By 2025, world leaders had publicly signaled their readiness to adopt the rhetoric and operational frameworks established by Arnold Toynbee and Samuel Huntington. These scholars envisioned human history as a continuous cycle of coexistence and conflict between distinct civilizations across the globe. As we enter this new “Huntingtonian” era, the critical challenge remains: how should one engage in conflict within this paradigm, and what defines victory in such a civilizational coordinate system?
In 2023, Chinese leader Xi Jinping introduced the Global Civilizations Initiative (GCI), a philosophical framework designed to promote cultural dialogue, mutual learning, and respect for diversity. On the surface, it appeared to be a call for cooperation; however, it functioned as a direct challenge to the Western hierarchy of values. In practice, this initiative signaled a formal refusal to accept the universal “rules-based order”—a paradigm long dominated by the United States—as the sole basis for global existence.
By doing so, China essentially demanded recognition as a distinct, sovereign civilization with the inherent right to construct a reality aligned with the vision of the Chinese Communist Party. This move serves a broader strategic objective: challenging U.S. hegemony and asserting China’s role in seizing, or at the very least dividing, global leadership.
During the Valdai Discussion Club in October 2025, Vladimir Putin articulated a vision clearly influenced by the works of Samuel Huntington, despite avoiding a direct mention of the scholar’s name. In essence, Putin signaled his full alignment with Xi Jinping’s position, sharing a common vision for a multipolar future. However, this address was the culmination of several years of ideological groundwork laid within the Russian information space by figures such as Sergei Pereslegin, Sergei Karaganov, and Fyodor Lukyanov. These ideologues consistently portray Russia as a “civilization of civilizations.”
Karaganov, for instance—who has gained notoriety for publicly advocating for a preventive nuclear strike against a European nation—argues that Russia’s identity is built upon two pillars: a religious inheritance from Byzantium and an administrative-managerial tradition derived from the empire of Genghis Khan. This narrative is further reinforced by former Austrian Foreign Minister Karin Kneissl, now heading the Center for Geopolitical Studies at St. Petersburg State University. In her public addresses, she echoes the Kremlin’s line, asserting that Russia’s true orientation is not with the West, but firmly with the East.
In his lectures, Sergei Pereslegin delineates the fundamental differences between the Russian and Western “cultural codes,” presenting a historical narrative in which the West has perpetually been in conflict with Russia. These developments indicate that the Kremlin’s ideological apparatus has shifted away from a reliance on isolated information operations or propaganda designed for foreign consumption. Instead, Putin has deliberately adopted the civilizational worldview championed by China, specifically aligning with its opposition to the conventional West and the United States.
Just weeks after Putin’s Valdai address, Donald Trump unveiled a new U.S. National Security Strategy. This document functioned more as a manifesto of values than a traditional security policy, reinforcing the long-standing Ukrainian axiom that “culture is security.”
A central theme of the new American security strategy was the formal acknowledgment that the “Western world,” as historically defined, has effectively ceased to exist. U.S. interests have instead crystallized around the protection of the Western Hemisphere, accompanied by a sharp critique of what Washington terms the “civilizational erasure” of Europe.
In his report at the Munich Security Conference, U.S. Secretary of State Marco Rubio reaffirmed the core narrative of this shifting paradigm: Europe faces a stark ultimatum. It must either adopt the specific values declared by Washington—which would effectively mean abandoning its traditional autonomous identity—or find itself isolated against existential threats from Russia and China, and potentially from a detached United States as well.
In December 2025, Finnish President Alexander Stubb published a seminal article in Foreign Affairs, outlining his interpretation of Huntington’s concept. Drawing on Finland’s historical experience, he proposed a model for civilizational coexistence termed “values-based realism.” This approach represents a pragmatic middle ground, often interpreted as a strategy that aligns strictly with neither side but maintains core principles.
Furthermore, at the Munich Security Conference, French President Emmanuel Macron and German Chancellor Friedrich Merz announced a strategic partnership within the military-industrial sector. This cooperation included the ambitious, if controversial, proposal to deploy an anti-missile nuclear umbrella over European Union member states. Despite skepticism from some analysts, these serious declarations underscored the widening geopolitical rift between the United States and Europe. By the conclusion of 2025, the global landscape of “civilizational interests” had been clearly defined by these high-level public pronouncements, firmly establishing this era as “Huntington’s World.”
