Decolonisation: Jade McGlynn on how memory politics shapes Russia’s war and the perceptions of Ukraine

In this interview, McGlynn discusses the complexities of historical narratives, sharing her insights into modern approaches to memory politics in Russia and the West, and the impact they have on the Russian invasion of Ukraine. She also sheds light on how Putin’s imperial rhetoric differs from that of the USSR, why Eastern Europe remains a blind spot in Western academia, and whether Russia’s decolonisation is possible without further decolonising Europe.

You’ve researched Russian society, propaganda, and memory politics. What initially motivated you to pursue this line of research?

What motivated me was my long-standing interest in Russian history. I taught myself Russian at 12 because I was fascinated by the late Tsarist and Revolutionary periods. However, my focus on memory politics began while living in Russia in 2014. I was intrigued by the state media’s coverage of the Euromaidan and the Revolution of Dignity and how those narratives resonated with many people I spoke to. This led me to explore Russia’s search for a post-Soviet identity — a quest that Yeltsin (the first president of post-Soviet Russia – ed.) began but never fully realised.

Your time in Russia and research has resulted in the publication of two books, including Russia’s War, which has received significant attention. What was most surprising to you when you moved to Russia and saw how they depicted Euromaidan? Are there any insights from that experience you’d like to share with those in the West who only began to grasp the reality of Russia in 2022?

I might be an unusual example. I first went to Russia in 2008, spending a summer in Saint Petersburg (Russia’s second-largest city – ed.). Back then, I was more interested in Russian culture and history, and to me, Russian politics seemed boring. I naively thought Russia would just continue on a steady path of development. That changed for me in 2011-2012, but before then, I spent time working in a Russian village at an orphanage for children with psychological and intellectual challenges. That experience, especially seeing the realities in the regions, showed me that Moscow and St. Petersburg are not all of Russia. One of the most shocking things I faced was that first summer when I talked about democracy with some Russians in Saint Petersburg. I was struck by how many didn’t like democracy, which, coming from England, was hard for me to understand. That realisation didn’t fully sink in until 2014, when I began studying it more seriously.

As Ukrainians, we’ve fought hard to be heard, as we understand Russia and its societal dynamics well, even if academic research on the topic is still lacking. I’d like to focus on the lasting effects of Russian imperial, Soviet, and modern policies — not just on Ukraine, but also on the West. Given your academic background, how are Ukraine and Eastern Europe portrayed in university studies?

The biggest issue with how Ukraine and Eastern Europe are portrayed in Western academia is often their absence. When Russian history is taught without balancing it with perspectives from Poland, the Baltics, or Ukraine, it becomes easy to accept the Russian narrative as accurate. This is why misconceptions, like the idea that Kyiv was the first capital of Russia, continue to circulate, even though they’re historically inaccurate. There are several interconnected problems here. First, Russian imperial stories are often repeated without enough critical thinking or alternative viewpoints, especially from countries that were colonised and occupied by Russia. Second, there’s a tendency for “mirror imaging”, where Western academia focuses on parts of Russian society or history that confirm pre-existing myths, while overlooking facts that challenge these views. As a result, even our understanding of Russia itself can be superficial and selective. Lastly, the overall reduction in funding and interest in area studies in academia makes it hard to change these outdated views. While some promising new initiatives have come up since the 2022 invasion, challenges in academia—like limited funding, professorships, and career paths for younger scholars—still create major barriers. Ultimately, more funding and a focused effort to prioritise new perspectives are needed to address these issues. Otherwise, we will continue to misunderstand Russia, which is not just an academic issue but a matter of national security, just like the establishment of area studies during the Cold War.

I completely agree that this is a security issue. In 2023, I presented a report on the historical context of Russian propaganda at NATO headquarters. I was questioned about Volodymyr the Great, the Prince of Kyivan Rus, regarding the Scandinavian origins of his family. I explained that Kyivan Rus was a political, not ethnicity-based nation, and drew comparisons to British kings with French origins, noting that France isn’t invading Britain. Meanwhile, Russia continues to justify its invasion through a distorted version of history. Can you explain the methods Russia uses to distort history and why this narrative remains effective?

