activated, flooding pro-Georgescu content with interactions. Pavel Popescu, Deputy Chair of Romania’s telecom regulator Ancom, explained these accounts used distinct IP addresses, simulated mobile devices, and constantly switched locations—making them indistinguishable from real phones. This rendered them extremely difficult to identify as bots—and made Georgescu’s engagement metrics appear highly authentic to TikTok’s algorithm.
“Anyone can buy 25,000 bots to like your posts—it makes little difference,” Popescu said. “But when you have 25,000 active accounts that follow you everywhere, flood your livestreams the moment you go live—that’s entirely different.”
Typically, a livestreamer with 10,000 followers might attract only 500 concurrent viewers. But Georgescu’s livestreams drew audiences far exceeding his follower count. “Very quickly, Georgescu appeared in everyone’s feed—and then snowballed,” Popescu said. Shortly after the bots appeared, Georgescu became TikTok’s ninth-most trending topic globally.
When Peschir was arrested, prosecutors alleged his support for Georgescu occurred in two phases: during the earlier months, he built popularity and followers on TikTok through tipping; closer to the first round, he began liking and sharing Georgescu’s videos and memes. Given Bogpr’s fame and follower count, this content automatically spread. When Bogpr entered a livestream, users reacted like celebrities had arrived. When he sent high-value gifts like lions or universes, his ID appeared on-screen with animation, prompting hosts to interrupt streams and thank him by name. His reputation for generosity spread—and many who contacted him directly mentioned their support for Georgescu.
“Can you give me some money? I’ll do anything,” Cristian Gunie, a TikTok user recently released from prison, messaged Peschir a week before the election. “I can hand out Mr. Georgescu’s flyers on the street, standing there from morning until night.”
“Hi, if you livestream doing this, I’ll support you in the stream,” Peschir replied. He sent him one gift: an airplane, valued at $48.88.
Many text conversations between Peschir and the influencers he funded reveal a clear disconnect: influencers spoke bluntly, as if being paid to promote Georgescu was perfectly natural; Peschir’s language, however, remained markedly cautious.
Bogdan Peșchir—who has 200,000 TikTok followers who call him Bogpr—is escorted to the General Prosecutor’s Office in Bucharest. Photographer: Cristian Nistor / Agerpres
Costel Niculae, known online as Costelusclejeanioficial10, served 22 years in prison after killing someone at age 14. His TikTok account features prison stories, singing, and profanity-laced life reflections.
Six days before the election, Niculae messaged Peschir, saying he hadn’t heard from him in days. “Aren’t you planning to involve me in the voting campaign?” he wrote. “I can gather many people in my local community—and I have video evidence.”
“I don’t ‘involve’ anyone in anything,” Peschir replied. “I simply tell people what I believe is good for the country. I won’t pay anyone to do anything.”
Niculae was confused: “I don’t understand. Why are you ignoring me? Did I do something wrong?”
“I’m not ignoring you,” Peschir answered. “Just do what you think is right.” After several exchanges, Peschir reiterated: “There is absolutely no payment plan.” He sent Niculae $4,207.37 worth of gifts in total.
If Peschir’s texts sound like he consulted election law, it’s because he actually did: police found search records on his computer, including “electoral bribery” and Romania’s electoral finance law, Law No. 334/2006. In Romania, buying votes and candidates accepting undisclosed financial support are illegal. Prosecutors argue that even without explicit terms, such an exchange relationship was tacitly understood.
Peschir refuses to discuss these texts, citing upcoming trial proceedings. But he says he genuinely admires Georgescu and wants him to win—and that researching election law was precisely to avoid breaking it. “These accusations read like scenes from an Orwell novel—the police state accusing you of ‘thought crime’ despite clear contradictory evidence,” Peschir wrote in an email. “It’s utterly absurd.”