Shadow of Civilization
In 2014, the journal Philosophical Thought published an article by the Ukrainian philosopher Vakhtang Kebuladze titled “Intellectuals versus Intelligentsia.” In this work, Kebuladze distinguishes between the “intelligentsia” and “intellectuals,” offering a critical analysis of their respective roles. He contrasts the post-Soviet intelligentsia—a class he views as claiming an unearned moral superiority—with true intellectuals, whose primary focus is critical thinking and the professional engagement with ideas.
It is in this article that Kebuladze first introduces the metaphor of the “shadow of civilization” in reference to Russia. He argues:
“Russia is not an anti-civilization, but rather the shadow of civilization. As such, it reproduces the forms of civilization while filling them with a horrific, shadowy content. In its art, social structures, and political institutions, the shadow of civilization mimics civilizational contours; yet, within those contours lies only darkness, decay, and death. The shadow is ultimately powerless, capable only of violence—an act that will eventually strip the perpetrator of their power.”
In subsequent publications, Kebuladze expands on this concept:
“Like a shadow, it recreates the form of civilization, filling it with a horrific shadowy content: instead of free economic competition, there is a shadow economy controlled by a criminal state system; instead of journalism, there is propaganda; instead of freedom of speech, there are irresponsible lies; instead of Christian love for one’s neighbour, the Russian Orthodox Church propagates war and violence, masked by calls for the Ukrainian military to offer no resistance to the occupying Russian army; instead of popular music, there are criminal ballads or the ‘tavern howls’ of vulgar performers who have mastered singing but lack taste and sophistication.”
One can agree with nearly every observation made by the Ukrainian philosopher, with the exception of his thesis that “the shadow is powerless.” If we move beyond the metaphor of the shadow as a literary allegory for Russian society and instead analyze it through the lens of Jungian psychoanalysis, the Shadow archetype offers a deeper explanation of the behavior and the specific source of power inherent in a subject like Russia.
By stating that “Russia is the shadow of civilization,” Kebuladze captures a condition in which Russia does not serve as a source of original meaning, but merely as an echo of foreign ones. It exists not as a generative center of reality, but as the shadow of a different reality. In psychological terms, an unintegrated shadow seeks to seize the subjectivity of its owner; herein lies its primary strength and its greatest threat. Because a shadow cannot exist without an object that casts it, Russia attempts to “establish its civilization” through aggression and militant ideological self-assertion. However, this “shadow subjectivity” is a symptom of a neurotic culture rather than a stable or sustainable order.
This “shadow” subjectivity, as opposed to a true or authentic one, is further reflected in the developmental model of Russian civilization proposed by the philosopher Alexander Dugin and subsequently outlined in a presentation by Alexander Kharichev, one of the Kremlin’s key state ideologues.
A fundamental characteristic of this ideological scheme is that Russian philosophy defines its identity and distinctness from the West exclusively through conflict and opposition. In this framework, a separate Russian civilization does not exist independently of its denial of the Western paradigm. This explains why Russian ideologists project their own reactive behavior onto Ukraine, labeling it “anti-Russia.” Because the Kremlin’s core ideology is essentially an “anti-Western” construct, Russia effectively becomes a geopolitical instrument for China. Beijing’s “Global Civilizations Initiative” serves as the broader theoretical canopy under which Putin seeks to legitimize his state-sponsored violence and madness.
In the realm of C.G. Jung’s psychoanalysis, the “Shadow” is an archetype representing the repressed, unaccepted, and marginalized elements of an individual or collective psyche. As a component of the collective unconscious, the Shadow exerts immense influence. This psychological lens clarifies the morbid fascination within Russian thought with thanatophilia—an obsession with death—which is frequently sexualized in the works of Russian authors like Alexander Prokhanov.
Russia has, in effect, been displaced from the central core of the Western-led global order. Consequently, its role has become purely “reactive” and secondary; it exists as a negation of the “Other”—primarily the West—rather than as a self-sufficient civilizational center. Russia has evolved into an eternal antithesis, a state that generates no original meaning beyond its own denials. By constantly positioning itself in opposition to a supposedly “degrading Western civilization,” it reinforces its status as a derivative entity.
The Kremlin’s geopolitical logic is frequently corroborated by its own leadership. In his recurring addresses—notably at the Valdai Discussion Club in October 2025—Vladimir Putin consistently asserts that the West refused to engage with him as an equal interlocutor or accept Russia as a peer partner. He frames the eastward expansion of NATO and the European Union as a deliberate policy of containment, accusing Western powers of encroaching upon the Kremlin’s traditional spheres of influence, including the Baltic states, Ukraine, and Georgia.
