Strange as it may seem, in the third year of the war we do not have even an approximate idea of victory, which would be shared by the majority of our fellow citizens. Or rather, we have some kind of a general notion: “the borders of 1991”, or, better still, “the ruins of the Kremlin.” These ideas, however, are dreams rather than rational plans. We are aware of this — and we ourselves suffer from it. Normal human consciousness resists injustice.
The problem is that we have no other image of victory other than the one we have envisioned. To the accompaniment of propaganda slogans that fit well with our own post-Soviet cultural history, where “victory” is the ruins of the Reichstag, on which warrior-heroes write their names.
When we apply this Soviet victory myth to our war, anguish enters the scene. We understand that there will be no ruins of the Kremlin. That access to any borders — unless these borders are delineated by the surf of the Pacific and Arctic oceans — will not automatically mean the onset of peace. This discrepancy between the picture of “real victory” and visible possibilities causes moral nausea in most of us, which we just want to plug with some kind of a “psyop.”
The lack of clear goals — in strict accordance with project management textbooks — causes the team to lose motivation, and the project as a whole runs the danger of ending in failure. “Reaching the borders”, “barbecue in Crimea” and especially “ruins of the Kremlin” do not work, because these are slogans, not goals.
The fact is that victory (like defeat) cannot described by slogans, still less so if these are “borrowed” from the Soviet cinematography about the “Great Patriotic War.” It just turned out that we do not have any other tools for processing the experience of a full-scale war. Or rather, it seems to exist: in our history there were the Ukrainian Insurgent Army and the Liberation Struggle of 1917–1921. But over the 30 years of Independence, the national liberation struggle of Ukrainians in the 20th century never became the central plot of national history, where the “Great Victory” in World War II continued to prevail, possibly because this fight ended in defeat. Brought up on the “victorious” myth, we feel pity for defeat at best, and shame and disgust at worst.
The myth that “victory goes to the worthy”, that it is “the right” that are “rewarded” with it, that loss is evidence of insignificance both physical and moral, was the basis of the Soviet religion of victory, where the “victorious people” in itself turned out to be the measure of all things. Now this myth has received a powerful second wind in the Russian Federation, and everything about it is still the same: power is in truth/truth is in power, winners are not judged, victory at any cost (including radioactive ash).
It is quite enough to understand: such a “victory” is the victory of hell. And it is not surprising that in order to preserve the “symphony” with their crazy sultan, the Patriarch of Moscow and the entire Russian Orthodox Church with him should “tidy up” the Christian doctrine to make room for “Victory” to the point of falling into heresy. All that remains is to supplement the new Russian pseudo-Orthodox doctrine with the image of Christ, who sweepingly scratches “Jesus was here” with a piece of coal on the crumpled gates of defeated hell.
The leadership of the Russian Orthodox Church has no other choice: the religion of the “Great Victory” and the Christian doctrine do not tally all too well. From the point of view of not only the Soviet victory myth, but even simply sober rationality, Christ was defeated. He did not restore the borders of the Kingdom of Judah, did not drive out the Romans, did not sit on the throne, did not disperse the corrupt high priests. He was betrayed by his own disciple — one of the chosen people closest to him. Within a matter of days, the people who had laid their clothes and palm branches at his feet became disillusioned and watched him being executed with indifference. Instead of the crown of the King of the Jews, he received a crown of thorns. He was killed like a robber, and his disciples, in fear (and, probably, disappointment) scattered in all directions, hid and renounced their faith. Christ was humiliated and destroyed. His entire biography from this point in the plot looks too bitter: from the thousand babies of Ramah, who paid with their lives for Herod’s insane desire to destroy one single newborn “competitor,” to Golgotha, on which death caught up with this last survivor. The triumph of death, the triumph of injustice. Triumph of evil.
But on Easter night, all Christian churches talk about a huge — absolute — victory. About the victory of Life over Death. Life, with all its complexity and possibilities, over death, which cancels all difficulties and possibilities.
In the earthly world, unlike the above, “absolute victory” only happens in the movies. In earthly reflection, victory is not so much the “death of all enemies” as the opportunity to preserve oneself and, accordingly, hope for the future. Where there is always a chance for justice and victory.
The war ends in peace — the most ardent propagandists increasingly lapse into discussing the terms of a future peace agreement. But the picture of the upcoming victory has not yet been painted. This is a dangerous state because the question of victory and defeat will remain in the future a space for political manipulations that will cut souls and society where it hurts the most — why did we suffer such losses?
The “conditions of peace” to be written in the Office of the President of Ukraine, in Brussels, in Washington, in Beijing and in Moscow will not provide the answer to the question of victory and defeat. The conditions of peace are a completely different matter. The exact meaning of victory and the extent of our defeat is a topic for public discussion and a political task.
Public debate is virtually paralyzed. Even before the war, we weren’t very good at doing this. And the war turned out to be a convenient reason to cancel any opinions that do not coincide with the “single impulse” that is broadcast on TV channels speaking in one voice.
Roughly the same thing happens with the political process: people who should be involved in politics — this “art of the possible” — are mainly busy saving their public approval ratings, although now is the most interesting time in Ukrainian politics for the “art of the possible.” No other task is more interesting for a real politician than to snatch victory from the clutches of defeat, to win the war not on the battlefield, but on the carpets of quiet offices.
The main question about victory that we can and should ask ourselves is: what will we come out of this war with? What and who will we be left with? What will we become after the war? Whether we win or lose is not about square kilometers or the shape of borders. It's about being able to project yourself into the future. What and how much will we save in order to be, to live, to succeed? To remain a community — a people, a nation, a state? To remain human? This will be the measure of our victory and the measure of our defeat.
Victory remains our unrealized possibility, not least because we do not have a model of it, an image of what should be realized. Easter — the day when we celebrate victory in its most perfect, absolute form — is a good time to think about what “victory” is. About its paths, conditions, visible manifestations and invisible possibilities. About the obligations it imposes on the winners. About the share of defeat that victory inevitably contains. About the price.
The news of Christ's victory was brought by women. They came to clean up the grave — the eternal work of wives, mothers and girlfriends. This work does not change from era to era and does not depend on how the war ends — victory or defeat.
The news of the victory fell into the hands of the myrrh-bearing women when they least expected to receive it.