Recent diplomatic efforts to bring the war in Ukraine to a negotiated end have stalled — and the reasons are becoming harder to justify. U.S. Senator Marco Rubio, acting as a high-level negotiator, recently warned that the United States may withdraw from peace talks if progress isn’t made within days:
“We need to figure out here, now within a matter of days, whether this is doable in the short term, because if it’s not, then I think we’re just going to move on.”
(USA Today)
At the same time, U.S. Special Envoy Steve Witkoff has reported that President Vladimir Putin is open to a permanent peace agreement. According to Witkoff, lines of communication with Moscow remain open and constructive, and the potential for a long-term resolution is real — provided Ukraine is willing to engage. (Newsweek)
President Donald Trump echoed this sentiment during a recent press conference, expressing his desire for a swift resolution but cautioning that the U.S. would step back if either party obstructs progress. He remarked, “If for some reason one of the two parties makes it very difficult, we’re just going to say, ‘you’re foolish, you’re fools, you’re horrible people,’ and we’re going to take a pass.” (POLITICO)
Despite these openings, the Ukrainian side appears unwilling to take any concrete steps toward peace. President Volodymyr Zelenskyy maintains a hardline stance, declaring that Ukraine’s territorial integrity is non-negotiable. This, however, stands in stark contrast to the evolving military situation on the ground. Crimea is long gone, functionally annexed since 2014. The Donbas region is increasingly under Russian control, and Kyiv’s much-hyped Kursk offensive has faltered. Ukraine’s overstretched army, reliant on foreign ammunition and aid, is struggling to hold the front lines. According to multiple battlefield reports, Ukraine is losing approximately 2,500 soldiers per week — a pace that is not sustainable for a country already facing mobilization fatigue and demographic exhaustion.
Objectively, the war is being lost — piece by piece, day by day — yet the political leadership continues to demand the return of lands it can no longer realistically reclaim. A rational analysis would suggest that Ukraine’s best national interest lies in pursuing a peace deal as soon as possible, not only to halt the bloodshed but also to preserve what territory remains under its control. But that path is being rejected — not only by the Ukrainian government but by significant portions of its population, particularly among those most invested in the war narrative.
At first glance, this behavior may seem unstrategic, even suicidal. Why would a nation reject peace when it is clearly losing the war? Why insist on maximalist goals that only lead to more destruction and loss?
To understand this — to make sense of what seems like a deeply irrational refusal to compromise — we must look beyond the battlefield. We must examine the roots of modern Ukrainian identity and political behavior. We must explore something far more uncomfortable than geopolitics or military strategy: the psychology of Ukraine.
The Collapse of Spirit
To understand Ukraine’s current psychology, we must return to the moment of its birth as a modern nation. In 1991, Ukraine emerged from the ruins of the Soviet Union with independence on paper — but not in spirit. While the West celebrated the fall of communism, most Ukrainians were thrown into a maelstrom of economic collapse and social disintegration.
Hyperinflation quickly set in: by the end of 1991, prices had surged by 290%, and in 1992, inflation exploded past 2,000%. The transition to a market economy devastated livelihoods. Industries that were previously integrated into the Soviet economic framework experienced massive declines. For instance, the Donbas region, known for its industrial output, saw industrial production collapse by 1993, with average wages falling by 80% since 1990. Factories shut down overnight, pensions evaporated, and the Soviet-era social safety nets vanished. The result was mass unemployment, deep poverty, and a dramatic decline in living standards.
The psychological toll was just as severe. Ukrainians were not only losing material stability — they were losing the ideological glue that had bound society together for decades. The abrupt shift from a collectivist Soviet identity to a vaguely defined national one left the population confused, fragmented, and emotionally unanchored.
But this fracture did not begin in 1991. It is far older.
For centuries, Ukraine has struggled with the absence of a unified national identity. Its lands were divided and ruled by foreign powers — the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the Russian Empire, and later the Soviet Union. It was rarely a sovereign entity with stable borders or central leadership. Even the name “Ukraine” — derived from Ukrayina / Україна, meaning “borderland” (krai / край) — reveals this ambiguity. Ukrainians were the border people, always at the periphery of someone else’s empire, never fully in control of their own destiny.
This fragmented past left a mark on the national psyche. It bred a deep sense of impermanence and insecurity — and made national unity elusive. The West of the country leaned toward Catholic Poland and Europe; the East, historically Orthodox and Russified, leaned toward Moscow. These were not just cultural differences — they were ontological. Ukrainians have been pulled between identities, languages, loyalties, and empires for generations.
