Analogies, responsibility, and the future: Rethinking Ukraine’s historical narrative by Illya Chedoluma

Analogies and Intentions

Drawing parallels between the past and the present is always walking on thin ice. I am probably the last person in line who has any right to “accuse” anyone of doing this. After all, I myself have “sinned” (and will continue to do so) more than once by drawing parallels between the early 20th century and our own time.

It is thin ice because, to paraphrase Mark Twain, the past never repeats itself — at best, it rhymes. Every epoch is unique, every society distinctive. On the other hand, comparative studies — so-called comparativistics — are a fully legitimate field of the humanities. Still, analogies between past and present are always at least debatable from an academic standpoint.

The difference between me and others in this field does not lie in the choice of periods or figures for comparison — all of that is merely a set of tools. It lies in the intention and in the view of the future from which I also look at the past. Some use parallels to explain that we are doing everything right, that everything is permissible for us, because we have always been the victim, and a victim is always right — which means responsibility always lies with others. This is very convenient. And, truth be told, quite pleasant — because the neighbors are always to blame, or the unjust world order (to use Kissinger’s term).

My intention is fundamentally different: in every text, in every broadcast, I strive to emphasize the agency of the people who were born or lived on the lands of today’s Ukraine. Agency is impossible without responsibility — for decisions taken or not taken, for how we assess ourselves and the world around us, and so on. All of this is hard and extremely unpleasant. Because for everything that has happened on these lands, the primary responsibility lies with the elites and the people who lived here. Only after that come circumstances, ideologies, geopolitics, etc. Yet despite the difficulty, this means that we are the masters of our land — and, more importantly, of our own fate. Understanding and accepting this sharply expands the space for creating something new, for political and geopolitical maneuvering.

Which of these two intentions is better for a country and a land that throughout its history has existed at the crossroads of cultures and civilizations — let the future decide. I want a prosperous Ukraine, able to defend its interests, attractive and modern, a place where people from around the world would want to find their place. At the same time, I want it to be rooted in itself deeply enough not to lose its connection to the traditions and cultures of these lands.

To conclude on intentions, there is an interesting observation: those who talk most about “eternal struggle” in Ukrainian history often, for some reason, end up far beyond these lands. I have no foreign passports; no diaspora is waiting for me with a warm academic seat. Having chosen to become a public figure for the reasons stated above, I have lost many opportunities. If the Diamond Collapse comes, I will experience it together with the majority of Ukrainians. Just as right now I feel the lack of electricity and the chill in my apartment. That is why I care about the future of this land. And that is why I have no desire to divide Ukrainians into categories.

Here and now, I want to see Ukraine and Ukrainians as subjects — because that is also my own fate and my own agency. By their intentions you shall know them…