Oksana Valeriivna Dramaretska
June 28 marks another anniversary of the Ukrainian Constitution, adopted in 1996. This date not only marks the legal affirmation of Ukrainian sovereignty after the fall of the USSR, but also the recovery of a historical identity that was systematically denied and appropriated by Russia.
Many in Latin America are unaware that, for centuries, Ukraine and Russia followed very different historical paths. Ukraine was born as the center of an ancient medieval European state called the Kyiv Rus—Christian, cultured, linked to Byzantium—while Muscovy (the embryo of present-day Russia) emerged centuries later under Mongol rule. In the 18th century, the Russian tsars rewrote history to present themselves as heirs to that glorious Ukrainian civilization… which in reality did not belong to them.
In this context, it is worth asking: Why does Russia insist on denying Ukraine’s independence? Why so much symbolic and historical violence?
The answer goes beyond politics. It is a struggle for memory. For the right to exist as a nation with its own voice. Below, we explain how Ukraine’s historical truth dismantles the Russian imperial myth.
For centuries, Ukraine and Russia evolved in very different historical and cultural contexts. Ukraine, through the Kyiv Rus, was an integral part of the European Orthodox Christian world. In contrast, Muscovy—founded in 1147—was under the rule of the Golden Horde, a branch of the Mongol Empire, for more than two centuries.
The Kyivan Rus was founded in the 9th century and became an influential political and spiritual center in Eastern Europe. Its language, legal system, and cultural life were connected to Byzantium, and European royal houses recognized its princes. Until the 17th century, maps of Europe used the terms “Rus” or “Ruthenia” to refer to the territories that are now Ukraine.
Muscovy, however, was born much later and in a very different environment. For centuries, it was a vassal of Mongol power, and its political structure reflected that heritage: autocracy, extreme centralization, and a cultural distance from Europe. In 1721, Peter I, known as Peter the Great, declared the creation of the ‘Russian Empire’. Why? Because he needed to legitimize himself before Europe. He did not want his state to be seen as barbaric or Asian, but as a modern power with European roots. Appropriating the name and history of Kyivan Rus allowed him to simulate continuity with that glorious past.
Later, Catherine II, an empress of German origin, continued this project. As an enlightened woman, she could not tolerate ruling an empire with Eastern and Mongol roots. She found it humiliating that the history of Muscovy was so recent and disconnected from European prestige. She therefore launched a systematic campaign to rewrite history. In 1783, she created an imperial commission to manipulate ancient documents. The result was a new official narrative in which Russia appeared as the legitimate heir to Kyivan Rus.
Karl Marx was one of the thinkers who pointed out this falsehood. In his ‘Diplomatic History of the Eighteenth Century’, he wrote that the Russian character did not come from Kyiv, but from the swamp of Mongol slavery. And yet, thanks to Tsarist propaganda, the world began to believe in this invented continuity.
The appropriation was not only symbolic. In 1654, the Ukrainian Hetmanate—an autonomous Cossack state—signed an alliance with Muscovy seeking protection from Poland. Muscovy promised to respect Ukrainian autonomy, but soon betrayed the agreement. It used the alliance as a pretext to absorb the territory and stifle its independence.
Three centuries ago, Russia stole not only Ukraine’s name but also its history. Today, the myth is crumbling. A regime that defines itself as the heir to Kyiv cannot accept an independent, European, and free Ukraine because that contradicts its entire imperial narrative.
That is why the current war is not just about territory: it is about memory, about the right to exist with one’s own identity. Without Ukraine, Russia’s narrative of historical continuity collapses.
And that is why the reaction is so brutal: because it is existential. If historical truth prevails—and it will—Russia will have to face itself and accept that its greatness was built on a lie.
That moment has arrived today. The moment of truth. In this struggle between memory and manipulation, between freedom and domination, authentic history will prevail.
And perhaps—just perhaps—the time has come for Russia to stop searching for its identity in the monasteries of Kyiv and seek it, with honesty, in the steppes of Asia. Perhaps the Karakorum has more answers than the Dnipro. Only by facing the truth can they stop living a stolen history and start writing their own. Until then, they will remain an empire with feet of clay, sustained by lies and nostalgia.
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