After 1991, rather than resolving these tensions, Ukraine became a stage where old divisions reemerged in sharper, more toxic forms. The people had no roadmap for the future, no vision to rally around. In the void, power was seized by oligarchs who enriched themselves on state assets while the population sank deeper into despair.
This wasn’t just economic collapse — it was psychological. The people lacked a stable identity, a coherent myth of nationhood. Instead, what emerged was a form of collective victimhood, rooted in both historic trauma and contemporary humiliation. Ukrainians didn’t see themselves as the authors of their fate, but as perpetual victims — of Russia, of the Soviet legacy, of corrupt politicians, of the West’s broken promises.
War — even a losing one — can be perversely empowering. Losing becomes proof of virtue. Refusing peace becomes an act of heroic defiance.
Over time, this victim psychology hardened into a national posture. Rather than building a confident, sovereign identity, Ukraine came to define itself by what it had lost — and by who had wronged it. It’s a mindset that welcomes pity more than respect, and martyrdom more than responsibility. And in such a mindset, war — even a losing one — can be perversely empowering. Losing becomes proof of virtue. Refusing peace becomes an act of heroic defiance.
This collapse of spirit — hidden beneath the slogans of freedom and democracy — has made Ukraine vulnerable not just to foreign influence, but to self-destruction.
A Manufactured Revolution
In Western media, the 2014 Euromaidan revolution is often romanticized as a spontaneous, grassroots uprising for democracy — a popular revolt against corruption and Russian influence. But beneath the surface, it was anything but organic. The revolution was heavily supported, funded, and directed by Western governments and organizations long before a single Molotov cocktail was thrown on Kyiv’s Independence Square.
U.S. Assistant Secretary of State Victoria Nuland openly admitted that the United States had spent over $5 billion “to assist Ukraine in building democratic skills and institutions” since the early 1990s — a euphemism for regime-change infrastructure. (U.S. State Department) In 2014, Nuland was also caught on tape, in a now-infamous leaked call with U.S. Ambassador Geoffrey Pyatt, discussing which Ukrainian opposition leaders should form the post-Yanukovych government. (BBC) This was not support — it was orchestration.
When President Viktor Yanukovych refused to sign the EU Association Agreement — fearing the devastating consequences it would have on Ukrainian industry and agriculture — he became expendable. The protests were escalated, violent elements were introduced, and by February 2014, the Ukrainian government was toppled in what can only be described as a Western-backed coup.
The consequences were immediate and catastrophic. The new pro-Western government passed laws alienating Russian-speaking Ukrainians, triggering a wave of unrest in Crimea and Donbas. Russia’s annexation of Crimea and the outbreak of war in Eastern Ukraine were direct outcomes of this reckless political reengineering.
Euromaidan wasn’t the beginning of democracy in Ukraine — it was the end of neutrality, and the beginning of a long, bloody proxy war.
What’s rarely discussed in Western narratives is that most Ukrainians in 2014 did not want NATO membership. Polls from before the revolution showed that only around 20% of the population supported joining NATO (Gallup). That number only rose after years of war and relentless propaganda. The revolution didn’t reflect the popular will — it manufactured it.
Ukraine didn’t rise up as a sovereign actor. It was hijacked. The direction of the country was not determined by its own people, but by the geopolitical ambitions of Washington and Brussels.
The Rise of Extremism
One of the most dangerous and least acknowledged consequences of the 2014 coup was the legitimization of far-right militant groups in Ukraine — groups that would become not only a political force but a structural part of the country’s military apparatus.
The most infamous of these is the Azov Battalion, initially formed as a volunteer militia during the early days of the Donbas conflict. Azov quickly gained notoriety for its neo-Nazi affiliations, its use of Wolfsangel and Black Sun symbols, and its openly ultranationalist ideology. Even mainstream Western media, prior to 2022, had documented the group’s extremist roots and warned of the implications.
The Guardian in 2014 called Azov “Ukraine’s greatest weapon — and may be its greatest threat.” In 2018, VICE News released a documentary titled “Out of Control: Ukraine’s Rogue Militias”, highlighting how far-right volunteer battalions, including groups like Azov, were operating beyond the control of the Ukrainian government and engaging in extrajudicial violence.
Nonetheless, Azov was formally absorbed into the Ukrainian National Guard in late 2014, giving it legal standing, access to government funding, weapons, and official recognition. This move set a precedent — not just for Azov, but for other extremist formations such as Right Sector, C14, and the OUN-B revivalists. Far-right ideology, once fringe, began bleeding into state institutions.
