Ridley Scott’s Gladiator sequel has arrived in cinemas, already celebrated as “the best popcorn movie of the year.” While its artistic value and mix of dramatic plotlines, social themes, and breathtaking action may spark debate, the questions its characters confront strike a chord with Ukraine’s present reality.
Without giving away spoilers, the film hinges on a compelling exchange between the protagonist and Denzel Washington’s brilliantly portrayed antagonist. Should Rome aspire to be the ideal dream—”a refuge for the needy, a home worth fighting for”? Or should it resign itself to tyranny, where citizens and conquered peoples alike live under the rule of strength that dictates law rather than the rule of law that tempers strength? A place where power is seized and maintained through force?
Sound familiar? While the film isn’t rooted in specific historical events, instead taking loose inspiration from them—and given that slave-owning Ancient Rome, even at its republican peak, was no model of equality—it’s hard to simply snack on popcorn without drawing parallels to the Ukrainian-Russian reality.
November 19, 2024, marks 1,000 days of full-scale Russian aggression as Ukraine’s multi-ethnic population fights to defend their right to determine a way of life based on the rule of law. This struggle didn’t start in 2014 or 1991—it’s been ongoing for as long as Russia has had the economic and military power to impose its will. And it will likely persist until Russia either loses that power or evolves to a higher level of civilisational maturity—a transformation our generation may never witness.
Ukraine has turned into a modern-day Colosseum. For a thousand days, the world has watched an unequal battle play out—offering sympathy, expressing deep concern, and even providing some of the armour. Yet, this bloody struggle could have taken a very different turn had Ukrainian lives been valued more.
In nearly three years—or perhaps the past decade—Ukrainians have failed, through words or actions, to inspire their allies to make strategic decisions that match the gravity of the threat. The events following the lethargic response to the annexation of Crimea, the war in Donbas, and the facilitation of the Minsk Agreements will stand in history alongside the Munich Agreement.
It took almost two years after the full-scale invasion to recognise Russia as a strategic threat, yet not as a state sponsor of terrorism. During this time, Russia has built coalitions—a growing axis of power strengthening its coordination. Putin meets world leaders, hosts the UN secretary-general, and travels to Mongolia, which refuses to arrest him despite ICC demands.
The presence of North Korean troops on the battlefield and the defeat of the current U.S. administration in the elections have finally opened the door to potential strikes on military targets deep within Russia. Even though the long-awaited permission finally emerged, it may still come with restrictions, most likely limiting the targets to the Kursk region. Additionally, the number of missiles provided is likely to be capped.
Meanwhile, Russia stands proudly amid the ruins of the international order, continuing to terrorise Ukraine with little to no consequences. It is strengthening its military-industrial complex, bypassing sanctions, and financing the war through energy sales, including to EU countries.
Russia’s negotiating position was clearly demonstrated by Sunday’s massive strike across Ukraine, which involved 120 missiles and 90 drones. It speaks to the world in the language of Shaheds, Zircons, and Iskanders, and the world responds with yet another round of declarations affirming its solidarity with Ukraine—solidarity voiced from the safety of the stands, while Ukraine remains alone in the arena.
Some Ukrainians are fighting on the front lines, adapting to weapon shortages, while others are working behind the scenes, adjusting to air raid alerts and power outages. There are also those engaging with international partners, repeating for nearly three years what seems obvious to Ukrainians, struggling to understand why we still have to prove what should have been clear to everyone after Bucha.
We’re constantly expected to provide new arguments for continued support, as the previous ones become outdated within six months, even though most of our requests remain unanswered. Sometimes, we even hear questions like, “Why should we help Ukraine?”
The fate of Russian assets remains unresolved, though Ukraine continues to receive interest payments for reconstruction and recovery. A tribunal for Putin and the punishment of Russia’s leadership are still open questions. Messages are beginning to surface, suggesting that Ukraine’s victory itself will serve as punishment for the Kremlin’s war criminals. However, the definition of victory remains as vague as ever, effectively reduced to preserving Ukraine’s place on the world map with undefined borders and under unclear conditions.
After nearly three years of advocacy, delegations of soldiers, widows, children who were returned, freed prisoners of war, testimonies on international platforms, films, books, and academic discussions, we still don’t know which aspects of Ukraine’s vision for ending the war our partners will support. What is clear, however, is that NATO membership has become an empty promise. Even a symbolic invitation, without binding commitments, struggles to gain support.
The involvement of NATO countries in defending Ukraine’s skies, even through bilateral agreements, remains an unreachable goal, as does acquiring enough air defence systems. Since the war began, Ukrainians have often been accused of constantly demanding more while failing to show sufficient gratitude for the aid already given. In response, they organised a series of mass street events, chanting: “Thank you!” Ukraine indeed has much to be thankful for—from shelter and humanitarian aid to weapons—provided by nations and their citizens. Yet, as the war drags on, its horrors are beginning to feel routine. Reports of casualties, blackouts, and “re-education” camps in occupied territories are increasingly met with indifference. After all, they’ve heard it all before.
We speak less and less of values and more and more of the strategic threat of Russia’s occupation of lithium deposits. Thousands of lost and shattered lives are reduced to grim statistics. Cynicism now masquerades as pragmatism.
Times change: humanity has harnessed fire, invented the wheel, the printing press, the steam engine, created the internet, developed artificial intelligence, and now plans to reach Mars. Jets replaced spears, and “Kinzhals” (“Daggers”) took the place of swords. Yet we still fail to uphold the value of humanism, instead debating its market price.
As long as we continue to call empires “great,” measuring their grandeur by subjugated peoples, destroyed cultures, stolen resources, and, most importantly, lost lives, we will wander endlessly through the circles of historical hell. Those who seek greatness at such a cost, advocating the right of might, must remember that empires fall—and those who once sought to enslave others may find themselves in their place.
“Woe to the vanquished,” declared the Gallic leader Brennus to the Romans when his forces sacked Rome in the 4th century BCE. “Glory to the heroes,” we proclaim today, steadfast 1,000 days into Russia’s so-called three-day “special operation” to extinguish Ukraine’s sovereignty.
