Universities around the world host departments of Slavic studies, reflecting a lasting interest in Slavic peoples and cultures across every continent. Yet Russian studies continue to dominate most of these programmes, leaving Ukrainian studies on the sidelines. At a time when, for any rational observer, anything connected to Moscow is inseparable from its genocidal actions, Ukrainian studies could provide a vital counterpoint—but only with significant resources. The latest gathering of Slavic scholars from across the globe has just taken place in Paris. Did it rise to the moment and confront the Kremlin’s genocidal ambitions?
A century of the International Congress of Slavists
In the 19th century, as nation-building swept across the globe, Slavic peoples began to assert their identities, most still without states of their own. The struggle against imperial occupiers — Turks, Austrians, and Muscovites — also fostered a flowering of culture and art among eastern, southern, and western Slavs, reflected in a wealth of contemporary research. Shared cultural traits encouraged Slavs to study one another, while their subjugated status made the idea of unity especially compelling, as Taras Shevchenko, among others, wrote. Of course, Moscow exploited this sentiment to justify territorial expansion, crystallising the concept of pan-Slavism. Yet it must be acknowledged that, at the start of the 19th century, Russians alone possessed a functioning state — and an empire — which inspired a certain admiration among other Slavic peoples.
The achievements of Slavic scholars demanded forums for exchange. The idea of convening an International Congress of Slavists emerged at the start of the 20th century. Between 1901 and 1903, it was Moscow’s imperial academics who sought to organise such a congress, but they failed due to St Petersburg’s first major act of 20th-century aggression — the Russo-Japanese War. Subsequent attempts by Muscovite scholars also fell apart, again because of war. The First World War reshaped narratives and rendered the empire’s “soft power” ambitions obsolete. After the Bolshevik revolution, the Kremlin’s appetite expanded to all of Europe, and Slavic scholars elsewhere increasingly stopped taking the Russians seriously.
The first International Congress of Slavists took place in 1929, in Prague, focusing on the linguistic connections among Slavic peoples. It brought together 560 participants from 21 countries. Ukrainian Slavic studies were represented by 27 scholars, including Kyrylo Studynsky, Oleksandr Kolessa, Filaret Kolessa, Ivan Bryk, Leonid Biletsky, Ivan Ohiyenko, Stepan Siropolko, Serhiy Pylypenko, Kost Nimtchynov, Petro Buzuk, and others. The Soviet delegation was unwelcome, as no one wished to endure the absurdities of Soviet ideology. A century on, there are even plans to mark the anniversary with a new congress in Prague.
Russian-Soviet imperialism and its grip on Slavic scholarship
What Catherine II and her successors failed to achieve through pan-Slavist ideology was later realised by the “father of nations,” Joseph Stalin. The Red Army’s advance into Europe during the fight against the Nazis allowed the complete subjugation of the eastern Slavs (Ukrainians and Belarusians), the western Slavs (Poles, Czechs, and Slovaks), and, to some extent, even the southern Slavs (then-Yugoslavia and Bulgaria). In the postwar period, Slavic studies came to be dominated by Russian studies and Soviet ideologues. That said, Soviet Ukrainian scholars and classicists produced work that, though limited, still holds some educational value today.
The hegemony of Russian studies and the myth of the “great Russian culture and language” persisted right up to the collapse of the USSR. Yet even after the fall of this empire of evil, and despite the revival of historical memory among nations long oppressed by Moscow—especially the Czechs and Poles—there was no real reckoning or “cancelling” of Russian studies as such.
Funding clearly played a role. Moscow consistently poured resources into supporting its apologists abroad, providing generous opportunities for fellowships, publications, and other forms of backing. Students, too, often gravitated towards Russian studies, partly drawn by the global resonance of Moscow’s actions toward other nations. Far from discouraging interest, Putinism sometimes intensified it, appealing to the notion of a “strong hand”—a concept that resonates across societies, particularly in more fragile democracies.
An extraordinary congress — amid Russia’s (un)spoken aggression
The penultimate Slavic congress took place in Belgrade, Serbia, and highlighted a shift in influence: alongside the “Great Russians,” EU members Poland and the Czech Republic were emerging as increasingly active and influential voices in Slavic studies. Ukrainians also showcased significant achievements, and had funding for their academic institutions been stronger, they might, together with the Czechs and Poles, have fully dismantled Moscow’s claims to scholarly primacy.
The next congress, originally scheduled for 2023 at the Sorbonne in Paris, was postponed to 2025 because of the Kremlin’s ongoing aggression against Ukraine. Opinions varied on how to approach the event, but on the central issue—excluding official delegations from the aggressor states, Russia and Belarus—even representatives from those countries raised no objections. They quickly opted to submit individual applications, and the organisers—Russian studies scholars at the Sorbonne—chose not to list the aggressor states in the programme.
As a result, several dozen Moscow-affiliated “scholars” attended under a neutral flag, while even more participated under other countries’ banners, since Slavic studies departments worldwide are often led by Russian émigrés.