Conversely, the romanticization of the “inexplicable Russian soul” by certain European elites suggests that, for them, Russia serves as a vessel for repressed collective anxieties—specifically fears of chaos, total war, imperialism, and authoritarianism. Simultaneously, Russia projects its own internal “shadows”—such as societal disintegration and the loss of agency—onto the external world. The raw, existential violence depicted in the literature of Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Turgenev, and Nabokov continues to fascinate Western intellectuals, acting as a mirror for subconscious, forbidden impulses that have been suppressed by civilized society.
How the Power of the Shadow Was Formed
A closer examination of Dugin’s “Development of Russian Civilization” scheme reveals a pivotal starting point: the Great Schism of 1054—the mutual excommunication between Rome and Constantinople. Occurring in the same year as the death of Yaroslav the Wise, who had served as a vital arbiter in preventing internecine conflict, this schism played a decisive role in the evolution of Kyivan Rus.
The legitimacy of the Kyivan throne rested not only on military might but also on ecclesiastical sanction. Following 1054, Kyiv found itself increasingly reliant on the “external” spiritual support of Constantinople rather than Rome. Consequently, the stakes within the system of princely seniority were anchored in the Eastern Byzantine tradition, which became the primary source of prestige and canonical authority. While the death of Yaroslav and the Schism may not be definitive “triggers” for the ensuing power struggles, they fundamentally reformatted the framework of political and spiritual legitimacy in the region.
In 1097, Vladimir II Monomakh, the grandson of Yaroslav the Wise, convened the Council of Liubech in an attempt to halt territorial infighting and coordinate a unified defense against the Polovtsians. The logic of the Council’s decisions eventually led to Yuri Dolgoruky, one of Monomakh’s sons, receiving the Rostov-Suzdal lands as his patrimony. In 1108—four decades before the founding of Moscow—he was sent to reign in the northeast. Around 1111, Dolgoruky’s son, Andrei Bogolyubsky, was born to a Polovtsian princess.
Throughout his later years, Dolgoruky campaigned relentlessly for his ancestral inheritance—the Kyivan throne—until his death in 1157, which occurred amidst rumors of poisoning. His son, Andrei, who inherited his mother’s distinct features—once described by poets as having “slanting and greedy eyes”—spent his life witnessing his father’s desperate struggle for Kyiv. Ultimately, driven by a sense of humiliation and rejection by his own kin, Andrei Bogolyubsky led a coalition of princes on March 12, 1169, to burn and plunder the city of Kyiv.
While internecine conflict was common at the time, Bogolyubsky’s subsequent actions were unprecedented. Having secured the ultimate prize his father had sought for decades, he chose not to reign from Kyiv. Instead, he returned to Vladimir-on-Klyazma, taking with him the stolen Vyshgorod Icon of the Mother of God. This was a deliberate attempt to relocate the sacred and civilizational center of the Kyivan Rus empire from Kyiv to the Vladimir-Suzdal region. In modern terms, the policies of Dolgoruky and Bogolyubsky represent the earliest manifestations of political and spiritual separatism.
In July 2025, during a conversation with Vladimir Putin, Alexander Avdeev, the governor of the Vladimir region, offered a justification for Prince Andrei Bogolyubsky’s brutal sack of Kyiv in 1169. Avdeev purportedly cited documents explaining that Bogolyubsky’s animosity toward Kyiv stemmed from the belief that the city “sowed discord between Russian lands and families.”
While the authenticity of this quote remains unverified, the focus on familial conflict reinforces the hypothesis that Bogolyubsky’s hatred was driven by personal and dynastic grievances rather than purely geopolitical ones. The violent destruction of Kyiv can be viewed as Bogolyubsky’s reaction to the enduring psychological trauma inflicted by his family’s rejection. His subsequent attempt to transfer the seat of power from Kyiv to Vladimir, coupled with the systemic mistreatment of the Kyivan populace, was an act of profound revenge. Thus, the source of his behavior was the Shadow archetype, formed in his consciousness through familial alienation and manifesting as a destructive force that redirected the course of history.
Big Rus’ VS. Great Rus’
The historical narrative surrounding the naming of Ukraine continues to reflect the separatist trend initiated by Andrei Bogolyubsky, who sought to shift the center of influence away from Kyiv despite successfully capturing it. It is important to note that in the 12th century, both Vladimir and Suzdal were distant peripheries in comparison to Kyiv, the undisputed political and civilizational heart of the medieval empire.
