Barabashova Market, located in Kharkiv, Ukraine, is one of the largest markets in Eastern Europe. Established in the early 1990s as an informal marketplace where local vendors sold goods to meet the high demand for consumer products in the post-Soviet era, over time, it became more organised and structured, attracting a wide range of traders and businesses. Barabashova Market came to define Kharkiv’s identity both domestically and internationally as a trader city, willing to negotiate deals. Indeed, during Russia’s full-scale invasion, Chinese donors directed humanitarian aid supplies not to Kharkiv, but specifically to ‘Barabashovo city’.

However, Kharkiv’s identity has since transformed from bustling trade hub to fortress city, steadfastly defending itself against relentless Russian attacks from 500kg glide bombs, S-300 rockets, and Iranian-made Shahed drones. Barabashova Market was shelled, and although it has been partially rebuilt, the economic degradation of the city has left it a shadow of its former self. The horror of war connects, for many Kharkivites, to another, older, aspect of the region’s identity: a city founded by Cossacks that played an enormous intellectual role in the formation of Ukrainian identity. The shift speaks to the resilience and strength of democracy, dignity, and freedom, even in an environment where it could easily have been otherwise.

Kharkiv shows the lies of Russian propaganda – it is after all a Russian-speaking city, with a history of electing pro-Russian politicians, that successfully fought off Russian ‘liberation’. The mayor of Kharkiv from 2010 until his death in 2020, Hennadyi Kernes, was initially known for his strong pro-Russian orientation. A member of Viktor Yanukovych’s Party of Regions, Kernes often supported policies and rhetoric that aligned with Russian interests, a common stance among many politicians in Eastern Ukraine during that period. Perhaps more notably, Kernes wielded significant control over the media in Kharkiv, paying journalists much more than the going rate. He used this influence to shape public opinion and maintain his political dominance.

Things changed in 2014, with the Euromaidan protests, which began in November 2013 as a protest against then-President Viktor Yanukovych’s decision to suspend the signing of an association agreement with the European Union, opting instead to strengthen ties with Russia.  After police brutality against student protestors, the protests quickly escalated into a Revolution of Dignity, which culminated in violent clashes between protesters and security forces, resulting in numerous deaths and Yanukovych fleeing the country on 22 February 2014. Kharkiv saw its own demonstrations and while a significant portion of Kharkiv’s population supported the Euromaidan movement, there was also a strong anti-Maidan sentiment in Kharkiv. The latter organised counter-protests and even occupied the Kharkiv Regional State Administration building temporarily. During the subsequent political upheaval, Kernes briefly fled to Russia, an attempt to avoid potential repercussions.

However, shortly afterwards, he returned to Ukraine and increasingly presented himself as more patriotic towards Ukraine, a pragmatic response to the changing political landscape. With the annexation of Crimea by Russia and the ongoing conflict in Eastern Ukraine, a pro-Russian stance became politically untenable for anyone hoping to maintain political relevance and power. Kernes participated in public events that emphasized Ukrainian unity and sovereignty and was instrumental in cooperating with the Ukrainian government to maintain stability. Presumably with less cynicism, many millions of Ukrainians made a similar choice after seeing the truth of Russia’s aggression and the reality of life in the ‘Russian World‘ in the occupied parts of neighbouring Luhansk and Donetsk regions.

The shift in Ukrainian identity between 2014 and 2022 was remarkable. In 2013, Vladimir Putin enjoyed an approval rating among Ukrainians of 59 per cent, higher than in Russia itself, and 81 per cent of Ukrainians felt positively about Russia. In the last KIIS poll before the full-scale invasion, that number was a mere 34 per cent.

Consequently, as Russian elites’ Ukrainophobia – its irrational fear and loathing of the very idea of Ukraine as a separate entity and identity from Russia – became ever more radical, Ukrainians’ understanding of their country’s identity and future grew ever more antithetical to Russian designs. This much was readily apparent from the plethora of sociological research on Ukrainian civic identity but not, apparently, to the Russian military’s operational planners who planned the invasion and expected Ukraine to fall within weeks, if not days.

