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In 1991, Ukraine did not shed a drop of blood. It was a transition of power. We raised a flag, we declared ourselves independent, and we received our independence as a gift.
Now we are shedding rivers of blood for real independence.
That is the difference between this Independence Day and the ones before it, and I do not think we have absorbed it yet.
Colonial theory has a name for what happened to us thirty-five years ago. It is called flag independence. You raise the flag, you declare the state, and for a while you believe that was it—that this was the end, and now we simply continue as an independent nation.
In theory it was believed to be like that. In practice, every decolonized nation eventually discovered the same thing: it is not the end. It is the beginning.
The nations that gathered at Bandung in Indonesia in 1955 worked this out before us. They had their flags. They also had the former metropolis still holding the strings—to their economies, their cultures, their political classes. They named it: neocolonialism.
And they understood that real independence would take something longer and harder than a declaration. Not only liberation with arms, but liberation of the mind from the colonial legacy. Not erasing the colonial memory—reworking it, synthesizing it into something new.
So here is the shape of it. Before 1991, Ukrainians waged a struggle for independence without statehood. After 1991, we have been waging a struggle for independence within statehood. The struggle did not end. It changed its conditions.
In 1991 we did not shed a drop of blood. We received our independence as a gift.
The declaration was a beginning, but it was also a result—of generations.
It begins in the nineteenth century, with people like Taras Shevchenko, who essentially invented a Ukrainian identity. It was a construction. It was not, as Putin claims, the invention of Vladimir Lenin. It was the invention of Ukrainian intellectuals, writers, and religious leaders, who constructed this nation on the basis of what came before—the Cossack Republic, Kyivan Rus, the long stretch from the Middle Ages through early modernity.
Then the dissidents of the Soviet period. Then the Ukrainian Insurgent Army, which fought on two fronts against three colonizers: the Germans, the Poles, and the Soviets. Their struggle was clearly anti-colonial. Brutal, but anti-colonial. I do not justify everything they did. I am applying postcolonial theory in order to make sense of what they did, or tried to do. They were defeated. Their ideas resurfaced in 1991 and were gathered into the Act of Independence.
And that Act, while it closed a long period of Ukrainian struggle without a state, opened a new one.
Before 2013, I would say, there was more neocolonialism than independence.
This is a description, not a figure of speech. The former metropolis re-established the strings. Russian capital came into the economy under the presidencies of Leonid Kuchma and Viktor Yanukovych, and Russian corruption came with it.
Proxy parties were planted—the Party of Regions and its various clones. Russian pop music was everywhere, which sounds like a small thing and is not: in postcolonial studies, literature and popular culture are considered among the most effective vehicles of neocolonial control.
Today it is the other way around. Neocolonialism has not evaporated, but the proportion has changed. There is now more independence than neocolonialism—and that itself is what thirty-five years of struggle have achieved.
And corruption was a neocolonial instrument. This is the part Ukrainians resist, so let me put it plainly: our fight against corruption is effectively an anti-colonial fight. In Ukraine people sometimes present this as a dilemma—either we fight corruption or we fight the Russians, we cannot do both. From the perspective of postcolonial studies the dilemma does not exist. Both are anti-colonial efforts. They go hand in hand.
Our fight against corruption is effectively an anti-colonial fight. Both go hand in hand.
Empires have always travelled with religion on their shoulders, and religion has always helped establish imperial rule in the colonies. In the Ukrainian case it was first the Greek Catholic Church, established in 1596 an instrument of Polish colonization, although this is not the case anymore. But that is how it began.
And presently Russia’s instrument of recolonization is the Moscow Patriarchate, still present in Ukraine as the Ukrainian Orthodox Church under the Moscow Patriarchate (UOC MP).
Here I have to say something uncomfortable for many Ukrainians.
Nations that decolonize very often produce new subalterns. In post-colonial language, these are parts of the population that are subdued, oppressed by the dominant power. But we may be producing such subalterns as an effect of pushing back against Russian colonization: groups of Ukrainians belonging to the UOC MP being marginalized, subalternized, by our own struggle. It is a very difficult dilemma how to deal with this subalternization, and I do not have a resolution for it.
