This story begins in 1944, a year when Ukrainian Galicia was forcibly integrated into the USSR, becoming a reluctant part of its vast empire. We fought hard to break free from that oppressive grip, to reclaim our freedom. Yet now, it seems we are on the verge of losing it once again.
For any nation aspiring to true independence and self-governance, two pillars are absolutely essential: language and memory, particularly collective memory. These elements are inextricably linked, each sustaining the other. Without language, memory fades into oblivion; without memory, truth itself is lost.
The current situation in Ukraine starkly reveals a troubling pattern: we are forgetting, or perhaps choosing not to remember, the lessons of our past. This collective amnesia manifests in self-forgetfulness, in blaming others rather than reflecting on our own shortcomings. It shows up in our lack of ideological unity, in the insufficient legal frameworks that undermine our mobilisation efforts, and in the endless disputes over language and ideology. This disarray, this vulgar political pluralism seeping into realms where it has no place, is a clear sign of our national forgetfulness.
Today, as we navigate the Russian-Ukrainian war, we are tragically replaying a modernized version of the Soviet-Ukrainian conflict of 1918-1923. That conflict, as history should remind us, culminated in seventy years of Soviet occupation. The stakes now are just as high. We must remember—lest we find ourselves condemned to relive the same fate.
We stand to lose our freedom when we lose the memory of who we are. Authoritarian regimes know this all too well, and they systematically deploy mechanisms designed to erase collective memory. Those who resist this erasure—who cannot be molded or silenced—are often destroyed. History offers grim examples of such tactics: the Ministry of Information in the Third Reich, the “pioneer camps” in the USSR, and similar instruments of indoctrination. These regimes understand that the imposition of a new ideology begins with erasing memory, cultivating collective amnesia, and uprooting cultural archetypes. Only after this foundation is destroyed can new ideologies and political constructs take root.
In George Orwell’s 1984, the protagonist is emblematic of this process—he has no knowledge of what existed before the rise of the Superstates, no understanding of who came before Big Brother, nor any sense of his own cultural or linguistic origins from a time before authoritarianism engulfed his world.
The Ukrainian national consciousness, too, shows a troubling capacity for forgetting. Ukrainians who endured the Holodomor, the wars of the Ukrainian Revolution (1917-1923), Soviet pacification, collectivisation, and other horrors of the 20th century likely believed those traumas would never be forgotten. Yet, while the memory of the Great Famine might persist in our genetic makeup—a biological legacy we cannot easily erase—our collective awareness of these events has faded into mere facts and statistics in school textbooks. We struggle to connect emotionally across the generations, to truly grasp the suffering and resilience of those who came before us. The generation that lived through these attempts at genocide is slowly disappearing, and with them, so too does the vivid, lived memory of these atrocities. Only a few remain to bear witness, and if we do not remember, we risk repeating the past.
When we say we will never forget the Russian-Ukrainian war we’re living through, the truth is that we eventually will. We’ll remember the people, the statistics, and the events, but the emotions will fade. Our generation will inevitably come to terms with what we’ve endured—some will sever their ties with Ukraine entirely, while others will struggle to fully comprehend the reality of what happened. Most of us, however, will be unable to convey the full extent of this horror to the next generation.
We will produce countless books, write numerous poems and songs, document hundreds of Russian war crimes in legal records, and bury many of our relatives, friends, and acquaintances. Yet, in the end, we will forget the deeper connection to these events. We will, perhaps, make every effort to distance ourselves from the war, much like we have with past horrors. Maybe we will no longer be under the boot of the Russian tsar, and we’ll stop reading Dostoevsky or Pushkin. Russia’s 15-kopek sausage and Alla Pugacheva will become distant memories. We will no longer turn our heads towards Russian narratives or idols. But in doing so, we risk losing the thread that ties us to this moment in history, leaving behind only fragments of what once was.
But let’s be realistic. After over 300 years of Russia’s ruthless imperial dominance, our assimilation runs painfully deep. Everything, from the smallest details to the broadest concepts, is steeped in Russian influence. When we compare Ukrainian and Russian legislation, the similarities are striking. In casual conversations, jokes, or simple dialogues, a Russian word or idiom inevitably slips out. Even now, we still reference Russian writers when discussing moral issues. We cling to complexes of inferiority and paternalism as if they are inherent to our nature. We lack a true understanding of our own Ukrainian identity. Too often, we reduce it to traditional costumes, wreaths, and songs about hardship, unhappy marriages, or a drunken priest. When we speak of Ukrainian literature, we mention Shevchenko and a handful of other names we vaguely remember from school. Concepts like postmodernism and metamodernism in Ukrainian culture are often dismissed, as they seem disconnected from the deeply ingrained Russian narratives we’ve been conditioned to accept.
Recently, Ukraine submitted a declaration to the Council of Europe to derogate from certain provisions of the Convention for the Protection of Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms. This move underscores the superficiality of our commitment to European values and reveals an inclination to bend non-legal methods of governance into a legal framework. Our reluctance to fully embrace the rule of law highlights just how distant our state mechanisms remain from European ideals. Once again, we see echoes of some Ukrainians’ lingering affinity for the Russian world. This division within Ukrainian politics and national consciousness poses potentially serious consequences.
The average Ukrainian’s self-interest, devoid of a true understanding of their national identity, is undoubtedly problematic. Yet, despite our tendency to let emotions fade from memory, we must remember. More than that, we need to transform our capacity to remember into a collective duty.
Ukraine, as a participant in international legal relations, cannot fully assert itself without a strong Ukrainian identity. Unfortunately, many foreigners associate us with aspects that don’t truly reflect who we are. Our attempts at self-discovery over the past century have been repeatedly suppressed. We’re familiar with the stories of the Executed Renaissance, the Sixtiers, and the dissidents—those who dared to assert our true identity were brutally silenced, often at the cost of their lives. Our greatest challenge lies in the fact that the conscious few remain a minority, and by nature, a minority struggles to overcome the majority. Thus, our primary task is to dismantle the imposed narratives, blocking out Russian paradigms and worldviews.
It’s crucial to recognise that we shouldn’t simply cover ourselves from the ‘Russian world’ with a dark curtain. Rather, we need to close off the ‘Russian world’ from ourselves. Yet, we should still ensure that future generations read at least one work by a Russian writer—if only to understand the essence of what Russia truly is and see its blindness, ignorance and cruelty. For without knowing that fire burns, we risk burning ourselves by reaching into it again.
In 1944, Andriy Melnyk was deported from Lemkivshchyna to the small village of Hlyboka in the Stanislav region. He was just 18, had only begun to establish himself, and had built a house with his father. Then came the deportation. What do we remember of that time beyond a few cold statistics that barely convey its reality? Andriy Melnyk, my great-grandfather, passed away on April 12, 2010. Soon, no one will remain who remembers the Lemko dialect, the traditions, the songs, his grave, or the fear of deportation. This is how memory fades—within each of us, one by one. The same story, repeating over and over…
