Egor A. Sergeev is an Associate Professor at the Department of World Economy of the School of International Relations, as well as a Senior Research Fellow at the Institute for International Studies of MGIMO University. You may contact him by e-mail at: [email protected].
Vladislav V. Vorotnikov is Head of Department for European and American Studies at the School of International Relations, and a Leading Research Fellow at the Institute for International Studies of MGIMO University. You may contact him by e-mail at: [email protected].

 

Confronting Europe: Diverging Pasts, Discontinued Future?

Egor A. Sergeev & Vladislav V. Vorotnikov

Oh, sad, how sad I am! Thick gloom descends

Upon the distant West, the land of holy wonders:

The former luminaries fade, their light now ends,

And finest stars fall shattered from the heavens.

And yet, how glorious was the West, so grand and bright!

• Aleksey Khomyakov, The Dream (1835)

History is subjective. Its interpretation reflects the specifics of the current moment—the time and space in which the thinking observer and his or her environment find themselves, shaped by prior life and research experiences, and by their system of values. Let us recall the historical optimism of Immanuel Kant and the civilizational pessimism of Oswald Spengler, both undoubtedly determined by their respective historical contexts. Thucydides’ approach to history differs significantly from that of Tacitus, though both authors share a rationalist outlook.

Brussels’ “garden of earthly delights” rhetoric found little to no understanding around the globe, least of all in Russia | Source: Sora/Chat GPT

Similarly, any discourse about the future is shaped by the existing environment. Just as we judge history based on our own experience—multiplied by the experience of previous generations and, according to Russian philosopher and political geographer Vadim Tsymburskiy, “perinatal memory,” i.e. a vision of ethnic origin—our perception of the desired future, and the actions taken to achieve it, depend directly or indirectly on the specifics of the present.

For example, when discussing the future as a category, it is instructive to examine Soviet historiography. It was based on the presumption that an optimistic future was inevitable, grounded in the constructive potential of scientific and historical knowledge. This is understandable: ideologically, communist philosophy envisioned a paradise on Earth—an ideal, just society. At the same time, by dividing history into “before” and “after,” Soviet historiography, being ideologically partisan, attempted to assess socio-economic development comprehensively, on a global-historical scale, in terms of the formation and evolution of major socio-historical structures.

As we know, this worldview proved unsustainable, resulting in yet another rupture in Russian history—again splitting into “before” and “after.” At least, that was how it seemed at the end of the twentieth century. Francis Fukuyama’s notorious and now criticized notion of “the end of history” heralded the dawn of a new era, free from bloc confrontation. The vision of the future once again became optimistic, but equally one-dimensional. Indeed, history ended—but not for all humanity, only for Europe.

As noted, our view of the past and future is determined by the present. Then why have confronting historical universes, memory wars, and new cultural-civilizational and moral cleavages become possible in today’s Europe—both among and within countries? What is happening today that threatens a shared tomorrow due to diverging views on yesterday?

Undoubtedly, the historical process is a complex phenomenon, and debates about it have always been intense. Perhaps the most common extremes in these discussions involve the directionality (and, in some sense, finitude) of the historical process versus its eternal return—the recurring nature of historical events and phenomena (i.e. the category of time)—and the universality of history versus its regional (cultural) particularity (i.e. the category of space). In any case, perceptions of historical development traditionally fit within this coordinate system. Therefore, to define the future, we must first draw a picture of the present. Understanding how the past is perceived today can help with this. It seems that the current situation in Europe is characterized by crises along both axes of historical coordinates. We are witnessing a crisis of Europe as a space, as well as a crisis of Europe as time.

These crises are complex in nature. Their defining feature is the emergence of deep ruptures in space (between parts and the whole) and time (between past and present). The crisis of Europe as space is exemplified by a serious decline in the region’s influence in international affairs, growing competition, difficulties in shaping identity, and challenges in formulating coherent value orientations. Concurrently, the crisis of Europe as time is linked not only to the continent’s loss of key drivers of development, profound ethno-demographic transformations, and the disruption of the value and social foundations of European societies and their traditional lifestyles, but also to a highly uncertain situation in terms of making sense of what is happening. In practice, we witness intense debates about what constitutes Europe—spatially and temporally—as well as attempts to discern who is thinking and living in categories of the past. Discussions revolve around which version of Europe’s past is correct, morally justified, fair, real or imaginary, and so on.