It is easy to scoff at Russian myopia and question how they failed to recognise Ukraine’s distinct identity, or even its desire for a distinct identity. It is especially tempting given that Ukraine essentially confirms Western liberal assumptions: that, when left to their own choice, people will aspire to join the West and adopt similar values. One may criticise Russia for being blinded by their own value system, but is the West not guilty of the same? Have Western governments not judged Russia based on their own liberal perspective, and do they not continue to do so?

Modern liberalism has adopted a teleological view of the future, taking on a universalist stance similar to the other two major ideologies of the 20^th century: fascism and communism. Liberalism has survived not because its teleological thesis is correct, but due to its capacity to regenerate, remake, and reinvent itself. The belief that everyone must move towards a certain point or adopt specific policies as part of natural human and civilisational progress is a profoundly ideological way of viewing the world. While it is not a negative aspiration, it is hardly a law of nature that everyone should converge towards a single interpretation of values deemed successful in one region. Ultimately, these values need to succeed and defend themselves; they are never victorious because of supposedly inherent virtues.

The question of ‘Who lost Russia?’ speaks to the engrained nature of liberalism’s self-confidence, the notion that the West must have done something wrong for Russia to not follow the natural, universal path to democracy. The answers to this question often focus on the economic upheaval of the 1990s experienced in Russia. As with all good myths, there is some truth there. Russia faced severe hyperinflation in the early 1990s, with inflation rates reaching 2,500 per cent in 1992. The 1998 Russian financial crisis further exacerbated economic instability, leading to a devaluation of the rouble and default on domestic debt. The rapid privatisation process in Russia led to the rise of oligarchs, who amassed vast wealth and political influence. This created significant income inequality and social discontent. But these oligarchs were Russian.

Ukraine experienced hyperinflation, peaking at over 10,000 per cent in 1993. The introduction of the new currency, the hryvnia, in 1996 helped stabilise the situation, but economic uncertainty remained. The collapse of traditional Soviet-era industries led to widespread unemployment and a significant drop in GDP. The industrial production index fell drastically as industries struggled to adapt to the new market conditions. Structurally, Ukraine faced more challenging conditions than Russia in the 1990s, as it lacked many of the state structures and institutions necessary for effective governance, including established intelligence services, a functioning currency, and robust administrative mechanisms. Russia, inheriting the core institutions of the Soviet Union, had more established state structures to manage the transition.

Despite its more perilous situation, Ukraine did not receive anywhere near the same level of support as Russia. It was seen as peripheral, as emblematised by the ‘Chicken Kiev Speech’ by President George H. W. Bush in which he warned against Ukraine’s ‘suicidal nationalism’. Ukraine received some international aid, primarily from Western countries and international organisations like the IMF and the World Bank. However, the total aid was relatively modest compared to Russia. Russia received substantial financial support from international organisations, including a $22.6 billion aid package from the IMF in 1996.

And yet, the reasons for Russia and Ukraine’s divergence, and the rejection of liberalism in Russia run still deeper. Historical narratives are powerful tools in shaping national identity. They create a shared sense of history, establish continuity, define national values, foster unity, legitimise the state, and mobilise citizens for collective action. By providing a coherent story about a nation’s past, these narratives help individuals understand their place within the national community and contribute to a collective sense of purpose and belonging.

There are two impediments for most Western observers when it comes to understanding the Russian narrative about its war on Ukraine, itself, and the world. First, the Russian narratives reflect an ontological identity as opposed to a Western (and Ukrainian) teleology. The second impediment is that of entirely different historical interpretations and foci.

