The row between Kyiv and Warsaw over a Ukrainian nationalist unit from the Second World War is a masterclass in the art of forgetting. Downing Street, ever the eager mediator, has offered to step in. For what purpose? To soothe egos, to smooth over the cracks in the anti-Putin alliance, to pretend that history is a nuisance rather than a guide. Zelensky is under pressure, they say. Under pressure to apologise, to explain, to make right what cannot be made right.
Let us examine the object of contention: the Ukrainian Insurgent Army, the UPA, a force that fought both Nazis and Soviets, but also participated in ethnic cleansing of Poles. To the modern Ukrainian state, the UPA is a symbol of resistance; to the Poles, it is a symbol of massacre. Both narratives are true, and neither is comfortable. This is the trouble with national myths: they are built not on facts but on the selective veneration of them.
The British offer of mediation is comical. Whitehall, with its own imperial skeletons rattling in the cupboard, now fancies itself a marriage counsellor for Eastern European memory wars. Perhaps they can offer a compromise: a plaque honouring the UPA’s struggle against Soviet tyranny, with a footnote about the Volhynia slaughter. That is the British way, after all. All nuance, no clarity. All diplomacy, no justice.
But the deeper issue is the fragility of the Western alliance. If a row over wartime history can crack the solidarity against Russia, what hope is there for the European project? The ghosts of the twentieth century are not exorcised by weapons shipments or EU funding. They linger, waiting for moments of weakness. Zelensky knows this. He knows that to alienate Poland is to lose a vital logistical hub and a voice of support. He knows that to ignore the UPA’s crimes is to gift Putin a propaganda victory: “Look, the Nazis are back in Kiev.”
And yet, what is the alternative? A full apology might satisfy Warsaw but would infuriate Ukrainian nationalists, many of whom see the UPA as martyrs. A refusal to apologise might rally the base but lose the war. This is the tragedy of leadership in a divided nation: you cannot please everyone, and you cannot fight two wars at once—one against Russia, one against history.
The comparison to the decline of Rome is almost too easy. When the empire was fragmenting, it was often petty quarrels over precedence and pride that broke the alliances. The Visigoths were not the cause of the fall; they were the symptom. We see the same today: a coalition held together by the fear of Putin, but fraying at the edges over symbols and grievances. Downing Street’s mediation is a Band-Aid on a severed artery.
Perhaps the lesson is that nations cannot have clean hands and strong armies simultaneously. You cannot inspire your people with tales of past glory while atoning for past sins. You cannot be both a victim and a perpetrator, though that is the reality of almost every modern state. The British should know this better than anyone. They have their own history of occupation, empire, and denial.
So let them mediate. Let them produce a platitude-laden statement. But remember that history is not a problem to be solved. It is a wound that must be managed, a scar that aches in the cold. Zelensky will sign whatever he must to keep the weapons flowing. But the Polish insult, the UPA’s shadow, will not vanish. It will wait. And one day, when the war is over, it will return.