We may be producing new subalterns: Ukrainians marginalized by our own struggle. I do not have a resolution for it.
Both of Ukraine’s major “Maidan” protests were anti-neocolonial revolutions.
In the Orange Revolution of 2004 and again during the Euromaidan Revolution in 2013, Ukrainians protested because they had decided there was not enough independence—that what we had was more neocolonial than independent, more fake than real, and that the proportion had to be corrected. That is what a Maidan is. A public consensus that the ratio is wrong.
In February 2022, independence very nearly ended. People gave our statehood three days—and not only Russians. That was the opinion of most observers. It did not end. We survived it. But our statehood is still not secured, and it is being secured every day, including today.
There is an argument against everything I have said so far, and Ukrainians make it as often as anyone. They object: look, we have contributed to the Russian Empire and to the Soviet one. We have basically built them.
Which is true.
But Ukrainians were never permitted to contribute as independent agents. They were allowed to contribute exactly as long as they lost their identity—as long as they denounced their own agency. They were contributors without their will and without their identity.
Corsica is my example. It had its own culture, its own identity, its own language, still spoken in pockets. Go into a good Corsican restaurant in Corsica and they may speak Corsican to you; I have had this experience. But it is not a language widely spoken anymore. It has been completely subsumed by French, and France holds Corsica tightly today. And what is France? To a great extent, it is the creature of a great Corsican named Napoleon Bonaparte, who built the French Empire. Nobody concludes from this that Corsica was not a colony.
It is remarkable to me that Putin still does this. He puts people with Ukrainian backgrounds into key positions—in the military, in propaganda, in negotiations.
It was Medinsky, incidentally, who announced in a 2012 interview that the Russian people has one extra chromosome—his explanation for how Russia survived the catastrophes of the twentieth century when other nations, the Scythians and Sarmatians among them, broke and vanished. Russians mocked him for it, since an extra chromosome is the marker of Down syndrome.
As a claim, though, it is a race claim. Made by a man born in Cherkasy Oblast, about a people he was not born into.
They contribute to the Russian neo-empire. They contribute to it not as Ukrainians but as those who denounced Ukrainian identity. This is how empire functions. It absorbs the representatives of subaltern nations who willingly denounce their own will. It was so under the Romanovs. It was so in the Soviet empire. It is so in Putin's quasi-empire now.
Ukrainians were, and still are, a subaltern nation.
Ukrainians were allowed to contribute to the empire exactly as long as they lost their identity.
There are worse outcomes than ours and there are better ones.
The Papuans of West Papua tried. They fought for independence, failed, and many of them were killed. They are still oppressed. That is the bad end of the range, and it is not hypothetical.
The better scenario would be the Scots. They had statehood, and it was strong—kings and queens, pride, history, narratives, everything a full and self-sufficient nation possesses. Then they lost it. They are not being killed. They do not suffer the way the Papuans suffer. And yet many of them remain deeply dissatisfied with what they are. We support the United Kingdom, of course, but we are also mindful of the peoples who constitute it—Scots, Irish, Welsh. They have their pride, their nation, their language, their history, their self-consciousness, their identity.
They cannot fully live any of it without independence.
That would be a much better scenario for us than the Papuan one. From where we are now, I still do not think it would be enough.
Timor-Leste has stayed with me. One of the newest countries in the world, independent since 2002, and before that a genocide. Up to a third of its population died. Its capital, Dili, was destroyed in 1999.
Our own Baturyn, the capital of the Cossack Hetmanate, was destroyed by Peter I's army in 1708 in the same way.
And Timor is not an overseas colony. That is the other thing. There is the colonization conducted across an ocean—the Dutch in the Malay Archipelago, to which Timor belongs—and there is the colonization conducted by a neighbor. Indonesia, having been a Dutch colony itself, became independent, developed a colonial attitude within thirty years, and invaded Timor.