In a way, you’ve already answered why this narrative is effective — it’s a distraction. The details about Kyivan Rus (a mediaeval state in Eastern Europe, encompassing modern Ukraine, Belarus, and Russia – ed.), where there’s limited historical evidence, draw people into endless debates. Historians will continue to argue over aspects of it, but none of this is relevant. Even if all of Vladimir Putin’s historical claims were accurate (which they’re not), what does that have to do with Russia bombing residential buildings in Kharkiv or deporting Ukrainian children? How does it justify Russians torturing people or burning Ukrainian books? It doesn’t. The focus on history shifts the conversation to abstract ideas of legitimacy and power, which distract from the real human rights abuses and violations of international law happening right now. These abstract concepts should not take precedence over fundamental rights and the rules-based order needed for nations to coexist. One reason this narrative is so effective is that it acts as a huge distraction. For example, no one is seriously considering Denmark’s right to invade Britain based on historical claims, but in places like Ukraine, where history has been repressed or distorted, these questions become tied to identity. Russia, however, is making history not just about identity, but about national security. If you look at Russia’s 2021 National Security Strategy, with its focus on protecting historical memory and cultural roots, it’s clear that the Kremlin sees history and culture very differently from how the West does, where these are often viewed as more apolitical. In contrast, Russia uses history as a tool to legitimise its actions. Another reason this resonates both domestically and abroad is the rise of illiberal memory. While liberal memory encourages a nation to confront and repent for its past wrongs, illiberal memory rejects this, framing any negative narrative as an attack on identity. It emphasises the need to defend national pride and restore elements of a “better” past, such as great power status or control over historical lands. This kind of thinking has broad appeal, tapping into global trends of illiberalism. Russia’s aggressive misuse of history is particularly intense, but it’s not unique. The broader problem is that the manipulation of history for political purposes is something we see across many countries, including those in the West. Russia’s case is just more extreme.

George Orwell touched on this when he said that from a totalitarian point of view, history is something to be created rather than learned. Russia is certainly not unique in this approach, as the USSR also used history as a primary propaganda tool, not only distorting reality but also making it impossible for people to learn the truth.

I’d say there are interesting similarities but also differences between how Russia and the Soviet Union handle history. The Soviet Union actively tried to destroy evidence of alternative histories, like with the Panfilov’s 28 men story. They suppressed reports, like those that came out under Brezhnev (the leader of the Soviet Union from 1964 to 1982 – ed.), proving it was all a legend. In contrast, today’s Russia adds a postmodern twist. For example, when Sergei Mironenko, head of Russian archives, was dismissed in 2015 for stating that Panfilov’s story was a myth, the Culture Minister at the time, Vladimir Medinsky, responded by saying, “Some myths are truer than facts.” This illustrates how Russia now treats myths as if they were facts, acting on them as such.

In Western academia, there remains a striking resistance among educators to accept that Russia cannot be the sole voice of the region, and that Ukrainian history cannot be taught using Russian or Soviet texts. This issue extends beyond Ukraine to include Eastern Europe as a whole. Why do you think this mindset persists?

There are various reasons for this, and different academics may have different factors influencing their views. Part of it relates to career interests; if someone has built their career around a specific thesis about Russia, they may respond negatively to suggestions for change. This is not a justification, but it explains why some academics, particularly those who began their work in Russia during the late 1990s or early 2000s, hold onto their views. Their understanding of Russia is shaped by that period. Additionally, many Western countries are post-imperial nations, which adds to their refusal to change their perspectives. There is a fear that if Russia undergoes decolonisation, it could trigger a similar reevaluation of their own histories, which makes them resist focusing on the narratives of colonised nations. This issue is not unique to Ukraine, which often lacks solidarity from people advocating for decolonisation. The Western-centric view of the empire also complicates the issue. Many believe that imperialism is solely about the non-contiguous expansion of Western powers, such as the British Empire. The West lacks engagement with other empires, like the Ottoman Empire, particularly in the Balkans. There is resistance to recognising Russia as an empire, even though its actions — especially in the conquest of Siberia — align with the typical narrative of imperialism, where white people subjugate non-white peoples.

The conversation around Central Eastern Europe, particularly Ukraine, is not new. Milan Kundera, the Czech writer and intellectual, addressed this in his famous essay A Kidnapped West. He calls for recognition of nations like former Czechoslovakia, Poland, and Hungary, arguing that totalitarian communism and Russian influence deprived these countries of cultural independence, leaving them stagnant and unrecognised as equals. But why do you think this process is generally not perceived as a security issue?