In this context, two fundamental questions arise—questions that have surfaced at every stage in the development of historical thought, and in every part of the world. First: Is history a universal, worldwide process, or is it fragmented into distinct cultural histories (at least along East-West lines)? Second: Does history possess directionality, and does it hold any meaning? Answering these questions within our regional context essentially determines, in the words of Soviet orientalist Nikolai Konrad, whether Europe is a historical or a geographical category.

Contemporary Europe finds itself divided once again. This has occurred not only due to differing approaches to free-market values and human rights, nor because some states seek economic competitiveness and security at others’ expense, but also due to contrasting responses to fundamental questions about global order. Indeed, when analyzing official discourses on opposite sides of contemporary Europe’s dividing line—primarily Russia and the EU—markedly distinct, often diametrically opposed conceptions of Europe in both spatial and temporal dimensions become evident.

Let us begin with space. Since the Helsinki Accords, the political understanding of Europe as a region “from Lisbon to Vladivostok” has been crucial for the USSR and later for Russia. The Russian official position has favored an expansive interpretation of space, not limiting Europe to its historically familiar but mentally constructed geography. This approach was largely shaped by the development of Russian philosophical thought, where defining the relationship between the categories “Russia” and “Europe” was far less significant than in Western European discourses. The most notable and symbolic work in Russia is Nikolay Danilevsky’s Russia and Europe (1869), a reaction to Europeans’ refusal to recognize Russia as part of Europe despite Russians’ fundamentally European identity. Yes, Russia has historically seen a divide between “Westernizers” and “Slavophiles,” but as Russian philosopher Nikolai Berdyaev noted, this division primarily concerned Russia’s own development rather than pan-European issues. The twentieth century introduced the aforementioned adjustments: after the 1917 October Revolution, history came to be seen as a global-historical phenomenon moving toward communism. Modern Russia favors a civilizational approach. Officially, in the Concept of the Foreign Policy of the Russian Federation, Russia is proclaimed as “a unique country-civilization,” which signifies not merely (or even primarily) its self-contained identity, but rather its openness alongside distinctiveness. In this sense, Russia does not reject but rather incorporates the best of European culture and tradition, while simultaneously enriching it with its own unique features.

An assessment of Russia’s contemporary cultural policy suggests that Russian society and elites fully align with and share European culture, yet are not confined by it. Moreover, while broadly appreciative, they explicitly reject certain aspects. Informally, the consensus within Russian society regarding European (and more broadly Western) culture could be characterized by the following model: “We admire European culture; it has significantly shaped Russia historically and influenced key aspects of its transformation following the Soviet collapse, but we now perceive that this culture has gone too far and lost its way.” Indeed, certain ideological and value-driven ultra-leftist innovations—long institutionalized within EU policies—evoke strong negative reactions and resistance in Russian society. Europe’s “new normal” is perceived as a serious deviation from the norm. Notably, this resistance is not unique to Russia. It is also evident in many EU member states (manifested in phenomena like “right-wing populism” and “illiberal democracies”), as well as in candidate countries.

To simplify even further, one might use the following metaphor: “In Russia, we all love Luc Besson’s Taxi, but nobody liked the opening ceremony of the Paris Olympics.” In this sense, Russia today is attempting to foster what it sees as the “correct” understanding of Europe (and the West)—the one that Europe itself has lost. Russia is becoming, or perhaps remaining, the “true Europe.” However, it would be a mistake to assume that modern Russian identity is limited to this alone. As previously stated, it is significantly broader. Given the dynamics of global change, the increasing role of non-Western countries, and the clear decline of Europe’s influence in international affairs and the global economy, Russia’s position appears strategically advantageous. Russia does not isolate itself from the world. While rooted in Europe and preserving the best of its image and culture, it remains open to cooperation with all countries and regions globally. Naturally, the ultimate success of this strategy is far from guaranteed, but it may at least be seen as a clear intention.