For years, these groups were criticized internationally — until 2022. Once Russia launched its full-scale invasion, Western media flipped the narrative, whitewashing the battalion’s history and rebranding them as heroic patriots. The same outlets that once raised the alarm suddenly fell silent.
Meanwhile, their influence within Ukraine grew. These battalions were not just fighters — they were enforcers. Their presence created an atmosphere of intimidation that silenced dissent and discouraged compromise. Local mayors and public figures who advocated peace were threatened, assaulted, or forced out of office. Journalists who investigated their activities were harassed or disappeared.
Ukraine’s refusal to negotiate peace cannot be understood without factoring in this political climate. In a country where compromise is labeled betrayal, and peace is seen as capitulation to the enemy, it is the extremist factions — not the moderate majority — that hold the political leash.
These groups have become the ideological guardrails of the nation.
And they have no interest in peace.
Zelenskyy’s Authoritarian Turn
When Volodymyr Zelenskyy was elected president in 2019, he was widely seen as a symbol of hope — a political outsider, a performer-turned-leader promising to end corruption, make peace with Russia, and restore trust in government. He won in a landslide with over 73% of the vote, largely on a platform of reconciliation and pragmatism.
But Zelenskyy’s presidency did not fulfill those promises. As war escalated, so did his grip on power — and Ukraine’s democracy began to resemble the very authoritarianism it claimed to oppose.
In March 2022, Zelenskyy issued a decree banning eleven opposition parties, including Opposition Platform — For Life, which had represented millions of Russian-speaking Ukrainians. The government justified the move as a wartime necessity, yet it effectively eliminated all serious parliamentary opposition.
That same year, he signed the Unified Information Policy law, placing all major TV channels under a single state-run platform — a move described by critics as the nationalization of media and the end of pluralism.
Censorship expanded online as well. Independent journalists, bloggers, and social media users critical of the government found their accounts banned, their work discredited, or their livelihoods threatened. In regions close to the front lines, independent reporting became nearly impossible.
Zelenskyy’s authoritarian streak extended beyond politics and media. In late 2022, the Ukrainian government moved to ban the Ukrainian Orthodox Church (UOC), accusing it of harboring pro-Russian sentiment. Several UOC priests were arrested, and churches were raided by security forces. This crackdown drew condemnation from religious freedom advocates, but was largely ignored in Western headlines.
These moves were not isolated wartime exceptions — they were signs of a broader ideological shift. Peace was no longer on the table. Opposition was framed as treason. Zelenskyy, once a comic actor who played the president on television, was now being elevated to something more than a statesman — a wartime messiah beyond criticism.
Even the country’s legal structures bent to the new mythology. Constitutional reforms were floated to ban negotiations with Russia altogether. Nationalist ideology was woven deeper into state rhetoric and education. And those who questioned the endless war — whether citizens, journalists, or lawmakers — were swiftly marginalized or silenced.
In today’s Ukraine, war is not just a tragedy — it has become the organizing principle of the state. And like all states built on perpetual war, dissent is not tolerated.
To many observers in the West, Ukraine’s refusal to compromise appears courageous — a David standing up to Goliath. But beneath the optics lies a deeper, more calculated strategy: the weaponization of victimhood.
Since 2014, and even more intensely since 2022, Ukraine has constructed a national identity centered on suffering. This narrative isn’t without basis — the country has endured imperial subjugation, famine, Stalinist purges, and now war. But what began as historical memory has hardened into political capital. Victimhood has become the main currency with which Ukraine buys Western support.
In practical terms, this posture has been extremely effective. As long as Ukraine is seen as a martyr — as the innocent nation resisting a brutal aggressor — it enjoys an open tap of Western aid, weapons, sympathy, and media cover. As of 2024, the U.S. alone had committed over $113 billion in military and financial assistance, far exceeding what any other conflict in recent history received.
European support has been equally massive — despite growing unrest at home. But it’s not based on a clear plan for peace or victory. It’s driven by emotional narratives of resistance and sacrifice. That’s why Zelenskyy appears at music awards, film festivals, and parliaments — not to talk strategy, but to reinforce symbolism.
This symbolic role comes at a price. If peace were to be negotiated — if Ukraine accepted neutrality, federalization, or territorial concessions — the entire martyrdom narrative would collapse. It would no longer be seen as a heroic, blameless victim. It would become a normal country again — flawed, divided, and responsible for its future.