I can’t pretend to have a perfect answer, as I don’t fully understand it either. A significant part of the problem is a lack of knowledge, which allows people to accept simplistic, pre-existing narratives that are already in circulation. There is also a real inability in the West to avoid mirror imaging, particularly a certain ideological faith that human history ultimately bends toward justice, as Martin Luther King famously said. Many believe that all nations and peoples desire to live like us and seek explanations for why that isn’t happening. In Russia’s case, for example, we often see efforts to compare Russians and Ukrainians. Headlines about Russians fleeing the war are misleading; Ukrainians are fleeing war, while Russians are escaping the Kremlin dictatorship, repressive methods, or mobilisation. I often think about this issue, and I believe it comes from a reluctance to accept that a significant minority of Russians truly support the war, while most are mostly willing to go along with it. This reality is hard for some people in the West to acknowledge. There is a refusal to learn from what history tells us and to recognise what is happening right now. Many influential people, perhaps due to past policies or arguments they’ve made, don’t want to admit, “Hey, I got it wrong,” which I believe is a strength. This tendency pushes decision-makers or policymakers, who may not have the time to deeply engage with these topics, to draw conclusions that match their desires — that this issue is caused by one person and that once he is gone, everything will return to normal. They think that while Ukraine might need reparations, everything will ultimately be fine. This level of complacency terrifies me because it doesn’t reflect the reality we are living in, especially not the reality Ukrainians face. It can lead to a dreadful geopolitical future for Western countries.

You are assisting the process of decolonisation in Ukraine by explaining the core of the Russian Empire and its influence on neighbouring countries. In one of your interviews, you mentioned feeling a sense of guilt due to your time living and working in Russia. Can you explain the origin of your desire to go to Russia and the feeling of guilt that you have now?

I first went to Ukraine in 2012, and I knew that Ukraine would be a very central part of my PhD in 2017. When I started, I also began to study Ukrainian, as I understood that if I was going to write extensively about Russian narratives regarding Ukraine, I needed to at least be able to read and listen to Ukrainian sources and understand what your historians write about your history. I think I’ve always had a long-standing fondness for Ukraine. The decisive reason I left Russia was because of the Russian aggression towards Ukraine in 2014. Regarding my feelings of guilt, I believe that anyone who has spent their life studying Russia, yet failed to prepare their own country or influence their public regarding the deep issues within Russian society, should feel some guilt. Our job as Russian scholars is to produce knowledge, and while my insights may have been closer than some, ultimately, I failed to foresee that Russia would act as it is currently doing towards Ukraine. As someone who spends about 40% of their time in Kharkiv, I feel a responsibility for being part of the overall historical failure to adequately explain Russia. It doesn’t mean I should dwell in self-hatred, but it does impose an ethical responsibility to assess my mistakes, learn from them, listen, and strive to do a better job.

It’s refreshing to hear this perspective because, when you look at major outlets like The New York Times or The Washington Post, they often take journalists from Moscow and send them to Kyiv to lead their bureaus without reflecting on their previous work in Russia. Likewise, the Western perceptions often separate Russian politics from culture, claiming that there is also “great Russian culture”. Do you believe that Russian culture is genuinely great?

I believe that some forms of its literature represent great culture. However, I find problems in describing it as something unique or mystical. I have my own tastes — though I know they may be problematic for some of my Ukrainian friends — but honestly, I still enjoy Dostoevsky. I think he offers insights into some of the issues that continue to plague Russian society today and discusses important philosophical issues. Honestly, I’m somewhat surprised it took so long for Dostoevsky to be cancelled, as he is politically problematic. However, just as people can appreciate Salvador Dalí’s art without supporting Franco, I think it’s possible to enjoy Russian culture and art. I don’t believe there has been a significant cancellation of Russian culture; at least, I’m not aware of it. No one has come to my home to take away my Dostoevsky books, which remain safe. In contrast, poetry by Taras Shevchenko (a key 19th-century Ukrainian poet and artist, the founder of modern Ukrainian literature – ed.) is at risk in the occupied territories. First, from a Western perspective, there should be less cries about “great Russian culture”, which is still available for those who wish to read it. There should be much more focus on why books are being burned in occupied territories of Ukraine and what is happening to Ukrainian museums, many of which are being looted. It’s important to understand that personal taste in culture and art is subjective. However, I think there needs to be a better sense of perspective. I don’t understand the excessive focus on Russian culture and art right now, as it does not adequately address what is truly relevant. From the West, I understand why Ukrainians focus on it; it’s not a critique against them. Yet, there is a tendency to prioritise and portray Russia as a victim rather than a perpetrator.

It’s interesting to note that Russia itself does not view culture as something confined to museums or books. While suppressing nations, including Ukraine, they targeted language and executed intellectuals and writers while simultaneously destroying villages that represented everyday culture. The full-scale invasion has brought even more devastation, with numerous museums destroyed and looted. How do Russians justify this appropriation of stolen cultural heritage to themselves?

