-OpEd-
KYIV — One challenge with talking about Russia is that conversation consistently veers towards political discourse, rather than focusing on the country’s cultural dimensions. Moscow itself is responsible for this shift, having stripped the nation’s culture of political neutrality, and turned it into a commodity which is tailored to various audiences.
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The primary role of Russian culture within the empire’s territory is to serve as a marker. City and street names, statues — they all serve to signify and claim space. Imperial culture operates hierarchically, distinguishing between “central” figures who can tie their lineage to “Moscow-St. Petersburg,” and then the “secondary” ones.
In 2014, Ukraine initiated a process of revision and in 2022, cultural decolonization gained momentum in the country after Russia’s invasion. It’s essential to note that this isn’t solely a battle against history: Ukraine is following a path taken by many former colonies upon gaining sovereignty.
The authority to name places is a demonstration of power, which is why Moscow adamantly refuses to adopt the Ukrainian names. Thus, it’s no surprise that the Russian army fought in “Artyomovsk” (the Russian spelling of the Ukrainian town of Artemivsk) last winter, and that Russian news refers to missiles targeting “Dnipropetrovsk” (Russian for Dnipro).
Ukraine is actively widening the cultural gap by altering toponyms, revising school curricula, emancipating culture by relocating monuments to museums, and rebranding the military. The nation is striving for its identity by removing imperial symbols and renaming subway stations.
If Moscow wanted to slow down this process, it shouldn’t have initiated a war. By politicizing its culture and associating it with loyalty to the old empire and the acceptance of a specific version of history, Moscow shouldn’t expect the attacked country to embrace it.
But because of this very reason, the Ukrainian and Western perspectives on Russian culture won’t always align.
Russian cultural heritage
When it comes to contemporary writers and artists, their legacies can be defined by their actions. Present-day contributions to culture can be overshadowed by behavior seen as negative. Today, those aligning with Putin and the Kremlin might face repercussions, like being barred from Europe or the U.S. But evaluating the legacies of classic figures is far more complex.
In Ukraine, there’s a strong inclination to link modern Russian politics directly to the cultural lineage of Russia. It’s also tempting to draw a line from the “golden age” of Russian literature (the era of Turgenev, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy and so on) to contemporary political actions. But selling this stance to sympathetic Western capitals is improbable, as Europe post-World War II is hesitant to buy into essentialism.
Essentialism asserts that certain entities have an unchanging set of characteristics. It implies that phenomena are fixed, stable and unchangeable. During World War II, explanations for the Third Reich’s crimes were often rooted in German culture. But subsequent European discourse led to the rejection of this concept.
The post-war consensus focused on holding contemporaries to account for crimes. Therefore, film director Leni Riefenstahl, active during the Third Reich’s flourishing, bears responsibility, while Richard Wagner, who died 50 years before the Nazis’ victory, does not.
Attributing collective guilt to long-deceased artists solely based on their citizenship is likely to be criticized.
Consequently, watching Riefenstahl’s films in public can be viewed as a political statement, while listening to Wagner’s “The Ring of the Nibelung” remains a cultural experience, not a political stance.
Ukraine’s attempt to invalidate Russian culture in the West risks encountering similar logic. The response could stress that classical culture shouldn’t be equated with contemporary politics. Monuments, being polysemantic, are vulnerable to manipulation by regimes. Attributing collective guilt to long-deceased writers and artists solely based on their citizenship is likely to be criticized. Critiques may highlight that Russian culture isn’t solely a product of Russians.
Critics might emphasize that a Russian soldier’s formative experiences included fewer Tchaikovsky operas and more Beatles albums. They might have read more Dumas than Tolstoy and preferred Tarantino over Eisenstein. This argument could counter attempts to establish a direct link between a national cultural foundation and war crimes.
The other side of beauty
Modern Russia embodies a hybrid state: anti-European in essence, but steeped in European culture. This cultural heritage mimicked and was crafted according to European norms and conventions.
In imperial colonies like Ukraine, Russian culture aimed not only to supplant but also to replace local cultures, imposing an imperial historical narrative and substituting Russian names for national icons. The ubiquity of Russian culture intended to relegate local cultures to the sidelines. Yet, in the West, Russian culture’s role was less about replacement and more about diplomacy.
The Russian state strategically used its culture as a diplomatic façade, aiming to generate interest, highlight civilizational commonalities, and create negotiation avenues. The European characteristics of Russian culture diverted attention away from the anti-European nature of the Russian state.
Artists and creators became sales representatives for the “enigmatic Russian soul,” blending elements like bears and satellites, balalaikas and ballet, izbas (a traditional Russian countryside dwelling) and constructivism in calculated proportions.
In the grand narrative of great power, genius and villainy found a strange compatibility. Despite repressions and invasions, cultural figures like Shostakovich and his symphonies, or world chess champions or Nobel speeches by Brodsky often became conversational substitutes. This duality allowed some in the West to overlook political shortcomings and concentrate on cultural achievements.
The coexistence of political barbarism and official culture in Russia permitted many in the West to downplay the former and focus on the latter, using cultural context as a universal “replacement.”
Translating culture
Unlike Ukraine, the Western world doesn’t inherently view Russian culture as a threat to its identity; instead, many Russian classics are seen as global classics, existing beyond national boundaries.
Similarly, the West might not fully grasp the Ukrainian context or understand the essence of cultural decolonization, overlooking the significance of imperial place names. Ukrainian experiences coexisting with Russian culture are too distinct to be comprehended without translation.
Now, Ukraine has the right (and the spotlight) to demand a shift in perspective.
Over the past 30 years, Ukraine has grown further towards its own cultural independence, but now needs to articulate its experiences, both to itself and to the world.
For years, the West’s gaze towards the East was predominantly directed at Russia, bypassing Ukraine. Now, Ukraine has the right (and the spotlight) to demand a shift in perspective. They can engage Western counterparts in conversations about the Ukrainian cultural landscape — literary, musical, artistic —, a terrain long unknown to both parties.
These aspects remained invisible in the glow of imperial culture that solely illuminated Russian heritage, relegating others to the shadows.
The Ukrainian goal isn’t achieved by advocating for the annulment of someone else’s culture, an approach conflicting with the post-war Western consensus. However, Ukrainians have every right to ensure that discussions about Russian war crimes are not ignored simply by focusing solely on Tolstoy and Chekhov.