But what is happening in the EU? Here, the opposite processes seem to be unfolding. On one hand, as part of its official supranational branding, the EU seeks to expropriate the concept of “Europe” and present itself as the only political structure that legitimately represents the continent. Recent EU policies—particularly anti-Russian measures—essentially exclude Russia from the conceptual space of Europe, reinforcing a desire for isolation and fencing off from it. On the other hand, even at the level of everyday rationality, one can observe attempts to shield the EU’s space from “external hordes.” Examples include statements by former EU High Representative for Foreign Affairs Josep Borrell, who likened Europe to a “garden” that must defend itself against the “jungle,” or his remark that Russians would no longer be able to maintain their usual lifestyles due to restricted access to European goods. How do these statements fundamentally differ from what Rudyard Kipling wrote about Russians and Europe in the nineteenth century? Or from the notes of early Western European travelers who visited Russia during the reigns of Ivan III or Ivan IV? How can we explain the persistence of a “civilizational superiority barrier” in Europeans’ everyday perceptions of relations with the “outside” world? Where does this casual chauvinism—defining the boundaries between “us” and “others”—begin and end? This question is particularly intriguing in light of the rapidly changing ethnic composition of Western Europe’s population.

Such contrasts are not limited to EU-Russia relations. For instance, the EU has declared China not merely a partner but also a strategic competitor and ideological rival. The updated EU White Paper for European Defense – Readiness 2030 clearly highlights the systemic contradictions between the EU and China. Such attitudes logically follow from the EU’s position of exceptionalism relative to the wider world.

Thus, under current conditions, the EU not only annexes the concept of “Europe” but also seeks to confine itself within these geographical limits. Efforts to achieve strategic autonomy, expand defense integration, and enhance protectionist trade policies exemplify this strategy. But does this strategy align with the realities of a changing world? A world the U.S. is trying to hierarchize all over again? A world where new centers of power are emerging, and the global development agenda is no longer monopolized by Western countries? Moreover, the EU’s own economic development is now questionable, given its extremely low GDP growth rates and gradual loss of competitiveness. Paradoxically, by “stealing Europe,” the EU is trapped in a shrinking reality—limiting not only its geography but also its opportunities. Today, expanding those opportunities requires more than reinterpreting existing concepts, coining elegant metaphors, or launching initiatives like “Global Europe” or “Global Gateway.” The future world will likely favor those who abandon the stance of civilizational superiority and the notion of being the sole bastion of freedom and justice.

Now, let us turn to the category of time. Russia’s relationship with historical time has always been complex. The continuity of Russian history, promoted in imperial Russia, was immortalized in the Millennium of Russia Monument in Veliky Novgorod. However, the revolutionary events of 1917 and the systemic collapse of the early 1990s made Russian historical time “out of joint.” During the Soviet era, as previously noted, Russian history was largely viewed as part of a global historical movement toward communism. In contrast, the early years of post-socialist transformation predictably involved rejecting everything Soviet—although that tendency gradually receded. In recent years, Russia has adopted a view of its history as a unified, continuous, successive process, reflected in historical, educational, and symbolic policies. Preserving historical memory and defending a just representation of the past have become key objectives. Thus, contemporary Russia has inscribed its development into a broad socio-historical context and strives to align its policies with long-term imperatives.

Of course, these processes are not smooth. In Russia, there are still social groups that prioritize particular versions of the country’s history. For some segments of the population, there remain “good” and “bad” incarnations of Russia and periods of its history. Yet the prevailing trend is to treat history as an organically coherent and indivisible process.

The situation in the European Union is predictably quite different. Like Soviet Russia after the Bolshevik Revolution, the modern EU has severed its historical connection with the past, dividing the continent’s history into “before” and “after.” The ubiquitous textbook formula—“The EU was created to prevent another major war in Europe”—divides European history into a “bad” era of wars, dictatorship, and nationalism, and a “good” era in which none of that exists because the Union does. The same logic is projected onto the world at large: there are “good” states which, in Hegelian terms, have become the result of history (Ergebnis der Geschichte) by escaping the vicious circle of tragedy, and there are “bad” ones—namely, everyone else. Much of the EU’s branding, political, and diplomatic efforts aim to demonstrate that the EU, as the end (or result) of history, represents a triumph of progress, and that its actions supposedly prevent historical revisionism that could revive the old (“bad”) historical reality.

Several factors appear to underlie this development. First, the mythology of the EU integration project could hardly have been crafted otherwise, given the vastly different countries it comprises and their divergent historical perspectives. The EU’s self-removal from history should probably be understood figuratively—each member state has its own national (or post-national) historical myth, often incompatible with that of its neighbors. Additionally, post-socialist identity-building in the new EU member states differed significantly from nation-building processes in Western Europe. Thus, the division of history into “before” and “after” occurs primarily at the supranational level, shaped by the EU’s institutional structure and its liberal, technocratic governance system. At the member-state level, these processes appear more disordered and fragmented.