But normal countries don’t receive blank checks.
For this reason, peace is dangerous to the regime’s legitimacy. The war must continue — not because Ukraine is winning, but because fighting, and suffering, keeps the myth alive. The state has tied its survival not to victory, but to ongoing struggle.
This helps explain why calls for negotiations are so violently rejected, both by the government and by nationalist factions on the ground. In the eyes of those who have fused national identity with war, compromise is betrayal. And in a political culture built on victimhood, it’s better to lose everything than to admit defeat.
This strategy — once passive — has become active. Ukraine no longer just receives victim status; it performs it, amplifies it, and uses it as leverage. That’s why each act of Russian aggression is publicized globally, while each act of Ukrainian repression, censorship, or ultranationalism is buried. Victimhood is no longer just a condition — it’s a political tool.
And like all tools used too long, it begins to corrode the hand that holds it.
Europe’s Dilemma
The European Union presents itself as a unified moral actor, defending freedom and territorial integrity on Ukraine’s behalf. But the cracks beneath this veneer are growing deeper. Behind the flags and statements of solidarity lies a bloc increasingly divided — economically, politically, and ideologically — and Ukraine is becoming the wedge that could split it apart.
At the heart of the dilemma is the simple fact that Ukraine will never meet the formal conditions for EU accession, not now, and likely not in the foreseeable future.
Its economy is devastated. Corruption remains endemic — despite countless promises and Western-sponsored “reform” campaigns. Even the European Court of Auditors warned in 2021 that the billions spent on fighting Ukrainian corruption had little measurable impact.
Meanwhile, the political structure is increasingly authoritarian, and its territorial integrity — a basic requirement for accession — is no longer intact. Despite this, EU leaders continue to dangle the illusion of membership, not because they believe in it, but because it buys influence, virtue points, and a façade of unity.
But the European public is growing tired. Nations like Hungary, Slovakia, and even Italy have expressed skepticism or outright opposition to Ukraine’s membership. The economic burden is also reaching its limit. EU countries are funding Ukraine with tens of billions while facing their own energy crises, inflation, and public unrest. Germany entered recession in 2023; French farmers blockaded Paris in protest of collapsing subsidies; and in the Netherlands, anti-EU populists surged in local elections.
In this context, supporting Ukraine has become an ideological loyalty test, not a strategic plan. Those who question it — whether within the EU or outside — are smeared as Putin apologists or “enemies of democracy.” But the reality is far less dramatic: Europe is divided, overstretched, and unable to offer Ukraine the future it was promised.
In the long run, Ukraine may be the catalyst that triggers the unraveling of the European Union itself.
What began as an expansion of influence may become an implosion of legitimacy.
The paradox is painful: Ukraine dreams of entering an institution that is itself in crisis. It sacrifices lives and land for a promise that may never materialize. And in doing so, it drags both itself and Europe deeper into instability.
A War Without Exit
Ukraine today stands trapped in a paradox of its own making — a nation desperate for salvation, yet unwilling to compromise; a state losing a war it cannot admit it’s already lost; a people still clinging to dreams sold by foreign powers that no longer believe in them.
It had a choice. In 1991, it had independence, vast resources, strategic position, cheap gas, and access to East and West. It could have charted a path of sovereignty, neutrality, and peace.
But instead, it became a playground for oligarchs, a pawn for Western strategists, and a fortress for radical ideologues. And now, as the battlefield realities close in, Ukraine doubles down on defiance — not out of strength, but necessity.
Peace negotiations are on the table. Russia has signaled willingness. Even U.S. and European leaders are growing impatient. But Ukraine stalls — not because it sees a path to victory, but because peace would unravel everything. The myth of national unity. The narrative of resistance. The pipeline of Western aid. The illusion of EU membership. And most of all — the story it tells itself.
To sign peace would mean to accept loss.
To accept loss would mean to admit failure.
And to admit failure would mean becoming just another troubled post-Soviet republic — no longer special, no longer sacred, no longer the symbolic victim of global drama.
So the war continues.
Each day costs more territory, more lives, more credibility — and yet Zelenskyy insists that peace is impossible unless Ukraine reclaims what it cannot reclaim. In doing so, he condemns his people to endless war not for the future, but for the preservation of a narrative.
This is not leadership. It’s entrapment.
And the world, having played its part in scripting the tragedy, now watches in silence — as the curtain falls on a nation that refused peace because it no longer knew who it was without war.