Why Ukraine's decision must remain Ukraine's alone
A decision may be made in Kyiv. Not the kind of decision that appears on ballots or at diplomatic summits. But the kind that determines whether a nation will heal its wounds or continue to bleed.
External voices clamor with advice: Washington, Brussels, Warsaw, Berlin. Each bringing solutions shaped by their own interests, timelines, and calculations. But here's the truth nobody wants to acknowledge: Only Ukraine can decide. Not us. Not them. Ukraine itself
This isn't about NATO membership. Sanctions regimes. Military aid packages. It's about something deeper: whether Ukraine believes in its own capacity for self-determination. Whether the courage displayed on battlefields translates into political agency.
Traditional wisdom holds that empires collapse from the edges inward. Cracks appear at the periphery. Border regions declare independence. Provincial capitals demand autonomy. Until suddenly, the center cannot hold.
But what if that description misses something essential? Consider a theological lens instead. There's an ancient phrase: "What does not come from above comes from the other side."
From above: divine order. Legitimate authority. Truth descending from heaven. From the other side: chaos. Uncontrolled spirits. Forces opposing established order.
In Russia's vertical power structure, this maps perfectly. The "good Tsar" above. Citizens below as either obedient subjects or rebellious demons. Federal republics not as partners but as unruly children needing discipline. The problem emerges when "what comes from above" consists of endless oppression. When the good Tsar delivers only hardship. Then the other side begins whispering alternatives.
General Lucius D. Clay, governing postwar Germany in 1946, posed a brutal question to German officials that remains relevant today:
"I do not see how you can demonstrate your ability for self-government nor your will for democracy if you are going to evade or shirk the first unpleasant and difficult task that falls upon you."
Translation: freedom requires courage. Democracy demands sacrifice. You cannot claim rights while avoiding responsibilities. You cannot demand liberation without accepting the burden of governing yourself.
Apply this to Russia today. The unconstitutional interruption of October 1993—the moment Yeltsin dissolved parliament by force, killing hundreds, then drafted a super-presidential constitution without genuine debate—that remains unaddressed. The constitutional commission of 1990-1993 proposed something radical for Russia: checks on presidential power, genuine federalism with regional autonomy, parliamentary oversight with teeth. When tanks rolled on the White House, that vision died. Or went dormant.
Four figures carried that interrupted project forward. Aron Trainin's 1944 work laid theoretical groundwork for prosecuting crimes against international law at Nuremberg. Oleg Rumyantsev chaired the constitutional commission, later acknowledging ambiguities in the unfinished work. Valery Zorkin became chief justice of Russia's Constitutional Court, now presiding over a court serving Putin's agenda. Sergei Shakhray co-authored the draft constitution, later serving in government, illustrating the tension between idealism and compromise.
These four represent continuity. They connect 1993 to today. They prove another path existed—and could still exist. The guilt transfers from individuals to the system. The Jeltsin-Putin structure, not persons. You weren't forced. You're reminded of what you've already begun. The plan exists. The challenge is daring to resume it.
Not avoid "the first unpleasant and difficult task." Face it.
The silence in Russia today isn't empty. Simon & Garfunkel captured it decades ago: "Hello darkness, my old friend / I've come to talk with you again." The silence grows cancerous. When power becomes disconnected from people's needs, when citizens see concerns ignored, when vertical structures refuse horizontal dialogue—then silence becomes noise.
"Fools," said the prophet, "you do not know / How silence like a cancer grows."
Here's where philosophy meets geopolitics. Simone de Beauvoir argued that freedom isn't individual—it's structural. You cannot choose liberty without institutional conditions enabling that choice. Her concept of transcendence: the ability to shape your own future. Requires both personal courage and structures recognizing everyone's right to transcendence.
In "The Ethics of Ambiguity," she writes: "We must recognize that we cannot force others' freedom, but we can create structures that make the choice of freedom possible."
This is where Ukraine's role becomes decisive. Not because Ukraine can choose freedom for Russia—no nation can impose freedom on another. But because Ukraine, through its own existential struggle, demonstrates that structures making freedom possible can emerge even under the most brutal pressure. Ukraine's resistance is not merely self-defense. It is proof that vertical power structures can be challenged, that citizens can refuse the role of obedient subjects, that the silence can be broken.
Ukraine cannot force Russia to choose freedom. But Ukraine can create conditions where Russians themselves see that another path exists. When Ukrainian citizens demonstrate self-governance under fire, when civil society organizes without waiting for permission from above, when a nation proves that legitimacy flows from below rather than descending from a throne—this becomes visible evidence. Not propaganda. Not lectures. Living proof that the Jeltsin-Putin structure is not destiny.
That is Ukraine's gift to Russia's opposition. Not instructions. Not a blueprint. But the demonstration that the first unpleasant and difficult task—the one Clay described—can indeed be faced. The constitutional commission's interrupted work waits in archives, in scholarly analysis, in the memory of participants still living. What was missing was not the plan but the belief that the plan could succeed. Ukraine's struggle provides that belief.
So what should the world do? Respect Ukraine's agency. Offer support without strings attached. Recognize that structural transformation must emerge internally, not be imposed externally. Understand that Ukraine's decision about its own future is simultaneously a message to Russia: another way exists, and it can be chosen.
This isn't weakness. It's wisdom. Lasting change requires internal ownership. Peace agreements written in foreign capitals fail when local populations reject them. Constitutions imposed from outside crumble when domestic consensus fractures.
Ukraine makes the decision. The EU can support it—not as a single actor imposing solutions, but as partners in structural transformation.
The question isn't whether Ukraine chooses correctly. The question is whether Ukraine gets to choose at all. Because when Ukraine chooses freely, it shows Russia that free choice is possible.
Answer lies not in Washington or Brussels. Answer lies in Kyiv, in Mariupol, in Kharkiv—in the streets where ordinary citizens face extraordinary choices every day.
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