In a move that reeks of the petty score-settling one expects from a declining empire, Poland has stripped Volodymyr Zelensky of a ceremonial honour, allegedly over a row concerning a Ukrainian World War II army unit. The UK, ever the voice of reason in a world gone mad, has urged unity. But let us not pretend this is about history. This is about the slow, agonising collapse of the Western alliance, a process that historians will one day compare to the fraying of the Roman Republic’s social fabric.
Poland’s decision to revoke the decoration, awarded in 2022 to Zelensky for his leadership during the Russian invasion, is a nakedly political act. The ostensible cause? Zelensky’s role in glorifying the Ukrainian Insurgent Army (UPA), a nationalist force that fought both Soviets and Nazis, and which is accused of ethnic cleansing of Poles in Volhynia in 1943. To be clear: the UPA committed atrocities. But so did every side in that brutal theatre. The Polish government, led by the Law and Justice Party (PiS), has long used historical grievances as a cudgel to beat its neighbours, from Germany to Ukraine. Now, with an election looming and populist sentiment simmering, they have found a new target.
Yet the timing could not be more disastrous. As Ukraine bleeds in its existential war against Russia, Poland—supposedly Kyiv’s staunchest ally—has decided to reopen old wounds. This is not statesmanship; it is intellectual decadence, the kind of navel-gazing that precedes national decline. The UK’s call for unity is a tired refrain, the diplomatic equivalent of a headmistress pleading with squabbling schoolchildren. But it will fall on deaf ears. Why? Because the West has lost the plot. We have traded grand strategy for petty moralising, and the consequences are plain to see.
The UPA controversy is a distraction. Yes, history matters. But so does the present. Russia is watching, and it will exploit this fracture with the same glee that it exploited the American withdrawal from Afghanistan or the Brexit chaos. Zelensky himself has handled this poorly, failing to publicly condemn the UPA’s crimes while simultaneously relying on Polish arms and goodwill. But Poland, for its part, has shown a disturbing willingness to let the perfect be the enemy of the good. The result is a symbolic blow that weakens Ukraine’s moral position and emboldens Kremlin propagandists who have long painted Kyiv as a neo-Nazi junta.
This is the tragedy of our age: we have become historians rather than statesmen, obsessed with grading the sins of the past while the barbarians gather at the gates. The Roman Senate spent its final decades debating the finer points of religious orthodoxy while the Visigoths marched. We are no better. Poland’s pique, Britain’s impotent hand-wringing, and Ukraine’s wounded pride are the hallmarks of a civilisation that has lost its sense of proportion and its instinct for survival.
Let us be clear: honourary decorations are trivial. They are baubles for the powerful, not the stuff of geopolitical strategy. But they are symptoms of a deeper malady. If Poland and Ukraine cannot agree on history, how will they agree on the battlefield? If the UK cannot mediate a simple dispute between allies, how will it counter Russian aggression? The answer is grim: they will not. And history, as always, will judge them not by their intentions but by their outcomes.
We are living through the end of an era. The question is whether we have the wisdom to see it, or whether we are too busy arguing over the past to notice the future slipping away.