Ukraine was taken by neighbors too. First Poland, then the Russian Empire. Both committed atrocities here. We always resisted, and always with some violence—there has never been an anti-colonial struggle that was not violent, and ours is not an exception. I wish it were an exception. It was not.
The Polish colonization is the one Ukrainians forget, and it matters for a reason that has nothing to do with Poland.
It ended. And the decolonization from it was successful: we regained our ground, re-established Ukrainian identity on our territory, our own way of living. And there was a process of reconciliation that worked, at least to some extent. That is the first decolonization Ukrainians ever accomplished, and it is the paradigm I hold onto when I think about what happens with Russia.
Which does not mean it is finished. Some of the reactions coming from the Polish side now are, to me, surprising and incomprehensible, and I can explain them only through this lens: post-colonial phantom pain. They lost a limb and they still feel it. Russia feels the same phantom pain about what it calls the Russian World, and reacts far more violently, because Russia is historically far more violent. But the pain is the same kind of pain.
Much of the world does not accept that any of this is decolonization. In the Global South the response is: one white nation is killing another white nation, why should we care.
They should care, because our struggle is the same as theirs was. If ours is meaningless, then theirs was meaningless too.
They are working with a black and white colonial paradigm—sometimes literally—which skims over the surface. There is a name for what we are: a South within the North. Inside the Global North pockets of land and people exist whose experience and self-perception are closer to the peoples of the Global South than to their neighbors. Ukraine is one of those pockets. Our vision of ourselves may be nearer to the Global South than to Europe.
Race is the real difference, and I will not pretend otherwise. Though even there the resemblance is closer than people assume. When we were a Polish colony, the Poles developed the idea that we were an inferior people—chłopy—while they were Sarmatians, a superior nation. Not race as skin color. Race as ethnic origin, which does the same work.
By my own study, something like 90% of the criteria that apply to other colonies apply to Ukraine. Perhaps 10% do not.
But before the world can see this, we Ukrainians have to see it.
If our struggle is meaningless, then theirs was meaningless too.
Fanon believed that violence is embedded in colonialism—that it is intrinsic, that you cannot be a colonial power without being violent, without being prepared to kill the subalterns. He also believed that anticolonial struggle is inevitably violent. Sartre, who wrote the preface to him, believed it too. Maybe that is right, and it would be a good and easy explanation.
But our struggle is particularly bloody for a particular reason, and it is Russian. Russia has adopted most of its ideas from the West, and has almost always put them into practice through violence exceeding anything done in the place the idea came from. Marxist ideas about the counter-revolutionary nature of the peasantry produced the Holodomor; American culture wars are producing this one.
Our resistance is violent because their aggression is. It is a reaction, and it does not exceed the action. If anything it is disproportionate in the other direction. They kill our civilians in daylight and destroy hospitals and residential buildings. We destroy their oil plants and the warehouses of their online marketplaces.
From the standpoint of genocide studies, what is being done to us is a classical genocide. Not a rhetorical trope—a scientifically provable case. What is unprecedented is not the death toll but the intensity: the quantity of weaponry and ammunition involved in this anti-colonial war has no precedent among anti-colonial wars.
This is what Ukraine has to contribute to postcolonial theory, and I think it is the important thing.
The victims are not powerless and they are not will-less. They have their own volition. They have their own agency. And the purpose of an anti-colonial struggle is to regain agency—not merely independence, not merely economic freedom, not merely the cutting of ties with international capital or with the old and new empires. Agency.
Our struggle is a struggle for and through our agency. And it is a path that other peoples still living with the residues of colonialism could follow.
The Russian form is the most obvious available to us. It is not the only one.
The newest arrived with the Trump administration, which tried to exchange support for our resources—rare earth elements and so forth—essentially requiring us to give them up in return for help. This is a classical neocolonial attitude. It is what happens when a neocolonial power is being established.
I want to be careful here, because this is the policy of the White House and not of Americans. Most Americans who come to Ukraine come as volunteers, prepared to sacrifice their lives, because they understand that global democracy depends on what happens here. The neocolonial attitude belongs to a minority. Unfortunately, that minority currently holds power.
