Ukraine’s identity crisis: Between nation-building and self-denial

By Ilya Ganpantsura 

Nations forged in the shadow of empire often face a paradox: the harder they struggle to define themselves, the greater the temptation to deny parts of their own past. Ukraine today stands at precisely this crossroads—seeking to consolidate a coherent national identity while wrestling with the layered, and often uncomfortable, inheritances of history.

The collapse of empires in the early twentieth century enabled Poland to reconstitute itself as a nation-state. Yet this rebirth immediately raised questions about the status of its southeastern territories—lands that today form part of western Ukraine. In these regions, policies of forced assimilation curtailed expressions of Ukrainian identity, banning political movements advocating autonomy. 

The marginalisation of Ukrainian cultural and political life contributed to deep grievances that would later find violent expression. During the Second World War, nationalist groups carried out mass killings of Polish civilians in Volhynia, leaving enduring scars on both societies and complicating any future reconciliation.

History, however, rarely remains frozen in conflict. Following the war, the imposition of Soviet rule over Ukraine and a socialist system in Poland created a temporary political “cooling,” suppressing open antagonism. Over time, and particularly with generational change, space emerged for dialogue. Intellectuals led early efforts at reconciliation, followed by younger generations less burdened by direct memories of violence.

After 1991, with the collapse of the Soviet bloc, Ukraine and Poland entered a new phase of engagement. Despite the presence of wartime memories, public discourse gradually shifted from recrimination to acknowledgement. Ukrainian leaders repeatedly characterised past atrocities as a shared tragedy, signalling a willingness to confront history without weaponising it. This approach laid the groundwork for closer cooperation, which became especially visible after Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine in 2022, when Poland emerged as one of Kyiv’s strongest partners.

Reconciliation, however, is not a singular act but an ongoing process. It reflects a broader transformation in which historical संघर्ष gives way to the pursuit of peace. As generations change, so too do the symbols that shape political imagination. What once inspired mobilisation—whether ideology, nationalism, or resistance—evolves, often giving way to new cultural and political reference points. Yet this transition is rarely smooth. When emerging values collide with inherited narratives, societies can enter periods of cultural turbulence, where older frameworks are challenged or discarded.

Ukraine’s post-2014 trajectory illustrates this tension. The country’s turn towards Europe represents not only a geopolitical choice but also a civilisational commitment. European political traditions, shaped by centuries of shifting borders and layered identities, emphasise complexity, pluralism, and the reversibility of historical arrangements. At their core lies a moral framework—rooted in Christian thought and articulated by thinkers such as Roger Scruton—that places emphasis on confession and forgiveness as foundations for social cohesion.

Yet the pursuit of a European future also carries risks when interpreted narrowly. A national project defined primarily in opposition—to Russia, in Ukraine’s case—can constrain rather than liberate. When political discourse frames nearly every internal issue as an extension of external conflict, it risks fostering a culture of suspicion and self-censorship. Over time, this can produce what might be described as a “neurosis of resistance,” in which individuals feel compelled to conform to rigid expectations rather than engage in open, creative expression.

This dynamic is particularly visible in debates over language and identity. Ukraine’s regional diversity has long been reflected in its linguistic landscape, from the distinct dialects of the west to the widespread use of mixed Russian-Ukrainian speech in the east. These variations are not anomalies but expressions of historical experience. However, efforts to standardise identity—especially under the pressures of war—have sometimes led to the marginalisation of these forms, treating them as deviations rather than legitimate cultural expressions.

The case of “Surzhyk,” a hybrid of Ukrainian and Russian, illustrates this tension. While linguistic blending in western regions is often celebrated as cultural richness, similar phenomena in the east are frequently stigmatised, associated with past domination rather than organic development. Such double standards risk alienating communities whose identities do not fit neatly within a singular national narrative.

This raises a fundamental question about national cohesion. As Scruton observed, loyalty to a nation is rooted not in abstraction but in attachment to lived realities—place, customs, and shared practices. If segments of the population feel that their cultural and linguistic identities are being delegitimised, the foundation of that loyalty may weaken. Efforts to enforce uniformity, even with the intention of strengthening national unity, can produce the opposite effect by distancing citizens from the state.

Ukraine’s challenge, therefore, is not merely to resist external aggression but to cultivate an inclusive understanding of itself. Moving beyond a framework defined by opposition requires acknowledging the complexity of its historical and cultural inheritance. This includes recognising that proximity—to Russia in the east, to Central Europe in the west—has shaped different but equally valid forms of Ukrainian identity.

Abandoning the reflex to label all Russian cultural elements as inherently hostile would not weaken Ukraine’s sovereignty; rather, it could strengthen internal cohesion by reducing the pressures of self-denial. Such a shift would allow for a more confident national consciousness—one capable of distinguishing between genuine threats and the diverse realities of its own society.

In the long run, the sustainability of Ukraine’s national project will depend less on the exclusion of perceived “others” within, and more on its ability to integrate difference into a shared civic framework. Only then can it move beyond an identity defined by antagonism and towards one grounded in unity, resilience, and a realistic vision of its future.

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The original version of this article was first published in VoegelinView. I. V. Ganpantsura is a writer in political philosophy who develops ideas within conservative ideology in his works. Ilya also hosts a political philosophy podcast, “The Right Sail Show,” in which he popularizes his ideas. Site: https://ilyaganpantsura.wordpress.com/