This dynamic resurfaced in July 2014, when Mikhail Degtyarev, a deputy of the Russian State Duma, proposed officially renaming Ukraine “Little Russia” (Malorossiya). He pointed out that since the 14th century, Ukrainian territories had traditionally been referred to by this name. While the historical usage of the term is factually correct, the critical issue lies in the specific meaning and intent embedded within that designation.
As previously noted, the legitimacy of power in Kyiv was derived not only from military strength but also from its ecclesiastical ties to Constantinople. “Little Russia” (derived from the Greek “Μικρὰ Ῥωσσία”) was the Byzantine designation for the Kingdom of Rus’, specifically the Galician-Volyn state. In 1303, Patriarch Athanasius I of Constantinople and Emperor Andronicus II Palaeologus elevated the Galician diocese to the status of a metropolis. It was at this juncture that the name “Little Russia” became officially associated with the Galician-Volyn metropolis, distinguishing it from the northeastern territories, which began to be referred to as “Big Rus'” (“Μεγάλη Ῥωσσία”).
Yuriy-Boleslav II, the final monarch of the Galician-Volyn state, referred to himself in a 1335 charter as “dux totius Russiæ Minoris”—the Prince of all Lesser Rus. This ecclesiastical geography is echoed in documents from the 1340s and 1350s, which encompass the dioceses of Galicia, Lutsk, Przemysl, Volyn, Turiv, and Kholm within the boundaries of Lesser Rus.
In essence, the Byzantine term “Little Russia” denoted the Galician-Volyn state and its autonomous metropolis, which remained closely aligned with Byzantine spiritual and cultural values. Conversely, “Big Russia” (Μεγάλη Ῥωσσία or Megali Rossia) was understood purely in terms of its vast geographical size, not its inherent “greatness.” In this historical context, Big Russia was considered the periphery of Little Russia. While Little Russia served as the legitimate civilizational cradle of faith and knowledge, Big Russia was viewed as a frontier in need of spiritual guidance and colonization.
The inability to reconcile with their peripheral and secondary status, driven by psychological trauma and resentment, led the “Big Russians” to undergo a fundamental linguistic shift. The meaning of the term “velyká“—which in modern Ukrainian still denotes physical size—was transformed into the Russian “velikáya“, implying a moral or historical “greatness.” In the original Greek context, such a concept of splendor would have required entirely different terms, such as Μεγαλοπρεπής (Megaloprepís—magnificent) or Ἔνδοξος (Éndoxos—glorious).
Although Bogolyubsky had appropriated the sacred symbols of Kyiv, his successors were unwilling to remain a mere “large” periphery. Instead, they sought to construct a “great” metropolis. This turn, achieved through linguistic manipulation, suggests motivations that are psychological rather than political. It remains an unresolved paradox of history how a territory once regarded as the remote frontier of Rus’ culture could, within a few centuries, claim for itself the title of “the civilization of civilizations.”
Ontologically Void
During his address at the fifth Summit of First Ladies and Gentlemen, Volodymyr Zelenskyy stated:
“We know that Putin acquired basic ideas about morality in a sports club, from his coach, and this was a coach not only in judo, but more in criminal concepts.”
The President of Ukraine further noted that millions of Russians share a similar cognitive framework with the Russian dictator.The mentor who shaped Putin’s value system was Leonid Ionovich Usvyatsov, a Leningrad sambo and judo coach. Usvyatsov’s worldview is encapsulated in the epitaph he requested for his tombstone: “I am dead, but the mafia is immortal.”
Sergei Karaganov argues that the administrative and managerial legacy of the Mongol Empire remains deeply embedded in modern Russia. From this tradition—predicated on systemic violence and punitive measures—a hidden Russian ontology has emerged, where subjectivity is legitimized through force and carceral customs. In essence, the Russian state functions as an ontological “Zone” (Zona, Jail), where repression, surveillance, and rigid vertical subordination form the bedrock of the social order. This paradigm is sustained by two symbiotic ruling classes that have dominated Russian statehood for centuries: the “Vertukhai” (the overseers: NKVD, KGB, FSB) and the “Zeks” (the prisoners: organized crime, the corrupt elite, and the adherents of the AUE—”Prisoner’s Way of Life is Unified”—subculture).