It is a new situation for us, but it is not unique for the world. Still, we can survive it if we understand what it is.
It is not for us to answer that.
Our generation has decided that it is worth it. But we should remember that we have also decided for the next generation. The Ukrainian Sich Riflemen, a volunteer legion of students and intelligentsia raised in Lviv in 1914, decided in their time that it was worth sacrificing themselves for Ukrainian independence, and we now judge that they were right. The UPA, fighting into the 1950s, decided the same. They were defeated.
We do not know how the next generation will judge us. Because there will be millions of Ukrainians who will not have been born as a result of this war. They will not decide whether we were right or wrong. They will not exist.
Those who do exist will make the judgment.
Edited by Alya Shandra
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Ukrainians and their supporters are holding rallies across dozens of countries from 22 to 24 August, marking 35 years of Ukrainian independence with four demands—including that Europe use frozen Russian assets to fund Ukraine.
Among the rallies listed by ICUV are:
About €210 billion in Russian central bank assets remain immobilized in the EU, most of them held in Belgium. When the European Council met in December 2025 to finance Ukraine through 2026 and 2027, one option was a €140 billion reparations loan based on those assets.
Belgium opposed the proposal. The EU instead approved a €90 billion support loan financed through market borrowing and backed by its budget, leaving the Russian principal immobilized.
If Russia launched this war, why are European citizens paying for it?
That choice leaves European taxpayers covering the loan’s debt-servicing costs and bearing its financial risk while Russia’s assets remain untouched.
If Russia launched this war, why are European citizens paying for it?
When Ukrainian communities rally, the answer from some politicians is familiar: legally impossible, governments will never agree.
The #MakeRussiaPay campaign began nearly three years ago as a grassroots initiative and grew into a multi-level advocacy effort on one principle — Russia must pay for the war, not European taxpayers.
At a rally in Brussels co-organized by ICUV, activists unrolled a meter-long receipt itemizing Russian crimes in Ukraine against the frozen Russian central bank assets held worldwide.
In 2024, G7 leaders agreed to provide about $50 billion in loans to Ukraine, to be repaid with revenues generated by immobilized Russian sovereign assets.
In December 2025, Ukrainian communities rallied in 13 European cities on the eve of the European Council summit, and the reparations loan — dismissed as unrealistic a year earlier — was on the agenda inside the room.
It did not pass. Ukrainian advocacy did not secure direct access to the frozen assets, and Belgium’s objection held. What changed is that the question is no longer whether Russia’s money can be used, but when, and under what legal structure.
ICUV and the Communities Army are campaigning on four demands this year:
Europe’s governments now face a straightforward choice: keep asking their own taxpayers to carry the cost of a war Moscow started, or use the money of the state that started it. This weekend, Ukrainians abroad will say which one they expect.
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Au Québec, on ne peut pas disposer des cendres d’un défunt n’importe où ni n’importe comment. Pourtant, entre les règles à respecter et les dernières volontés d’une personne, certains prennent parfois… quelques libertés.
Opinion de Harold Michaud, journaliste indépendant- Collaboration spéciale
Un jour, un pêcheur de la région taquinait tranquillement le saumon lorsqu’un étrange reflet attira son attention dans une partie peu profonde de la rivière. Un saumon? Un morceau de métal? Un objet perdu par un autre pêcheur?
Pas du tout!
En s’approchant, notre homme constate qu’il s’agit… d’une urne funéraire.
Respectueux — et probablement assez étonné de voir sa journée de pêche prendre une tournure aussi inattendue —, il récupère l’urne et la remet aux autorités compétentes.
Heureusement, le contenant renferme normalement une pièce d’identification. Grâce à celle-ci, on réussit à retracer un membre de la famille de la personne décédée et, du même coup, à comprendre comment cette urne s’était retrouvée au fond de la rivière.
On précise alors délicatement à la famille qu’on ne peut pas simplement se débarrasser d’une urne dans une rivière, même si le geste visait à respecter les dernières volontés du défunt. Et surtout, si l’on souhaite disperser des cendres là où la loi le permet, mieux vaut éviter de lancer le contenant avec!