The stance of Ukraine’s Academy of Sciences—which called for the congress to be postponed until the war’s end—along with the widely circulated “Appeal by Ukrainian scholars currently serving in the Armed Forces of Ukraine to the International Committee of Slavists,” urging the removal of all Russian and Belarusian participants, went largely unheeded. To the credit of Ukrainian academics, communication within the International Committee is no longer conducted in Russian, as it was before the full-scale invasion, but in Ukrainian, English, or other international languages.
Consequently, the Ukrainian delegation—which had brought together over 60 potential participants during preparatory discussions—opted not to attend the congress. Several international Slavic studies commissions also withdrew in solidarity with Ukraine. Only a handful of Ukrainian scholars, believing that their voice still needed to be heard, travelled to this year’s event. One alternative form of participation was to avoid sharing a room with Moscow’s propagandists. For this purpose, a short English-language text—including material on Ukrainian dramaturgy during the war—was prepared. The roundtable moderator is expected to present this review, ensuring that the issue of Russia’s aggression against Ukraine is addressed from the Ukrainian perspective.
At the Sorbonne, during this extraordinary International Congress of Slavists, the Russians “under a neutral flag” kept a relatively low profile. Scholars from 42 countries attended. One stand displayed a Ukrainian flag bearing the words “We stand with Ukraine” — though, of course, it did not specify against whom. On a screen, Cicero’s maxim “Cedant arma togae” (“Let arms yield to the toga”) was projected — a noble sentiment, yet posters depicting Moscow’s atrocities in Mariupol or Bucha would have spoken far more powerfully. At the book exhibition, Ukraine was given pride of place. Among the keynote speakers was Russian émigré writer Boris Akunin, who argued that Russia’s history should begin only in the 15th century and suggested that the Russian Federation ought to fragment into separate states.
Overall, the congress unfolded within a familiar framework: that of the “good Russians” bearing no blame, with Europe’s troubles attributed to some vague, mysterious “third force.”
What the Slavist congress could have been without the urge to “help the good Russians”
The International Committee of Slavists’ decision to impose only mild restrictions on representatives from Russia and Belarus resembled a modern Olympic principle: allowing a team suspected of doping to compete under a neutral flag. In academic terms, the closest equivalent to doping might be plagiarism. Had Russian scholars been widely accused of plagiarism, they might still have been allowed to participate, leaving other delegates free to decide whether to engage with them.
But Russia’s crimes against Ukraine — and against humanity — are of a wholly different order. They justify holding all its citizens, particularly academics as members of society’s elite, accountable not for dishonesty, but for collaboration and complicity in the Kremlin’s genocidal actions. This is no longer a matter of plagiarism or doping — it is about murder.
Put simply: would an athlete who had directly or indirectly contributed to the death of another athlete be admitted to the Olympics? Should a scholar who has, directly (through personal or family military service, voting for Putin, defending imperialism in their research, echoing Russia’s chauvinist narratives) or indirectly (paying taxes to the Russian state, showing loyalty to the regime, supporting institutions whose leaders endorsed the war) contributed to the killing of fellow academics and the destruction of cultural and scientific institutions, be welcomed at such a congress?
One can appeal to “humanity” towards Russians a million times over, but until the war ends and tribunals judge their crimes, it is impossible to say clearly where such leniency lies — with the victims, or with the carriers of an ideology of genocide.
The undeclared war waged by Russia and Belarus against Ukraine is not a localised conflict. It is a deliberate attempt at genocide. Consider Putin’s stated objectives: among them, “denazification” — which might sound like sheer nonsense, but is not. What he labels as “Nazism” is, in fact, Ukrainian patriotism. His aim is the elimination of Ukraine’s patriots, and with them, all bearers of Ukrainian identity.
A decade ago, such words might have been dismissed as the rhetoric of a Ukrainian. Today, however, the Hague has issued an arrest warrant for Putin over the deportation of Ukrainian children, with more charges certain to follow — not for abstract violations of international law, but for genocide. And this genocide is not being carried out by some alien race, nor by a people wholly unconnected to Ukrainians. Today, it is carried out by two East Slavic peoples — Russians (partially Slavic, of course) and Belarusians. One must therefore ask all members of national Slavist committees: can such a fact in the history of inter-Slavic relations really be ignored?
Ukrainian scholars who have not yet taken up arms continue their work in the intellectual sphere. They advance Ukrainian science, teach students, safeguard cultural and intangible heritage under missile fire, deconstruct Kremlin myths, and promote cultural and scientific diplomacy. Today, international platforms are vital for exposing Kremlin crimes and for mobilising material and other forms of support for the army, the wounded, and civilians whose homes have been destroyed by Russian occupation forces.
Ukrainian participation in the Slavist congress could and should serve a similar purpose, with the event itself fulfilling a crucial humanitarian role: explaining how the genocide of some Slavs by others became possible, deconstructing Russian colonial “culture,” and examining the impact of Kremlin aggression on the Slavic world. It could explore the upheavals endured by other Slavic cultures due to the loss of peace, reflect on the level of mutual support among Slavs since 2022, consider what role Russia should play after the war, and much more. The question remains: if the congress does not confront the real issues in Slavic relations, then what is its purpose at all?
