Ghosts of 1939
February 13, 2026, Munich Security Conference. Zelenskyy stands at the podium and utters a phrase that will make headlines within an hour: the illusion that peace could be bought by sacrificing Czechoslovakia led to a world war; dividing Ukraine would mean repeating this mistake.
That same day, at the same conference, European diplomats are discussing a different Munich behind the scenes: not the one of 1938, but the one that just made the rounds in the American media following the leak of Trump's 28-point "peace plan" for November 2025 (according to Foreign Policy and several European publications). Foreign Policy called the plan a "shameful attempt to repeat the Munich Agreement." Reason called it a "new Munich," and Trump himself "the Chamberlain of the 21st century."
In Moscow during these same weeks, Lavrov reiterated on the Foreign Ministry's website that the goal of "denazification" is to ban neo-Nazi movements and purge those who preserve the "theory and practice" of Nazism. At a briefing, Zakharova described the Baltics as a space for the "rehabilitation of Nazism." Medvedev discussed a "fascist Europe."
The same historical The segment resonates on three platforms at once, in three incompatible meanings. And this segment is narrow, but the semantic link within it is important: 1938 (Munich, the Sudetenland, Chamberlain) and 1939 (the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, the partition of Poland, the beginning of the war) – a pair in which the first step is explained through the second. When they say "Munich" today, they mean "that which inevitably leads to September 1939." All subsequent rhetoric plays on this link: they appeal to 1938, but they frighten with 1939.
This is the point where it is worth starting the conversation.
Denazification for all of Europe
Since February 2022, Russia's rhetorical framework has been built around "denazification." Four years later, the definition has yet to acquire any workable boundaries, which is apparently precisely its operational nature. When necessary, this framework encompasses the entire Ukrainian elite, individual sections of Ukrainian society, a veteran of the SS Galicia Division, applauded by the Canadian parliament in September 2023 (a theme to which the Russian side has been ritually returning for three years now), and, over the past year and a half, increasingly the Baltic states, Germany, Moldova, and the collective "West."
Zakharova and Medvedev methodically expanded the boundaries of the term throughout 2025–2026. Latvia and Estonia, which dismantle Soviet memorials, are portrayed as regimes rehabilitating Nazism; Germany, which supplies Ukraine with long-range weapons, as a country forgetting its own lessons; Moldova under Maia Sandu as a "second Kyiv"; and European elites as a whole as accomplices.
The logic of expansion is simple and self-perpetuating: any support for Ukraine automatically becomes support for Nazism, and therefore deserves the same classification.
Domestically, this works well. The older generation understands the language of 1941–1945 without explanation, the mobilization potential of this vocabulary is enormous, and invoking it on May 9, in State Duma speeches, and at Foreign Ministry briefings produces a consistent domestic impact. The Kremlin has a rational calculation here: the existing tool works, there's nothing to replace it with, and there's no reason to do so.
Things are worse with external audiences. When Zelenskyy, Sandu, the Latvian Minister of Culture, the German Chancellor, and the Brussels Commissioner are all labeled "Nazis," the term loses its distinctive power even for those willing to accept it. It ceases to be an accusation and begins merely to mark the front lines.
New Munich in both directions
The Western pole is symmetrical. By early 2026, comparing Putin to Hitler, and the current moment to the autumn of 1938, has become routine in European capital rhetoric. Chancellor Merz consistently repeats the formula "just as the Sudetenland of 1938 was not enough, Ukraine will not be enough either." Kaja Kallas, in Brussels and Munich, repeatedly returns to "appeasement" as a diagnosis of any approach that allows for territorial compromise. Tusk uses Munich as a universal argument against negotiations without Warsaw and Kyiv.
The acute phase began in November 2025. Following the leak of Trump's 28-point "peace plan," which, according to Foreign Policy and Reuters, envisioned significant territorial concessions and the de facto blocking of Ukraine's path to NATO, the "new Munich" formula was widely circulated in Foreign Policy, Reason, AEI, and a dozen European publications within two weeks. Trump was called the Chamberlain of the 21st century, and the negotiating process a "shameful attempt to repeat 1938."
28-point plan. Two weeks. One Chamberlain.
And here's a simple inversion. Moscow talks about a "new Munich," referring to the West's appeasement of the "Nazis in Kyiv." The West talks about a "new Munich," referring to Trump's appeasement of Putin. Kyiv talks about a "new Munich," referring to any negotiations over its own head. The same image—Chamberlain with an umbrella at the airport—is attached to three different figures in the same month.
At this point, analogy ceases to be analogy. It becomes a sign of belonging.
Right to a dictionary
A caveat is needed here, without which the entire previous passage would slide into cheap symmetry.
The all-too-easy assertion that "all sides are equally abusing history" is itself a political gesture. The German chancellor, who invokes the Sudetenland, and the Russian UN ambassador, who invokes Munich, have not only different positions but also different historical rights to a vocabulary. Germany paid for this vocabulary: with defeat, partition, decades of denazification in its original, non-metaphorical sense, and a post-war pedagogy of shame. When Merz says "Sudetenland," he speaks from within the country that gained and lost the Sudetenland, and for this learned knowledge, he has a voice.