Bref, si votre dernière volonté est de reposer dans une belle rivière à saumon, renseignez-vous d’abord sur les règles applicables.
Et, de grâce, prévenez vos proches : demandez-leur de disperser vos cendres, pas de vous mettre à l’eau avec l’emballage!
Parce qu’à la pêche au saumon, on s’attend parfois à remettre ses prises à l’eau… mais rarement à y retrouver les restes d’un défunt encore dans leur contenant.
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During President Volodymyr Zelenskyy’s recent visit to Serbia, he was asked whether Belgrade could continue to count on Ukraine’s position on Kosova. Zelenskyy reaffirmed that position, saying that Ukraine respects Serbia’s territorial integrity and international law and that its stance on Kosova’s “unilateral declaration of independence” remains unchanged.
For many Kosovars, who have stood firmly with Ukraine since Russia’s full-scale invasion, this is difficult to understand. There is particular pain in hearing President Zelenskyy appear to dismiss what Kosovars endured—when it is precisely that memory of war, displacement, and atrocities that made Kosova one of Ukraine’s most instinctive supporters.
Kosova emerged from an international process designed to resolve a conflict; Russia manufactured “independence” as an instrument of conquest.
There is a big problem with the way Kosova is being discussed by President Zelenskyy. Describing its independence simply as a “unilateral declaration” removes everything that matters about how Kosova actually became independent.
It also plays directly into an argument Vladimir Putin has been making for years: if the West accepted Kosova, why should it reject what Russia has done in Crimea, Donetsk, or Luhansk?
Ukraine should be dismantling that argument, not inadvertently reinforcing it. Kosova’s declaration was unilateral in one narrow sense: Serbia did not consent. But Ukrainians should understand the problem with treating the aggressor’s consent as the decisive test.
Imagine telling a community in Ukraine devastated by Russian forces that Moscow must retain a permanent veto over the political settlement that determines its future.
Kosova did not simply decide one day in 2008 to break away from Serbia. The declaration came at the end of a process that had lasted years. Kosova’s path to statehood came through the violent dissolution of Yugoslavia, a federation that ultimately fragmented into seven independent states, and after years of systematic repression of Kosova’s overwhelmingly Albanian population. The culmination was the 1998–99 Kosova war.
Serbian and Yugoslav forces conducted a campaign of violence and forced displacement against Kosovar Albanians. Nearly 800,000 people were expelled from Kosova in a matter of months because of a violent ethnic cleansing campaign of the Serbian army against Kosovars.
Hundreds of thousands more were internally displaced. Thousands of civilians were killed, cities and villages burned, homes destroyed, and women subjected to sexual violence.
When the war ended in 1999, Kosova did not declare independence. Nor did Albania invade Kosova and annex it. Instead, Kosova was placed under UN Security Council Resolution 1244. For almost nine years, its institutions developed under international administration while its final status remained unresolved.
And then there were negotiations. UN Secretary-General Kofi Annan appointed former Finnish President Martti Ahtisaari to lead talks between Belgrade and Pristina over Kosova’s final status. After those negotiations failed to produce an agreement, Ahtisaari concluded that returning Kosova to Serbian rule was no longer a viable option and recommended internationally supervised independence.
This matters because Kosova’s declaration in February 2008 did not reject that international process. It embraced it. The declaration committed Kosova to implementing the Ahtisaari settlement and invited continued international involvement, including an EU rule-of-law mission and NATO’s security presence.
Call the final declaration unilateral if you wish. The process that produced it was anything but.
Even after independence, the issue was subjected to further international scrutiny. At Serbia’s initiative, the UN General Assembly asked the International Court of Justice to examine the declaration. In 2010, the court concluded that Kosova’s declaration “did not violate international law.” It also found that it did not violate UN Security Council Resolution 1244.
None of this means Kosova’s path to independence was simple or uncontested. Clearly, it was not. But reducing this history to the word “unilateral” creates precisely the opening Russia needs to manufacture a parallel with Ukraine.