Cross-border financial investigations can take years, and Romanian prosecutors are famously secretive. That may explain why prosecutors and officials rarely speak publicly—only occasionally hinting that Peschir’s explanation for spending millions on TikTok seems implausible. (Telecom regulator Popescu put it plainly: “Who spends $1 million of their own money to support someone who emerged from nowhere?”) In official documents, prosecutors argue Peschir’s deliberate avoidance of overt quid-pro-quo language with Georgescu supporters proves exactly that he was engaged in such transactions. They claim his TikTok tipping—beginning over six months before the campaign officially started—was all part of a calculated strategy: cultivating a rapidly expanding network, using court documents’ phrasing, “to create dependency and exploit it during the campaign.”
Peschir says his politically neutral tipping merely reflects his broad interests on TikTok. His lawyer, Cristian Sirbu, notes that Peschir sent gifts not only to Georgescu supporters but also to supporters of his opponents. Sirbu points out Peschir explicitly told others his gifting wasn’t politically motivated.
“But the judge didn’t listen at all,” Sirbu recalled of a hearing last March. “He said that even if [Peschir] tells others not to follow suit, there’s still a subconscious suggestion encouraging them to do so. That sounds like a job for a psychiatrist. I’ve even started wondering whether I should check myself into a mental hospital.”
Authorities also note that approximately $7 million discovered in Peschir’s cryptocurrency accounts after his arrest “does not correspond to the lifestyle associated with his business activities.” This is the government’s closest statement suggesting Peschir may possess off-the-books income—or that his TikTok tipping funds aren’t entirely self-sourced.
Yet current charges against Peschir do not address the origin of his funds. Until 2023, he worked for nearly a decade at BitXatm, a Bitcoin ATM company. Since then, he claims to trade cryptocurrencies full-time. “Most of my investments occur on public decentralized platforms—verifiable by anyone with basic blockchain knowledge,” he said.
Peschir’s case forms part of a broader investigation into Georgescu’s backers. Since winning the first round and then being disqualified, Georgescu has faced intense scrutiny. He stands accused of glorifying the Iron Guard—an offense prohibited under Romanian law—and of conspiring to overthrow the government after his election victory was nullified. In October 2025, Romania’s Chief Prosecutor confirmed it had sought assistance from at least three foreign countries to investigate Georgescu’s campaign funding sources.
President Dan acknowledged last autumn that securing a conviction against Peschir remains challenging. “We know how [social media influence operations] are executed,” he said. “We know certain leads—whether fake accounts or proxy companies running paid online ads—point to Russia. What we don’t know is who devised the entire strategy. Likewise, our understanding of fund flows… and everything related to Bogdan Peschir… remains limited.”
Nearly a year after Peschir’s arrest, a police source told Businessweek the investigation continues. He has returned home, is free to travel, and has acquired new laptops to replace those seized. He says he’s working hard to recover financially through cryptocurrency trading. He describes himself as a workaholic and introvert, “living a very calm, quiet life,” spending most of his time in his office. “My only free time goes to church, spending time with my pets, reading, or relaxing with late-night drives,” he said. Tipping on TikTok, he adds, is just another way to relieve stress.
In December 2024, the Romanian government referred TikTok to the European Commission, asking whether the platform fulfilled its obligations to prevent manipulation. The investigation’s findings remain unpublished.
TikTok acknowledges attempts to manipulate the election but disputes Romanian authorities’ characterization of those efforts. In an email to Businessweek, a TikTok spokesperson stated the company dismantled multiple manipulation networks targeting Romania between November and December 2024—networks that supported a broad range of candidates, not just Georgescu. “Given the wide spectrum of candidates supported, it is inaccurate to assert that Călin Georgescu was the sole beneficiary of inauthentic activity on TikTok—or to quantify the relative benefit each candidate derived,” the spokesperson said.
But Dan singles out one opponent. “We are facing Russian information warfare against European nations,” he stated in October, defining Russia’s alleged interference in Romania’s election as hybrid warfare.
This term refers to indirect, nonviolent hostile acts between states aimed at undermining targets from within. Western governments most frequently attribute this strategy to Russia, accusing it of election interference, infrastructure sabotage, and coup support. Russia denies involvement every time.
