In the fragile theatre of international diplomacy, a name can be a landmine. Volodymyr Zelensky, the actor turned wartime president, now finds himself entangled in a dispute that has little to do with Russian tanks and everything to do with the past’s long shadow. Poland has taken grave offence at Ukraine’s decision to officially recognise a World War II-era military unit – the Ukrainian Insurgent Army (UPA) – whose legacy is stained by massacres of ethnic Poles during the war. For Warsaw, this is not ancient history. It is a raw wound that refuses to heal.
On the streets of Kyiv and Warsaw, the temperature is rising. In Poland, the ruling Law and Justice party has long used the UPA’s memory as a political wedge. For ordinary Poles, the name evokes the Volhynia massacres of 1943, where tens of thousands of Polish civilians were killed by Ukrainian nationalists. The Ukrainian perspective is no less complex: the UPA fought for independence against both Nazi and Soviet forces, and for many Ukrainians, it is a symbol of resistance. To condemn the unit is to betray the memory of those who fought for a free Ukraine.
Yet Zelensky’s hands are tied. He needs Poland’s support: it is a crucial NATO ally, a conduit for Western weapons, and a vocal advocate for Ukraine’s EU membership. But he also needs the support of Ukrainian nationalists at home, many of whom hold the UPA in high regard. This is a classic trap of history: a choice between a rock and a hard place, with no good options.
What makes this particularly painful is the timing. As Ukraine fights for its very existence, the last thing it needs is a diplomatic spat with its closest ally. But the emotional weight of this row cannot be underestimated. In a war defined by its brutality and its appeals to historical grievances, symbols matter. The UPA name is not merely a bureaucratic detail; it is a litmus test for how Ukraine sees itself and how its neighbours see it.
On the ground in Lviv, I have spoken with Ukrainians who feel betrayed by Polish complaints. “Why now?” they ask. “We are bleeding for Europe’s freedom, and they hold us accountable for events 80 years ago.” Yet in Przemyśl, just across the border, Poles tell a different story: of grandparents who fled their homes, of villages wiped from the map. Both sides are trapped in their own narratives, unable to see the other’s pain.
Zelensky’s next move will be watched closely. He may try to fudge the issue, perhaps by acknowledging the unit’s controversial past without condemning it outright. But in the age of social media and 24-hour news, half-measures rarely satisfy anyone. For Poland, anything short of a clear rejection of the UPA’s crimes is an insult. For Ukrainian nationalists, any capitulation is a betrayal.
This row is a microcosm of a larger problem: how do nations with intertwined and often bloody histories build a common future? The answer, as always, is painfully slow and unsatisfying. It requires a level of empathy that is in short supply during wartime. For now, the pressure on Zelensky mounts. He must balance the demands of the present with the ghosts of the past. And in the silence between the artillery shells, the name of a dead army still echoes.