Russia inherited this vocabulary as anything but a victor, without undergoing a comparable internal process of postwar self-reflection. The price paid by the Soviet Union in 1941–1945—27 million dead—gives the memory of the war a status to which Moscow has as much right as any other capital; the question is not the price, but what was done with it afterwards. Germany transformed its experience into a system of institutional self-criticism; the USSR and post-Soviet Russia—into an instrument of diplomatic and rhetorical attribution, a license to dispense labels. This is not a belittling of the victim. It is a recognition that sacrifice and the work of understanding it are two different things.
The symmetry we're describing here is a rhetorical symmetry, not a historical one. Failure to notice it is blindness. But failure to discern the underlying meaning is a different kind of blindness, and a more convenient one: it allows the speaker to equate themselves with their interlocutor where such equating is unjustified. When European publicists forget this, they lose part of their argumentative power. When Russian publicists forget this, they lose the opportunity to be heard beyond their own circles.
When the third party refuses to play
If the asymmetry of dictionary rights is an issue the parties to the conflict cannot resolve because any decision would mean a concession, then sometimes a fourth party decides for them. The most telling episode of the last year and a half is neither Russian nor Western.
In January 2026, it was announced that Yad Vashem had denied Zelenskyy permission to speak. Yad Vashem Director Dani Dayan explained this in an interview: he understood the intended purpose of the speech and did not want to provide it with a venue.
"Not every war crime is genocide, and not every genocide is the Holocaust."
In Ukraine, Dayan added, there were not only victims of the Holocaust, but also accomplices, and in some cases, the main perpetrators
This is a rare instance where the person in the conversation, who holds perhaps the greatest moral authority, refuses to play the proposed game. Dayan doesn't object to Zelenskyy politically: he refuses the currency in which the bargaining is conducted.
Meanwhile, damage to Jewish memorials in the war zone continues, including, according to Ukrainian claims, strikes near Babi Yar, where more than 33,000 people were killed in two days in 1941. After each such incident, the Russian side accuses Kyiv of desecrating the memory, while the Ukrainian side accuses Moscow of Nazi barbarity. Yad Vashem remains silent in this exchange of accusations. This silence is more meaningful than either statement.
The last time a similar story reached the point of open scandal, in May 2022, after Lavrov's remarks about "Hitler's Jewish blood," Putin was forced to personally apologize to Israeli Prime Minister Bennett. By 2025–2026, the apology regime had practically ceased: the Kremlin no longer smooths over historical comparisons, and Jerusalem no longer expects smoothing over. Both sides had developed a habit.
Why 1939?
Yad Vashem's gesture brings us back to a more general question. If a third party can abandon the dictionary, why can't the first and second? Why, despite the obvious wear and tear of the analogy, do people continue to return to it?
The answer seems to be that there is nothing to replace it with.
Europe and Russia share few historical coordinates. The Cold War as a language is compromised by the disintegration of its results: one side considers itself the loser, the other a partial winner, and they lack a common narrative. The post-bipolar "liberal order" as a language is compromised by its own inadequacy: even those who spent twenty years building it are unable to appeal to it seriously today. The period between 1991 and 2014 produced not a single figure fit for a common vocabulary.
There remains 1939, the last point around which all three sides can still agree on who is evil. It is the foundation of Russian memory (as the war and the Victory), European memory (as a lesson in appeasement and a commitment to "never again"), American memory (as a moment of moral leadership), and Ukrainian memory (as a complex, but ultimately reworked, narrative of victimhood and resistance).
It is the last common currency, and that is why it is used to pay for everything.
The problem is that the currency devalues from overuse. When Putin, Zelensky, Trump, and von der Leyen (the latter, for now, in the comments, but increasingly so) are all called "Hitler," the name ceases to denote a specific historical evil and becomes synonymous with "enemy." When "Munich" refers to any deal the speaker dislikes, "Munich" ceases to mean anything. When "Nazism" is applied to a veterans' march in Riga, a Ukrainian battalion, German supplies, and the Hungarian government, the concept disappears as an analytical tool.
All that's left is the label. The label doesn't explain; it only tells you who to throw it at.
A symptom, not a disease
The 1939 analogy isn't the cause of the degradation of political discourse, but rather its indicator. The real problem is that Europe, Russia, the US, and Ukraine lack a common language to describe what is happening between them now. There is no agreed-upon vocabulary for hybrid warfare, for a partially frozen conflict, for the disintegration of the post-bipolar order, for the energy, migration, and informational entanglements of the 2020s. All the words that could describe this either belong to one side (and are therefore unacceptable to the other) or don't exist.
In this void, 1939 emerges as the only universal translator. Everyone uses it, not because it's accurate, but because there are no others. Each subsequent use makes it slightly less accurate, and thus makes the next use slightly more likely, because there are fewer and fewer other options.
There are two ways out of this situation, both difficult. The first is to develop a new vocabulary for the current situation, which requires intellectual work for which the warring parties have neither the time nor the trust. The second is to accept the absence of a common language and learn to conduct business without it, through technical, concrete, private agreements that make no claim to historically qualify the events.
For now, the third path has been chosen: to continue using 1939, even though it's becoming increasingly dysfunctional. This is perhaps the most honest description of the European political moment in the spring of 2026: all participants see that the tool is becoming dull, and they continue to use it because there's nothing to replace it with, and silence is more frightening than repeating it.
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