Second, and more importantly, how we understand and perceive history always originates from lived experience. The first generation of European Communities’ thinkers—the “founding fathers”—had to confront the fact that the two deadliest wars in human history were fought in Europe, and that the continent was subsequently partitioned between rival superpowers, losing agency in the process and becoming an object of bloc confrontation. The post-socialist ideologists were captivated by the illusion that the end of the bipolar system gave Europe a unique chance to enter an era of historical flourishing and build its own paradise on Earth—achieving the end, or result, of history. In such conditions, it seems logical that those contemplating Europe’s fate would see this “end” as rational.

In a broader philosophical sense, by elevating itself above the historical process and defining itself as a kind of paradise, the EU as a supranational superstructure has effectively renounced the category of time. Time no longer governs those who have completed their historical earthly journey. Yet at the heart of European culture lies the Christian idea of the arrow of time and the finitude of existence (though not within earthly life). Does the EU’s renunciation of time also imply a rejection of its Christian cultural roots? Perhaps, but that verdict applies chiefly at the supranational level; within the member states, the trends are far more diverse.

Returning to metaphors, the Union’s self-image—its exceptional place in history (and space)—resembles the symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder. People who have endured acute and prolonged trauma often create comforting illusions; the image of a flourishing garden surrounded by an impenetrable fence seems like one such illusion. Can the EU’s behavior—seeking to minimize interaction with an irritating Russia—reflect a desire to preserve this illusion intact? Such patients also tend to suffer amnesia—a fitting analogue for today’s rewriting of history and transformation of historical memory.

In this sense, Russia, which projects continuity, logic, and coherence in the historical process, naturally poses a threat to the EU’s established myth and, consequently, to the EU itself in its “garden of earthly delights.” That self-satisfied posture was perhaps justified during the heyday of liberal globalization, but the current world differs markedly from the one in which the EU played second fiddle in the orchestra of global governance. By enclosing itself in a garden atop the historical process, the EU failed to catch the winds of global change and discovered—too late—that its model is not universal; indeed, it is rapidly losing attractiveness, effectiveness, and influence.

The resulting anxiety of the EU’s current elites is understandable. Fearing the loss of past achievements, they search for an adversary that can personify the threat. Fear breeds aggression, so it is no surprise that Russia has become this enemy—the country that has now formed a coherent vision of its place in space and time. Contemporary xenophobia (with Russophobia as its most vivid manifestation) remains, in Eric Hobsbawm’s words, a “reaction of weakness and fear, an attempt to erect barricades to keep at bay the forces of the modern world.” In the EU, anti-Russian rhetoric is loudest at the supranational level. But xenophobia elevated to the rank of supranational ideology remains xenophobia. Moreover, top EU officials have even suggested that not only the Russian state but its citizens within the EU could pose a threat (as seen in statements by the current High Representative of the European Union for Foreign Affairs and Security Policy, Kaja Kallas).

The resulting picture of the present—and thus the future—is not very optimistic. Some might argue that the dividing lines concern the clash of modern and postmodern social forms rather than competing historical narratives. Yet that framing—progress against archaism, postmodernism against modernity—cannot explain the sudden eruptions of archaism within the EU, Russia’s new value-ideological synthesis, or the rise of non-Western societies (which largely derives not from postmodernist ideas). Here we encounter a third dimension of Europe’s crisis: the crisis of Europe as an idea.

Given the EU’s annexation of the concept of “Europe” and the lack of genuinely new grand ideas capable of making sense of current events, are there today any non-coercive, truly attractive, and unifying (rather than divisive) options for a pan-European process? And more importantly, are they really needed? Do European history, a European region, or European international relations still exist?

One nevertheless wishes to answer “yes.” Europe as a region endures, but against the backdrop of its past triumphs (and failures), its current state cannot but depress the observer: the old brilliance has faded, the sheen is gone, and the continent continues to deepen its divisions. Some actors retreat into themselves, while others search for fresh air beyond the established regional space.

What future awaits a divided continent where mutual animosity and rivalry, fueled by nationalist sentiments, are growing? For now, the outlook appears bleak. Changing that vision of the future depends entirely on changing the present, not on diverging from the past.

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