To those supporting the government’s position, the difficulty of proving the conspiracy only underscores how skillfully the perpetrators concealed their tracks. To skeptics, however, this very difficulty suggests the alleged conspiracy is itself a conspiracy theory.
The unprecedented decision to annul the election angered many Romanians. Elena Lasconi—the mainstream candidate who placed second, narrowly missing a runoff against Georgescu—called the annulment “a blow to democracy’s core: the ballot.” In January 2025, tens of thousands marched in Bucharest, some carrying coffins labeled “Democracy.”
At one point, Romania’s decision to disqualify Georgescu appeared counterproductive. Another sovereigntist candidate, George Simion, announced his candidacy. Like Georgescu, Simion expressed skepticism toward the EU and its aid to Ukraine, and claimed Russia posed no threat to NATO. Georgescu publicly endorsed him.
Two months after this candidate’s brief electoral victory, his supporters gathered as he was taken in for questioning by police. Photographer: Alex Nicodim / Anadolu Agency
In the May 2025 rerun’s first round, Simion garnered 41%—far surpassing Georgescu’s 23% in the previous vote. His runoff opponent was Nicușor Dan, the mathematician and activist who has served as mayor of Bucharest since 2020. Multiple global media outlets predicted Simion’s victory. Reuters’ May 7 headline read: “Romania’s Far-Right Front-Runner Simion Leads Polls Ahead of Runoff.” The Romanian leu fell to a record low against the euro—reflecting investor concerns over Simion’s economic policies.
On TikTok, Simion has 1.3 million followers; Dan has only 350,000. Simion posts videos of himself with workers and in churches; Dan shares clips of himself enjoying urban life in Bucharest—dining at restaurants and sharing household chores with his partner. Simion speaks of restoring dignity and justice for Romanians; Dan solves math problems and explains budget balancing. Simion calls for Romanians to join a great historical movement; Dan champions the rule of law and liberalism.
Still under EU investigation, TikTok responded far more aggressively to suspicious activity during the runoff. Mircea Toma, State Secretary of Romania’s Audiovisual Council (which regulates broadcast media), said TikTok doubled its Romanian-language moderation staff and collaborated more closely with regulators. “Once we flag content, it’s removed within minutes,” Toma said. “Before, we couldn’t find anyone at all.”
On voting day, May 18, Romanian voters delivered another surprise. Dan defeated Simion 53.6% to 46.4%. Minutes after results were announced at 9 p.m., crowds gathered outside Dan’s campaign headquarters near Cișmigiu Park in Bucharest. Voter turnout hit a record 65%, compared to just 53% in the annulled first round. Crowds chanted “Europe, Europe!” and “Down with fascism!” Many waved EU flags.
Russia’s preferred candidate lost—but the political current embodied by Georgescu clearly endures. “Our society is more polarized than ever,” said Romanian journalist Victor Ilie. “Because we canceled the election and held a new one, everyone who voted for Simion and Georgescu doesn’t consider Nicușor Dan a legitimate president. Meanwhile, those who voted for Dan are ecstatic that the far right didn’t win—and worship him in an extreme way. These two groups no longer communicate.”
Of course, the person most convinced that Georgescu was the true victim of election interference is Bogdan Peschir. “The Romanian election had to be annulled because the ‘wrong’ person won—the wrong person for the political establishment,” he said.
Asked why he thinks Georgescu went viral, Peschir attributes it purely to charisma. “I think it’s simply because people resonate with his ideas,” he said. “Romanian society deeply craves change—and sees him as an outsider. He’s exceptionally skilled at addressing the issues that truly wound Romania.”
In a sense, this is self-evident. Viral propaganda driven by fake accounts gave Georgescu enormous early momentum, getting him onto ordinary people’s phones first. And once he reached his audience, many were genuinely persuaded. A fake campaign ultimately became real public sentiment.
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