Putin has used Kosova for years to claim that the West created a precedent Russia merely followed: Kosova separated from Serbia without Belgrade’s consent, so why should Crimea be different? Because that is clearly where the similarity ends.
Crimea, Donetsk, and Luhansk were annexed following a Russian invasion. Moscow occupied Ukrainian territory, installed or backed proxy authorities, staged referendums under military occupation, and ultimately claimed Ukrainian land as its own.
Kosova emerged from an international process designed to resolve a conflict; Russia manufactured “independence” as an instrument of conquest. Ukraine should insist on that distinction every time Moscow invokes Kosova.
Ukraine understandably approaches Kosova cautiously. A country fighting for its territorial integrity is wary of anything that might appear to weaken that principle. But acknowledging the exceptional circumstances of Kosova does not weaken Ukraine’s argument. Treating Kosova and Crimea as comparable cases does.
Russia wants Kosova to be its precedent. Ukraine does not have to accept the premise. Ukraine, in fact, has a particular interest in explaining the difference, because Ukrainians know better than almost anyone what Russian-manufactured "self-determination” actually looks like. That is not Kosova’s story.
There is also an irony here that is difficult for Kosovars to ignore. Kosova has stood with Ukraine since the beginning of Russia’s full-scale invasion. It imposed sanctions against Russia and Belarus, provided assistance to Ukraine, and offered refuge to Ukrainian journalists.
It did all of this without being recognized by Kyiv—Kosovars did not need recognition to know which side they were on.
Ukraine’s experience resonates deeply in Kosova. We know what it means to live through war and displacement. We also know what it means when a larger neighbor invokes history to argue that it has the right to determine your future.
That does not make the two cases identical—but it should make Ukrainians skeptical when Russia tries to turn Kosova into a justification for its own imperial project.
Kosovars did not expect President Zelenskyy to arrive in Belgrade and announce that Ukraine had suddenly changed its position on Kosova. But it is reasonable to expect Kyiv to revisit its approach to Kosova and to recognize the process by which Kosova came to be, a process that Ukraine’s closest allies today understood, supported, and ultimately recognized.
That requires abandoning a framing that reduces Kosova’s history to a “unilateral declaration” and inadvertently gives credibility to the parallel Russia has spent years trying to construct. For Kosovars, the hope is that a more honest understanding of that history will eventually lead Ukraine to reconsider recognition, too.
Not as a reward for Kosova’s support for Ukraine, but as the natural outcome of seeing Kosova on its own terms rather than through the precedent Moscow wants it to be.
Putin has spent years trying to make Kosova his precedent. Ukraine should take that argument away from him. Doing so would bring Kyiv closer to the position of the allies standing beside it today—and perhaps, in time, recognition would follow.
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Chaque fois que je passe devant la station de TVA à Pointe-au-Père (enfin, ce qu’il en reste…), il y a comme un petit fond de rage qui remonte à la surface.
Opinion de Harold Michaud, journaliste indépendant et chroniqueur- Collaboration spéciale
Depuis que Pierre Karl Péladeau a mis en échec les stations régionales de TVA pour tenter de garder TVA Sports sous son contrôle, j’ai l’impression que nous avons tous perdu quelque chose.
Nous, les gens des régions du Québec, avons perdu un outil important pour raconter qui nous sommes et parler de nos enjeux.
Je sais, certains me diront :
— Harold, tu es un ancien journaliste de Radio-Canada. C’est quoi ton problème? Tu devrais t’en foutre comme d’une défaite en prolongation du Kraken de Seattle contre les Ducks d’Anaheim.
Mais non.
Voyez-vous, je suis un incorrigible régionaliste.
Et je mesure encore davantage ce que nous avons perdu chaque fois que j’écoute un bulletin de nouvelles produit à des kilomètres de chez nous et censé raconter notre réalité.
Ce n’est pas la faute des journalistes d’ici, qui font ce qu’ils peuvent avec une salle de presse réduite au minimum. C’est simplement qu’une région racontée à distance finit inévitablement par perdre un peu de sa voix, de ses nuances et de son identité.