Vladimir Putin serves as the undisputed leader of this ontological paradigm. In this hierarchy, his status is twofold: he is simultaneously the supreme “Chief Warden” and the ultimate “Authority” from the criminal underworld. Putin functions as a “Double-Headed Eagle of the AUE,” a figure who synthesizes the overseer and the convict into a single, unified matrix of being. This synthesis governs everything from state behavior and morality to the specific linguistic registers he employs—frequently punctuated by fenya (prison jargon). This matrix creates a closed cultural loop where the symbols of the state and the symbols of the underworld become indistinguishable.
This ethical and semantic code projects carceral morality onto the whole of society, establishing coexistence based on the principle that force is the sole arbiter of law. In this framework, the weak are inherently “guilty,” and “truth” is merely whatever serves the interests of the powerful. The supreme virtue is the capacity to dominate through fear. The most revered ethical standard is the “word of a boy” (slovo patsana). By definition, the “boy” is both a rebel against conventional social norms and a standard-bearer for the paradigm of “rightness through strength.” In Russia’s most impoverished regions, institutional norms have been entirely supplanted by criminal ones, mirroring the primal hierarchy of a pack—defined by alpha dominance and marginalized outcasts.
This ecosystem is extensively documented in Russian literature, notably in Dostoevsky’s “Crime and Punishment” and “Notes from the House of the Dead“, as well as Turgenev’s “Mumu“. These works explore the intersection of suffering, submission, and existential violence. Nevertheless, it remains clear that not all segments of Russian society are fully submerged in this “Vertukhai-Thief” ecosystem; internal forces persist that seek to escape this predatory cycle through various forms of resistance or withdrawal.
Ultimately, Russia manifests as an ontological void—a space that produces no intrinsic meaning other than as a reactive antithesis to the Western civilizational construct. Yet, because a total vacuum cannot be sustained, the “Shadow of Civilization” fills this void with a sophisticated ethical system rooted in systemic violence and thanatophilia.
Victory over the ontological void
A logical question arises: how does one combat a void? Counteracting emptiness is a futile endeavor. The same principle applies to the Jungian Shadow; the Shadow is inextricably linked to the object that rejects it. The only way to confront a void is to fill it with substantive content, and the only way to address the Shadow is to integrate it and bring it into the light. Consequently, victory over Russia in the cognitive sphere requires more than a mere catalog of its failings; it necessitates offering an alternative construct for identity.
Despite the ontological void, the Russian state continues to generate a primary value for approximately 130 million people worldwide: the experience of “Russianness.” When Russia is framed solely as an absolute evil, a collective defense mechanism is triggered—even among those who oppose Putin, corruption, and repression. Currently, the Kremlin elite—architects of the “ontological wasteland” and the “Zone” state—hold a monopoly on the concept of the “Homeland.” They have usurped the role of a civilizational core, a status they are fundamentally incapable of fulfilling. This monopoly is bolstered by the rhetoric of leaders like Xi Jinping and Donald Trump, who use “civilization” as a euphemism for authoritarianism.
A critical objective in the cognitive war is to provide a way for individuals to retain their identity without tethering it to the current Russian state. To dismantle the Kremlin’s influence, one must offer a choice that preserves a cultural code while excising the violence-centric Shadow archetype of the modern state. Kyiv, as the authentic guardian of the medieval heritage of Rus’, is uniquely positioned to provide this alternative. This is not a call for “fraternal peoples” or a “single people,” but rather an engagement with the “open code” of the frontier—a system that, a millennium ago, converted individuals to its values regardless of language or origin.
Post-WWII Europe constructed a culture of “conflict cancellation” designed to make war unthinkable. However, the “Never Again” narrative has been eclipsed by the Russian “We Can Do It Again” ethos. In its pursuit of humanism, Europe has confused the moral rejection of violence with a practical inability to stop an aggressor. By systematically excising the “warrior” archetype from its identity to avoid becoming an aggressor, Europe has left itself dependent on external protection—a role the United States is no longer guaranteed to fulfill.
Ukraine can establish an ecosystem that restores authentic meaning, replacing the imperial “codes” of the state. These new meanings must be rooted in institutional responsibility—a concept often avoided by the “good Russians” who prefer to blame Putin alone. To eliminate the existential threat, the apparatus of state coercion must be made impossible to privatize by any single group. This requires the total desacralization of power and the rejection of messianism as a pretext for violence. Power must be redefined as a mere service and procedure, returning true subjectivity to the individual. Only a reality where mobilization around a “King” or a “Shadow” is fundamentally impossible will secure Europe from eternal threat.
