History as an Action Plan

We've reached a point where the present is beginning to resemble a Soviet-era joke:

"Radio Yerevan, is it possible to predict the future?"

"In principle, no problem. It's the past that’s more difficult—it keeps changing."

Slovenia’s independence is undoubtedly one of the most important turning points in the country’s history. Preserving the historical memory of all phases of our state-building should be a matter of national consensus. If anything, we should be worried about the possibility of a Museum of Contemporary History without a collection that professionally presents the period in which Slovenian citizens won not only an independent state, but also the right to decide their own future.

We founded our country on the values of liberal democracy. That’s why it would be absurd—God forbid—if someone tried to use this pivotal chapter of our past to promote illiberal populism.

But it’s not just Slovenes who struggle with history—this is a European problem. Some are doing everything they can to forget it. From a human perspective, that’s understandable. No one has accumulated as much horrific history in the past hundred years as Europeans have—not only in Europe but beyond. Historian Timothy Snyder calls this intentional collective amnesia the "politics of inevitability"—a stubborn belief that we can secure a brighter future only by forgetting all the conflicts, suffering, and darkness of the past.

This belief is grounded in the naïve idea of the "end of history"—that the future will forever be just a better version of the present. History is reduced to ritual slogans like “Never again.”

In Slovenia, a very popular slogan is that we must stop dividing ourselves into Home Guard collaborators and Partisans. Optimism, faith, and forward-looking perspectives are, of course, not inherently wrong. The problem arises when intentional forgetting leads us to ignore warnings that things are moving in the wrong direction. The late British historian Tony Judt also described this incredible faith in the absolute uniqueness of the present and the belief that we have nothing left to learn from the past.

The problem with a social project based on progressive civilizational values but deliberately forgetful of its dark chapters is that people—lacking both lived experience and critical historical knowledge—are no longer able to fully grasp the importance of those values. They don’t know—or don’t want to know—what can happen (because it already has, as Primo Levi wrote) when there is no more democracy, no more human rights, no more respect for human dignity, and no more humanity.

This isn’t just theoretical. A few years ago, a study by Yascha Mounk and Roberto Foa showed that only a third of young people in the Netherlands believed it was important to live in a democracy. And just recently, on Holocaust Remembrance Day, data was released showing that nearly a quarter of young Dutch people born after 1980 believe the Holocaust is a myth or that its death toll has been greatly exaggerated.

Two years ago, Timothy Garton Ash and Antonia Zimmermann published a study showing that more than half of young Europeans place more trust in authoritarian regimes than in democracies when it comes to addressing the climate crisis. To paraphrase Tito: “With youth like this, the nation has every reason to fear for its future.”

But let’s not only blame the young. The attitudes of older generations are often even worse—and unlike the young, they have no excuse. They know, and they remember.

To a degree, the “politics of inevitability” in Slovenia could be embodied by former president Borut Pahor, whose complacency in facing historical atavisms often bordered on innocent naïveté. His concept of national reconciliation, wrapped in a white marble fog of forgetfulness, was like a Slovenian version of Vinterberg’s Festen, where family members, under the baton of a self-admiring patriarch, sing through gritted teeth:

"We love each other. We really, really do."

The politics of inevitability falters the moment this supposedly unprecedented present becomes a disappointment for those who feel neglected, forgotten, economically, socially, and politically marginalized. Then, the idea of an endless extension of the current status quo ceases to inspire optimism and instead breeds discomfort, anger, and fear of the future.

That’s when—and that’s how—the “politics of eternity” gains traction. This is the populist strategy of framing the present as constantly under threat, trapped in a loop of return to some glorified (or invented) moment in the past. That moment—ritualized and manipulated—becomes the basis on which authoritarian populism builds its myth of martyrdom and heroism, claiming exclusive legitimacy for its ideological narrative and demand for dominance.

Instead of offering hope or promises of a better future, populism offers a bitter and angry people only the stoking of hatred—blaming supposed scapegoats for their suffering.

Instructive examples of the politics of eternity include Serbia’s obsession with the Battle of Kosovo and Orbán’s sabre-rattling over the Treaty of Trianon—both more political fiction than historical fact. The most current example, of course, is Russia’s Putinist interpretation of World War II—referred to there as the “Great Patriotic War.” While the Red Army’s crucial role in defeating Nazism and the massive sacrifices of the Soviet Union should never be downplayed, what stands out is the sanitized, ritualized narrative that ignores everything that happened before Germany’s invasion of the USSR—including the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact—and minimizes the Holocaust because it disrupts the narrative of uniquely Russian suffering.

In Russia’s collective consciousness, WWII has been reduced to a duel between Russia and Nazism—one in which Russia, or the Soviet Union, was the lone victor. From this narrative springs the myth of Russia as the “chosen nation,” entitled to do whatever its leader deems necessary in defence of its “sacred historical mission.”

The tragic consequence of this “politics of eternity” is the abuse of WWII memory to justify Russian aggression against Ukraine—under the pretence of “denazification” and the “liberation of suffering Ukrainian brothers,” leaving Putin, the self-proclaimed “anti-fascist,” with “no choice” but to attack and destroy a neighbouring state.

"Just like back then, the entire West is once again siding with the Nazis," Russian political and media warmongers declared on the 80th anniversary of the Battle of Stalingrad.

We in Slovenia also struggle with understanding history. We've even managed to argue over the organizational framework for professionally presenting the history of our independence in a museum. Don’t be distracted by the patriotic posturing or the ultimatums and motions of no confidence—at its core, that’s what this is really about. All the accusations of being “unpatriotic,” of denying or renouncing this chapter in our history, are both inaccurate and indecent. They're being weaponized in a culture war to polarize society into “us” and “them.”

This is an attempt to transform historical truth and collective memory—something that belongs to all of us—into a political Groundhog Day, where we wake up every morning in a spun version of June 1991. But we don’t need that. Slovenian independence deserves a politics that respects historical facts—not one that rewrites them.

At the time of writing, I don’t yet know what will come of the “action plan” announced at a recent press conference by some indignant independence-era leaders. To be honest, I’m not that interested. I don’t wish to diminish the significant roles they played in Slovenia’s independence. But that doesn’t mean all credit belongs solely to them—nor does it give them the exclusive right to interpret that history.

That right belongs to historians. And no one can claim or alter the political legacy of independence. It is inscribed and protected in our constitution.

Finally, to those who say they're doing nothing more than what the previous regime did for half a century: yes, precisely that—and one of the main reasons why Slovenians overwhelmingly supported and participated in independence was our determination to never again let anyone do that to us.

People fight for historical truth and professional historical presentation of our independence not because they don’t care—but because they do. Because they love their country and are proud of it. And sometimes, precisely because of that love, they are also critical.

That’s what separates genuine patriotism from nationalism.