As Russia invaded Ukraine, the troops weren’t merely armored vehicles and weapons that entered the country. With the invasion came a blatant propaganda effort—one replete with manipulated historical allusions. At its center was an assertion that seemed both ridiculous and immensely disturbing to many: that Ukraine had to be “denazified.
President Vladimir Putin didn’t pull any punches. In his address declaring the so-called “special military operation,” he described Ukraine’s government as a neo-Nazi regime, asserting that Russia was intervening to liberate its neighbor from fascist domination. The irony, naturally, is beyond ignore—Ukraine’s president is Jewish, had family killed in the Holocaust, and heads a democratically elected government. But that hasn’t prevented Russian state media and official sources from repeated assertions of the rumor.
For the record, yes, Ukraine, as with most nations, does have some far-right extremist fringes. The Azov Regiment is the most well-known example. It was created in the early, volatile days of the Donbas war and was integrated into Ukraine’s National Guard back in 2014. But they are a tiny minority compared to the remainder of Ukraine’s military.
Experts, such as researchers of extremism, such as those at the University of Oslo, point out that the majority of Azov’s volunteers enlist because the unit is reputed to be disciplined and efficient, not because they believe in any extremist ideology. And if you compare far-right activity in Ukraine with far-right activity in several Western European nations—indeed, even within Russia itself—the difference is extreme.
But facts don’t appear to cut it in this instance. Russia’s narrative machine has been in high gear since the annexation of Crimea, relentlessly pounding away at the notion that Ukraine is full of neo-Nazis. It’s a tactic that relies on past anxieties, playing on the memory of World War II—a memory that continues to course through Russian identity.
This type of narrative conflict isn’t new. In the Soviet era, whoever advocated for Ukrainian sovereignty or looked toward the West was instantly labeled a “Banderite,” a pejorative term associated with nationalist activist Stepan Bandera.
The objective was always one: discredit, dehumanize, and delegitimize. The same strategy is being employed on a greater, international level. By invoking the specter of Nazism, the Kremlin is attempting to tap into powerful emotional resonance, not only to legitimize its behavior but also to rally support domestically.
Within Russia, this rhetoric resonates particularly painfully. The defeat of Nazi Germany remains one of the nation’s finest moments. Drawing on that heritage provides the government with a convenient emotional hook—one that frames events today not as a war of choice, but as an extension of a justified fight against fascism. Putin’s addresses tend to sound like a reverse history lesson, full of Nazis, Western conspiracies, and a chivalrous Russian quest to deliver humanity from despotism.
But the implications of this aren’t rhetorical. They’re actual. Distorting the memory of the Holocaust and using words such as “genocide” and “denazification” so freely has a consequence, not simply to public opinion but on the ground. It obscures lines, confuses global audiences, and gives cover to violence under a false moral umbrella. Holocaust historians have cautioned that this sort of revisionism doesn’t simply disrespect history—it facilitates damage.
Consider the Nazis themselves. They mastered the art of euphemism, applying generic terms such as “evacuation” and “resettlement” to cover up heinous atrocities. The terminology was cleansed, but the motive was never unclear. Now, when Russian authorities accuse Ukraine of perpetrating genocide against Russian speakers—a charge thoroughly refuted by historians—they’re drawing from the same arsenal of falsification, only with updated mechanisms.
There has been pushback, naturally. Historians, world leaders, and human rights organizations have denounced the manipulation of Holocaust memory. Some organizations have even initiated investigations into suspected war crimes. But once a myth this large is out there, it’s difficult to corral. As many have pointed out, the purpose here isn’t merely to win a war—it’s to control the narrative, to make truth itself seem pliable.
What all of this reminds us is that history is not strictly about the past. It’s a battlefield in and of itself, where stories, symbols, and memories are ever weaponized. And in the digital age, the consequences are even more seveHowhich we react to this sort of narrative warfare will dictate not merely the way the conflict at hand is remembered, but the way future generations approach truth, history, and justice itself.