Why the Russian-Ukrainian Conflict Cannot Be Fully Compared to Vietnam or the Iran-Iraq War

For a long time, I’ve been reflecting on how the humanistic philosophy of the 20th century, at the dawn of international relations, fundamentally differs from the pseudo-humanism of today. However, the question remains. The anti-war movement during the Vietnam War was a powerful and prominent phenomenon, still visible in culture today, and it significantly influenced U.S. politics. In Iran and Iraq, there were significant insurgent groups, with Iran’s consisting of both communists and other factions.

In Russia and Ukraine, however, such movements, if they exist, are terribly fragmented, clumsy, and spontaneous. Civil society in both countries is generally highly patriotic. If we consider the opposition in both nations, it has split into factions. Over the past three years, there are hardly any left who are against everyone.

As a result, against the backdrop of a powerful state propaganda system, strict censorship, and the absence of universal conscription, the anti-war discourse is barely visible online and in narrow expert discussions but does not spill onto the streets. On the contrary, it can be described as a very quiet, almost underground protest, one might say, adaptive. This applies particularly to Russia.

In Ukraine, despite the horrific mobilization, relentless combat, and the destruction of entire cities and villages, protests and uprisings, if they occur, are practically insignificant. Even the uprising against the TCC in Ivano-Frankivsk quickly fizzled out. Something similar could be observed in the Syrian scenario, where the front also remained static for a long time, with little significant progress after ISIS.

Despite the technologies of total surveillance and the instant spread of “war imagery” through social media, the concept of humanism has become more declarative, and the fear of personal involvement is less collective. In 21st-century conflicts, battles are often fought by contract soldiers, mercenaries, or proxy groups, which diminishes the direct connection between “civilian” and “military.”

So why does this conflict not give rise to a unified and noticeable anti-war movement? What changes in the political landscape and public consciousness prevent the emergence of a “second Vietnam”? Or has it taken on a newer form?

From a philosophical perspective, modern anti-war protests are often framed as a defense of “international law” in its Eurocentric interpretation. Both left and right activists appeal to the same set of legal norms and principles—from the UN Charter to the norms of “responsibility to protect.” But the paradox is that Russia, while declaring its desire to break free from Western dominance and advocate for “multipolarity,” in practice reproduces the same logic.

The anti-war discourse relies on the notion of the “right of the strong” and the “right of the weak,” cemented by Western legal institutions. States that violate this set of norms are automatically labeled “pariahs,” justifying any external intervention. Russia, striving for the status of a “normal player,” is forced to appeal to the same legal frameworks, merely proposing its own conditions—from demands for formal consultations on sanctions to negotiations for new security agreements.

In other words, you understand correctly: Russia does not embark on a national-liberation path but instead tries to negotiate the most favorable terms of peace in a Western manner. It seeks its own TNCs, corporations, markets, and resource extraction while maintaining alignment with the capitals of Europe and America.

Instead of direct military aggression, Russia bets on controlling energy markets and agricultural exports, aiming to dictate the “rules of the game” in formats familiar to the West—from the WTO to “nuclear” agreements. This model is no different from the Western “neocolonial” economy: just as large U.S. or European corporations established trade and financial rules, the Russian elite, like any other elite that suddenly realizes its predatory role through accumulated wealth from dependent development, attempts to assert its demands through force. Hence the efforts to secure rare-earth agreements or control northern trade routes—without prioritizing naval development.

Conflicts with Brazil and India are struggles for better terms in oil, gas, and grain supplies, for the right to impose terms on their own conditions. At the same time, Russian leadership tirelessly repeats that “southern countries” must seriously consider Russia’s interests, which resembles a demand for a privileged regime within the same system. BRICS, in this context, is merely an attempt to bypass the ideological frameworks of the West, not a genuine restructuring of the world order. Honestly, we wouldn’t call a corporate summit of, say, Yandex or Sberbank a new world order, would we?

The Iran issue illustrates another duality: on one hand, Russia supports the nuclear deal as a guarantor of legal “normalcy”; on the other, it continues economic and military cooperation with Tehran, ignoring many Western restrictions. Public consent for “restricting Iran” is again shaped through the lens of Eurocentrism—“prevent others from possessing weapons”—while Russia’s own status as a nuclear power fits neatly into the “legal” context through formal procedures.

The Russian-Ukrainian conflict cannot be reduced to the classic 20th-century “aggressor-victim” dichotomy. It is an entanglement of global legal norms, resource interests, and historical narratives, where each side tries to play by the same rules but with different arrangements of pieces.

But what does this have to do with the anti-war movement? Why, then, does it not emerge within the framework of anticolonial or irredentist struggles?

In the anticolonial wars of the 20th century, the conflict primarily involved colonists and the indigenous populations of occupied territories, but the metropole remained relatively safe: colonists were usually volunteers or professional troops, and conscription rarely affected the broader masses. Similarly, in irredentist movements (e.g., in Kurdistan or the Balkans), combat was localized, and large-scale population mobilization was the exception rather than the rule. Even in Rojava or with the Peshmerga, many were mercenaries or representatives of local tribes and ethnic groups. Thus, Yugoslavia did not turn into continuous fronts, as we see today, but rather consisted of numerous guerrilla wars and local formations.

