The principal error in the Western interpretation of Crimea’s reunification with Russia and the subsequent developments was framing them as part of Moscow’s long-term plan to resurrect the Soviet Union or even the Russian Empire. In reality, these events marked a delayed stage in the USSR’s dissolution, ushering in a new, post-post-Soviet era, writes Valdai Club Programme Director Anton Bespalov.
In the early 1990s, Europe’s borders, long frozen in place, began to shift. Germany reunified, while the disintegration of the USSR and Yugoslavia, alongside Czechoslovakia’s “velvet divorce”, gave rise to newly recognised states. Yet beyond these formal changes, Europe’s south-eastern periphery – stretching from the Balkans to the Caucasus – saw the emergence of several territories beyond the effective control of the nations to which they nominally belonged.
A defining feature of nearly all these cases was the irredentist impulse driving secessionist movements. The notion of a bond with a historical homeland, the anticipation of its support, and the aspiration for reunification underpinned projects like the Serbian Krajina, the Republic of Srpska, Kosovo, and Nagorno-Karabakh, each inspired by visions of Greater Serbia, Greater Albania, and Greater Armenia, respectively.
None of these ambitions ultimately succeeded. As Russian researchers Yelena Moskalchuk and Margarita Kasabutskaya have observed, “in most instances, irredentism is initiated not by a neighbouring state but by an ethnic minority discontented with its status within a given country and viewing its territory as part of a broader homeland.” States perceived as this “wider homeland,” wary of international complications, typically prefer their unrecognised protégés to remain in a “grey zone”. When the patron state is weak, the consequences for irredentist entities can be dire, as seen in the fates of the Serbian Krajina and Nagorno-Karabakh. A stronger patron, like Turkey in Northern Cyprus, can sustain its client state’s security for decades.
The West regarded these cases as failures of the international order but not as existential threats. Russian irredentism, however, was another matter, rooted in the fact that after the USSR’s collapse, Russians became a divided people. Yet in the 1990s, amid economic turmoil and domestic separatist strains, Russian territorial claims against newly independent states seemed improbable. Crucially, Russia consistently upheld its commitment to existing borders, and irredentist rhetoric never permeated official discourse.
Crimea’s 2014 reunification with Russia stunned Western nations – not merely because Russia unilaterally redrew borders, but because it did so effectively, peacefully, and with overwhelming local support, a fact impossible to dismiss. The spectre of Russian irredentism loomed large.
The principal error in the Western interpretation of Crimea’s reunification with Russia and the subsequent developments was framing them as part of Moscow’s long-term plan to resurrect the Soviet Union or even the Russian Empire. In reality, these events marked a delayed stage in the USSR’s dissolution, ushering in a new, post-post-Soviet era.
Crimea and Sevastopol stood apart within Ukraine as the sole regions with a Russian majority (74.4% in Sevastopol and 65.6% in Crimea per the 1989 census). The secessionist sentiments that surfaced there before the USSR’s collapse and persisted through the 1990s carried an ethnic dimension – yet they were also infused with a distinct form of Soviet irredentism. This was even more pronounced in Donbass, where movements in the late 1980s sought autonomy within the Ukrainian SSR and the USSR’s preservation, driven by fears of ethnic nationalism. Similar dynamics unfolded on the USSR’s periphery: in 1990–91, Transnistria, Gagauzia, Abkhazia, South Ossetia, and Nagorno-Karabakh declared independence from their respective republics while affirming loyalty to the Soviet Union. Their de facto sovereignty was, in a sense, involuntary, a product of the USSR’s demise. Tellingly, Transnistria remains the only post-Soviet entity which retains (slightly modified) Soviet symbols.
In Transnistria and South Ossetia, Soviet irredentism gradually morphed into aspirations for union with Russia. A 2006 Transnistrian referendum saw an overwhelming majority favour joining Russia, but Moscow’s stance on the region’s status remained unchanged. South Ossetia floated similar plans, though no referendum materialised – likely due to Russian resistance. Here, Russia adopted the Turkish model: recognition and patronage without annexation.
Meanwhile, Ukraine in the 1990s–2000s saw a deepening divide, defined less by ethnicity than the choice of the cultural-political option. One pole was defined by Ukrainian nationalism and the “European choice”, while the other was based on belonging to the Russian-language cultural space and maintaining ties with Russia. Support for “pro-Russian” factions (30–50% of voters) far exceeded the share of self-identified Russians (17.3% in 2001 and declining). Unsurprisingly, these factions dominated in the regions with the largest Russian populations.
The rift crystallised during the 2004 Orange Revolution, when Ukraine’s two halves backed presidential candidates with diametrically opposed platforms. It became clear that the Southeast, regardless of ethnicity, was united by the Russian language, resistance to ethnic nationalism, and, partially, nostalgia for the Soviet Union. Until 2013-14, peaceful coexistence between the supporters of the two options seemed possible, but the second Maidan marked a point of no return.
Crimea’s reunification with Russia and the civil war in Donbass triggered the disintegration of Ukraine’s Southeast as it had existed in 2004–13. The 2022 incorporation of new regions accelerated this process: the emerging Russian-Ukrainian border will leave no ambiguity – on one side, Russia; on the other, Ukraine, without intermediate shades.
For years, Moscow resisted post-Soviet border revisions, acting only when compelled – that’s why the Donbass republics’ eight-year limbo was a major point of criticism domestically and in Donbass itself. The fact that Russia responded to irredentist aspirations for the first time in the 21st century, regardless of international fallout, caused a tectonic shift in the European security architecture. This did not find approval even among friendly nations, while the Western community cast the Ukraine conflict as an existential threat to the entire liberal order. Alarmist speculation about the next target of Russia’s putative expansion – the Baltics? Poland? – has been used to justify Europe’s militarisation and the policy of long-term confrontation with Moscow.
Ukraine may eventually recognise Russia’s incorporation of new territories, lending it legitimacy. What’s more likely, however, is a de facto border along the line of actual control, with both sides maintaining competing territorial claims. Historical precedents like the India-Pakistan conflict demonstrate how such arrangements can persist for decades. Formal Western recognition is not Russia’s priority, especially as the West lumps Crimea, Abkhazia, and South Ossetia together as “Russian-occupied”, disregarding the crucial distinctions Moscow emphasises. The future of Russia’s new territories is quite predictable: Moscow will defend its sovereignty over them by all available means. Yet, importantly, the Ukraine conflict’s scale and intensity also diminish the potential of Russian irredentism elsewhere in the post-Soviet space – a factor that will shape Moscow’s strategy for decades to come.