It’s not really a topic that comes up, which makes it easy for people to avoid dealing with it. For example, if we look at Britain, there are numerous cases, particularly with the British Museum, which is infamous for mass cultural appropriation and has sparked considerable debate. Yet, there is no such discussion in Russia. The underlying belief in Russia is that anything Ukrainian is basically Russian, which shows the basis for the genocidal nature of Russia’s war and its treatment of Ukraine throughout history. This adds another layer to the issue. During the early phases of the full-scale invasion, there was a significant amount of looting, accompanied by a mentality of “to the victor go the spoils”. It means that when you invade or conquer a land, you take everything and send it back home via the Russian post. They don’t really justify the appropriation of cultural heritage because it simply isn’t discussed. I’m not sure there would be a significant problem with it anyway.

But that’s a significant difference between the Russian Empire and countries that are no longer empires. For instance, when you go to the British Museum, you can see artefacts from Egypt or Myanmar, and they clearly indicate that these belong to those countries. However, in Russia, the narrative is different; they assert that all of these artefacts are Russian without providing an explanation of their origins. Malevych’s case is particularly notable because, until last year, the main museum in Amsterdam classified him as a Russian artist. Why do you think it’s so difficult for cultural institutions to move away from Russian narratives in culture?

I can’t pretend to have a great answer, as I also don’t fully understand it, especially in the case of Malevych (an early 20th-century Ukrainian artist and the founder of Suprematism – ed.), who is my favourite artist. Some of his work clearly engages with the Ukrainian national question. For example, The Running Man obviously reflects on the Holodomor. It seems to me that the difficulty in reclassifying these artists is partly due to the conservatism of many cultural institutions. The people at the top — those who run these organisations — tend to be conservative, even if they appear liberal in certain areas. I feel deeply for Ukrainians, who often have to go around trying to educate people in the West who are unwilling to listen. In my view, if the West has made catastrophic mistakes by refusing to understand the voices of countries that have experienced Russian occupation, then the least we can do is educate ourselves and address the gaps in our knowledge. It shouldn’t be the responsibility of Ukrainians, especially while they are fighting off the Russian army and trying to survive, to educate us all the time. Unfortunately, I don’t see a solution beyond the support from Western allies because there is strong resistance to addressing these knowledge gaps.

I think that, in general, there are many people in the West and partner countries who are helping with this. However, it is still primarily a Ukrainian-led initiative. Do you think this approach to preserving cultural heritage is related to the memory politics in the West?

Yes, I think so. I believe it relates more to historical narratives than to memory politics in some ways, particularly with certain widespread narratives that resist change. Russia operates within this framework. For instance, during the Secretary of Defense Ben Wallace’s visit to Moscow just ahead of the full-scale invasion, they prepared an entire exhibition about the Arctic convoys. These convoys set off from the UK during World War II to bring supplies to Murmansk and have been a significant focus of Russian propaganda over the years. In the UK, this narrative promotes the idea of two powers fighting together against a common enemy, tapping into Britain’s emotionally powerful memory of World War II. It functions as a form of soft power, but it could also be viewed as an influence operation, depending on your perspective. Right now, it feels more like an influence operation.

Your work involves extensive research on memory politics. Could you elaborate on what this entails and describe the differences between a democratic approach to memory and that of autocratic states?

In some ways, I’m not sure the difference lies solely between democracy and autocracy. Many of the tactics employed by Russia can also be seen in democratic countries. However, the key difference is that democratic societies allow for debate and have a robust community of historical scholars who provide context — something that is lacking in Russia. Over the years, historians in Russia have been purged, self-censored, or specially selected to promote politicised narratives. The main issue we need to watch for in democracies is the idea that promoting certain narratives is the same as patriotism or true national identity. This is misleading because people can have very different views of history. Another important difference is between studying history to make an objective, though possibly flawed, assessment of the past and using cultural memory for political gain. It’s impossible to avoid the politicisation of history, but we can be more aware of it and recognise that it functions almost like a grammar or a second language that obscures the actual discussion. For example, when we talk about the “great Russian culture”, we must ask what relevance this has to the current situation. Does it imply that we should stop supporting Ukraine against Russia simply because of its cultural contributions? The memory politics often wraps political discussions in a historical context, but this can be misleading. True historical context relies on facts and patterns at the time when memory politics uses emotional narratives that lack accuracy to make some claims about the present. Essentially, it adopts the legitimacy of academic discourse but uses it for political purposes. It is propaganda.