Perhaps the starkest evidence of the difference in historical application comes in comparing Ukrainian and Russian views of their shared past, as in Figure 2, which shows the number of people espousing a positive view of Joseph Stalin in Russia and Ukraine:

By 2023, only 9 per cent of the Ukrainian population views Stalin positively, a significant decline from earlier decades. In contrast, Russia’s trend shows initial stability, followed by a sharp increase in positive views of Stalin between 2016 and 2021. By 2023, despite a slight decline from 2021, a majority of 54 per cent of Russians still view Stalin positively. Both countries started with similar percentages in the early 1990s, with Ukraine at 27 per cent and Russia at 29 per cent. By 2016, these percentages had slightly decreased, with Ukraine at 23 per cent and Russia at 28 per cent, however, from this point onwards, the countries’ perceptions diverged significantly. In Ukraine, positive views had dropped to 9 per cent by 2023. Meanwhile, Russia experienced a substantial increase in positive views, reaching 56 per cent in 2021 and maintaining a high level of 54 per cent in 2023.

Similar dynamics are observable in relation to the collapse of the Soviet Union.

Among the residents of Russia, there is a notable increase in the percentage of people who regret the collapse of the Soviet Union. In 2010, 55 per cent of respondents expressed regret over the collapse, and this figure rose to 63 per cent by 2021, highlighting a growing sense of regret about the Soviet Union’s collapse in Russia, particularly among older demographics, and reflecting a nostalgia for a sense of lost national power and stability. In contrast, the sentiment in Ukraine moved in the opposite direction, with an increasing number of people, especially the younger generation, feeling that the collapse of the Soviet order was beneficial, with only 11 per cent of Ukrainians regretting the regime’s collapse, amid a tendency to see the USSR as a block on development and Ukraine’s ‘European’ identity.

The application of history as a major point of divergence between Russia and Ukraine is even more stark when we look at polling on other socio-political stances that also inform identity:

Both countries share similar perspectives on happiness, trust, and some aspects of social and political policy. Furthermore, a large proportion of both populations believe that homosexuality is never justifiable. Naturally, there are some differences; Ukrainians generally show slightly higher levels of happiness, more openness to political action, and a more balanced view between materialist and post-materialist values. In contrast, Russians tend to be more conservative on issues like homosexuality and trust and demonstrate less openness to the idea of signing a petition, with 40 per cent of Ukrainians indicating they might do so, compared to 30 per cent of Russians.

As such, these findings would suggest that it is not fundamentally different values that have caused the discrepancy between Ukraine and Russia’s identities so much as the way history is applied. In Ukraine, the past is used to emphasise struggle towards a particular direction. The rise of the Cossacks in the 16th and 17th centuries is a significant focus, particularly the establishment of the Cossack Hetmanate. The Khmelnytsky Uprising (1648-1657), the 1918-1921 Ukrainian People’s Republic, and Ukraine’s (re)declaration of independence in 1991 are presented as culminating moments in centuries-long aspirations for self-determination, as are the Orange Revolution (2004) and the Euromaidan protests (2013-2014). Ukrainian history textbooks highlight their nation’s continuous and ongoing struggle for independence, cultural resilience, and the development of a distinct Ukrainian identity.

In Ukraine, the Russo-Ukrainian war is presented in historical terms and deeply entwined with a sense of historical destiny. Common sentiments include a determination to end centuries-long struggles against Russian domination, referencing historical atrocities and genocides, such as the Holodomor, as well as Russian efforts to erase Ukrainian identity. These sentiments are prevalent across much society, with many viewing the conflict as a genocidal attempt to destroy Ukrainian identity. This historical perspective is also prominent in Ukrainian media coverage, reinforcing the narrative of finality and self-defence: fighting now so future generations won’t have to. This is exemplified by initiatives such as HUR’s Military TV Resistance Movement project, which featured a series of informational films to educate and motivate citizens to defend their lives and homeland.

By contrast, Russian history textbooks emphasize the role of the state, the necessity of unity behind the state, and the importance of Russia’s ability to project power abroad and rule over perceived lesser nations. They depict Russian history post-1945 as that of an innately great and special power betrayed by those it helped—Eastern Europe and former Soviet republics—and under constant assault from the West and its collaborators inside Russia. The textbooks make the reader feel part of the Soviet people’s triumphs and the injustices they endured. The reader is assigned the responsibility of defending the memory of Soviet exploits, with the most recent ‘unified’ Russian state history textbook concluding by urging pupils to defend Russian history —for their own sake and for Russia’s future. Correspondingly, Russia’s ‘special military operation’ against Ukraine is presented in terms of preservation: a pre-emptive defence of Russia and a restoration of historical Russian lands. There is no vision of the future or progress beyond a yearning to restore the past and protect the essence of Russian-ness.