Au lieu de bien raconter ce qui se passe dans notre région, TVA s’acharne à nous présenter, de manière très récurrente, les mêmes messages publicitaires et surtout, la promotion de ses propres émissions.
Et pendant ce temps-là, TVA Sports demeure.
Il faut dire que la couverture du Canadien de Montréal ne me console pas beaucoup. Certains de ses animateurs passent parfois tellement de temps à rire de leurs propres farces — qu’ils semblent d’ailleurs être les seuls à comprendre — qu’on finit presque par oublier qu’il y a un match de hockey en cours.
Et voilà maintenant que CBC ne diffusera plus les matchs du samedi soir dès cet automne. Moi qui pouvais au moins éviter TVA Sports de temps à autre et regarder le hockey dans la langue de Shakespeare…
Bref, à force de vouloir sauver le hockey à TVA, on a carrément sorti les régions de l’alignement. Une véritable mise en échec par derrière : sale, dangereuse et qui mérite bien plus qu’une simple inconduite de partie.
Marque finale : PKP 1 — téléspectateurs des régions 0.
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When Sweden’s Anton Källberg walks into the arena on Tuesday to face Vladimir Sidorenko at Europe Smash, the match carries a weight that reaches beyond the table.
Sidorenko is Russian, and unlike the Russian players who spent recent years competing as neutrals, he now takes the table representing Russia, under its flag and anthem.
Flags and anthems are written into international sport precisely because they carry national and political meaning.
The change follows a July decision by the International Table Tennis Federation (ITTF) to lift the restrictions on athletes holding Russian passports. It took effect on 28 July, and Russian players can now enter under the same ordinary rules as everyone else.
For critics, the question is hard to avoid: what has changed in Ukraine to justify the change in sport?
Russia’s full-scale invasion has not ended. Yet the penalty imposed in its wake—that Russian athletes compete without representing the Russian state—has now been lifted in international table tennis.
The Swedish Table Tennis Association has openly opposed the move. Its chairman, Tomas Eriksson, said in July that he saw no change in Ukraine that would justify shifting Swedish sport’s position toward Russian participation. The association has said it will not boycott the tournaments.
That tension now lands on Swedish soil.
Källberg and Sidorenko were drawn against each other at Europe Smash, held in Malmö from 8 to 16 August.
For Swedish supporters of Ukraine, the evening presents a real dilemma. Nobody needs to aim hostility at Sidorenko himself, and no one is claiming individual Russian athletes bear responsibility for their government’s actions. The question is what an athlete is asked to represent.
A neutral athlete competes as an individual. Someone introduced beneath a national flag stands in, however indirectly, for a state. Flags and anthems are written into international sport precisely because they carry national and political meaning.
So restoring the Russian flag is more than an administrative tweak. It is a statement—and a pointed one while Russia’s war on Ukraine continues.
The dispute has an unmistakable Swedish dimension. ITTF is headed by Petra Sörling, the Swedish official who was re-elected president of world table tennis in 2025 for another four-year term. She is a former president of the Swedish Table Tennis Association.
That does not make the reinstatement hers alone to decide; the ITTF Executive Board considered the issue on 10 July. But leadership carries responsibility. ITTF has justified the change by citing equal treatment and proportionality—yet proportionate to what change in circumstances? With Russia’s war on Ukraine still ongoing, the federation has yet to explain what has materially shifted to make the earlier restrictions disproportionate now.
On the evening of 11 August 2026, all of it narrows to something plainer: two players and a table, in front of a Swedish crowd.
Källberg deserves what any Swedish athlete would want at a major home tournament: loud, passionate backing from the crowd. And those who object to the return of the Russian flag have every right to voice it, peacefully, from the same seats.
Sport does not stand outside the world around it. International federations prove as much every time they raise a flag or set a country’s name beside an athlete.
If those symbols matter when a nation celebrates victory, they matter when a governing body decides who may use them.
And until the reasons for restricting Russia’s national representation have gone, the question facing table tennis stays simple: Why should the restriction disappear first?
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