In Russia today, the war barely touches the majority: mobilization involves contract soldiers and veterans, and the “level of conscription” remains low. 300,000 out of nearly 145 million people is negligible. The DPR and LPR are not counted here. For the average citizen, the conflict is primarily a TV screen and newsfeed, not a threat to their own life or career.

Deindustrialization and economic instability have made contract service one of the few paths to stable income and social guarantees. Hundreds of thousands of young people join the army not out of patriotism but out of necessity: salary, housing, pensions. The anti-war protest that in the West was based on the threat of conscription and the conviction of “I don’t want to give my life for others’ interests” loses its force here: contract soldiers know they are making a choice for their own well-being, and there is practically no one to collectively reject this “bribe of fate.”

In democratic countries, modern anti-war movements often appeal to the “rule of law”—the UN Charter, Geneva Conventions, international courts. In the post-Soviet space, this creates cognitive dissonance: first, the legitimacy of these norms is discredited by many (seen as “Western imposition”); second, defending them under strict internal censorship automatically brands one as an “agent of influence.” As a result, any deviation from state narratives is perceived not as a civic stance but as “betrayal of national interests.”

This is compounded by the psychology of the entire post-Soviet space.

After the collapse of the USSR, many experienced a sense of “abandonment” and “rupture” with the past. Traditional history serves as a cocoon, an attempt to preserve at least remnants of connection to the era of the country’s greatness and power. The desire to protect a newly regained or lost homeland’s integrity outweighs abstract humanistic ideas. This is true not only in Russia but also in other countries claiming a leading role, if not across the entire CIS, as with Ukraine and Russia, then at least regionally, as with Azerbaijan, Georgia, Uzbekistan, and others.

The expectation of a “strong leader who knows what to do,” reinforced by the Soviet experience of “controlling everything from above,” undermines belief in self-organization and street protests. Unfortunately, the Soviet experience, albeit distorted by propaganda, nationalist movements, and intense pressure from TNCs abroad, plays a significant role here.

However, psychology is not limited to this.

Finally, an important role is played by the socio-cultural divide between the urban middle class, raised on “Western” values, and regional communities where patriotic traditions are stronger.

The youth of major cities studied in universities with Western curricula, worked in international IT companies and startups, actively consumed English-language media, and participated in local expat communities. For them, “anti-Russian” rhetoric became a marker of belonging to the global elite of human rights advocates and liberals. They formed the backbone of the Navalny movement.

They appeal to universal human rights, freedoms, and pluralism, viewing the anti-war movement as part of a global “activist scene.” Yet, they often fail to account for local historical contexts and the real socio-economic problems of the regions, which makes them seem elitist, detached from reality, and sometimes outright irrational. If you’ve seen the 2024 documentary Age of Dissent, you’ll understand the mindset I’m referring to.

In small towns and villages, people rely on familiar communities—factory unions, military codes, “neighborly” mutual aid, family ties, and sometimes communal, Cossack, or diaspora-based networks. Any action “against one’s own” is automatically interpreted as betrayal. Red-banner traditions, stories of “hero-liberators,” and regular “flashmobs” in support of the army foster an emotional connection with the official narrative. However, this applies primarily to Russia; in other countries, the situation is even more complex and challenging.

The elites of Ukraine, Georgia, Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, and others have long sought integration into European structures—essentially following the Western path: opening markets to TNCs, adopting “Western” governance standards, and lobbying for anti-Russian sanctions. For these groups, Russia became not a partner but a “redundant intermediary”—merely a supplier of oil, gas, and agricultural products, obstructing direct dialogue with the EU and the U.S.

While the urban opposition in these countries views Russia solely as a hostile giant, regional populations within CIS countries see things differently: many Azerbaijanis or Georgians in border areas remain tied to Russia through labor migration, family bonds, and shared cultural traditions, adding another layer of complexity to achieving a unified anti-war consensus.

The Russian-Ukrainian conflict cannot be fully understood without considering the multitude of “parallel worlds”: from progressive cities to the hinterlands, from strategic elites to ordinary consumers of Russian resources. It is precisely this multiplicity of perspectives that makes a massive, homogeneous anti-war protest, like those of Vietnam or the anticolonial movements of the 20th century, impossible. Where anti-war movements were mass and influential (Vietnam, the “Third World” during decolonization), they relied on the direct threat of conscription, a broad ideological spectrum, and trust in international law as the ultimate authority. In post-Soviet Russia, the same factors—contract armies, economic incentives, skepticism toward “international courts,” and deep psychological traumas—create fertile ground for conformism and patriotic unity, not for legalized and public protest.

Any attempt to unite the entire post-Soviet space would either require overcoming anti-war contradictions to form a supranational union, reminiscent of the Soviet model, or pursuing irredentism and unification through various tools—unfortunately, not without military action against elites unwilling to align. Herein lies the paradox of today’s anti-war movement: without integration into the global context, it must accept a regional role, which means confronting not only local but also external elites, potentially sliding into the tracks of a national-liberation war. Thus, an anti-war movement quickly ceases to be anti-war.

Telegram: @ShapkaSchpree