The battle for Ukrainian identity
Russia’s war against Ukraine is being fought not only on the battlefield, but also in museums, archives and cultural institutions struggling to preserve the country’s historical and cultural memory. From the ruins of Mariupol to diaspora institutions in New York, a growing network of historians, archivists and cultural workers is documenting destruction while resisting the erasure of Ukraine’s past.
June 22, 2026 -
Zach Rogers
- 
Issue 4 2026MagazineStories and ideas
In the crowded 19th-century European Paintings galleries at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, Red Sunset on the Dnipro stands out immediately. Its depiction of late sunlight over the Dnipro river, painted in deep reds and burnt orange tones, offers a striking image of the Ukrainian landscape. Over the past three years, the work has become one of the paintings I return to most often at the museum. The piece’s author, Arkhyp Kuindzhi (1841-1910) was born in the Karasivka neighbourhood in Mariupol on the shores of the Sea of Azov to Urum Greeks. He grew up learning Greek and Crimean Tatar, later Ukrainian, and then Russian. Although this canvas displays the stillness practiced by the Luminist School, it is impossible not to feel the powerful current of the Dnipro, the beating pulse of Ukraine felt by artists like Kuindzhi.
The vast, unpeopled Pontic-Caspian steppe, often referred to as the “Wild Fields”, was never merely a void on the map; it was a laboratory of freedom. As Neal Ascherson explores in Black Sea, this was a frontier where the “civilized” world of the Hellenic coast collided with the “barbaric” energy of the nomadic interior. For centuries, the Azov region acted as a sanctuary for the Cossack, dissenters who fled the gravity of empires to live in a state of restive independence. Yet, this very freedom made the region a target for imperial settlement. From Catherine the Great’s 1778 relocation of the Urum Greeks to the industrial quotas of the Soviet era, the history of the Wild Fields is a cycle of empires trying to bottle up a landscape that, much like Kuindzhi’s luminist horizons, refuses to be contained by a single label.
This article is for members only
Join the New Eastern Europe community to unlock this article — plus enjoy full access to premium content, our digital archive, newsletter insights, and podcast updates.
BECOME A MEMBER!
Already a member? Sign in to read the full article.