As noted, it may be helpful, as one of many perspectives, to conceptualise the difference between Ukraine and Russia’s approaches to understanding identity and history through the lenses of ontology and teleology. Ontology is the study of being and existence, delving into the nature of reality, the categories of being, and the relationships between entities. From an ontological perspective, understanding identity involves emphasising the inherent characteristics and essence of an entity. For instance, a nation’s identity is seen as grounded in its fundamental cultural, historical, and social attributes. An ontological approach is concerned with how entities exist and interact within the temporal dimension, emphasising the continuity of existence and the evolution of being. This, broadly, is the Russian approach.

In contrast, teleology is the study of purpose and goals, examining the end or purpose (telos) that entities or processes are directed towards. In terms of identity and history, teleology focuses on the direction, goals, and purposes that drive historical development and identity formation. Teleological perspectives on identity emphasise the purpose or goal that an entity strives towards, viewing identity as dynamic and evolving, shaped by the pursuit of certain ends. For example, a nation’s identity might be understood in terms of its aspirations, ideological goals, or historical missions. This perspective focuses on the processes and transformations that lead an entity towards its ultimate goals. This is the Ukrainian, Western and ‘Russian liberal’ approach.

So while Russia’s view of the past and present is concerned with the nature and essence of entities, focusing on what they are, and often emphasises stability, continuity, and the inherent characteristics that define identity and history, Ukraine’s and the West’s is concerned with the purpose and goals of entities, focusing on what they aim to become or achieve. The latter emphasises change, development, and the directional aspects of identity and history driven by goals and purposes.

Russian dissidents, as evidenced by the publications of the Navalny Anti-Corruption Foundation and the Bonn Press Conference by three Russian exiles and former political prisoners, believe in the teleology of liberalism – the notion that ‘Russia will be free.’ Despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, they continue to lobby that this is just Putin’s war, overlooking the 600,000 soldiers who have volunteered to fight in Ukraine, the three-and-a-half million people working in Russia’s defence industry, the over three million Russians employed by the security structures. Their belief system presumes that liberalism will ultimately prevail and that ordinary Russians are merely temporarily thwarted in realising their true purpose by an aberrant dictator. Russian dissidents, especially those who have suffered through imprisonment, have every right to hold this belief. Yet, it serves to reinforce a Western teleology of liberalism as unassailable and distracts from taking concrete steps to confront the fundamental threat to liberal countries.

Notions of liberalism’s universality and inevitability are ironically also some of liberalism’s greatest foes. Such beliefs distract Western governments and societies from the need to strengthen liberalism and to defend their countries’ interests from security threats. It diverts attention from understanding that liberalism is not an inevitable end state or a definitive sign of civilisation, but rather the system some countries of the world arrived at based on historical experiences, which in turn shaped their values and principles. In other words, liberalism is part of Western identity – an identity constructed and chosen by those societies and fought for by earlier generations, and by Ukrainians.

If the arc of the moral universe is long but bends towards justice, it does so under the weight of many great horrors, painful lessons, and the sacrifices of countless individuals. The assumption that liberalism will prevail in Russia once Putin is gone, that Putin is the problem rather than the symptom, and that Ukraine will inevitably triumph are all without evidence. For Ukraine to prevail, its allies must revisit their ontologies: what is Western liberalism, and what do Western liberal societies stand for? What does ‘standing for’ something mean? How much can and should be sacrificed to defend liberalism, abroad or at home? Answering these questions also involves deciding, in realpolitik terms, whether sacrificing Ukraine to Russia will leave liberal societies better or worse off. The obvious answer—worse off—must be weighed against the costs of supporting Ukraine to the extent necessary for it to thrive as a society. Continuing a policy of giving Ukraine enough support not to lose but not enough to win, is no answer at all.