Too often, Ukraine is imagined as a vast empty steppe, devoid of its people. Some in the West therefore suggest that giving up some of this expanse in exchange for peace with Russia should not be too big of a deal. Olga Burlyuk, associate professor at the University of Amsterdam, argues that such readiness for land concessions is deeply rooted in the European imagination of Ukraine.

Ukrainian deminer searches for land mines in a field in Donetsk region. Photo: ANP / Anatolii Stepanov / AFP

In a Facebook post from August 21, 2025, Kateryna Zarembo – a Ukrainian political scientist, policy analyst, award-winning writer and translator, a mother of four and now a paramedic in the Armed Forces of Ukraine – wrote about her appearance on an Italian political talk show the night before. The host repeatedly asked her, under various disguises, whether Ukrainian civilians ‘from the lands to be handed over to Russia’ had already been evacuated and how quickly that could be accomplished. When Zarembo responded with incredulity that no such ‘handing over’ of free Ukrainian territories to Russia was even imaginable, that people she met mere kilometers from the frontline were readying their children for the new school year – at a Ukrainian school, not a Russian one – and praying they never ought to move, the host thanked her for providing ‘an alternative view’ and, once off air, grumbled because ‘they had understood this to be a done-deal.’

It is just one example of how the idea of land concessions by Ukraine to Russia is a strong constant in the Western imaginary of how Russia’s war against Ukraine will end. The latest word twist in this regard – ‘Trump’s frantic dash for Ukraine peace’, as some called it – is to speak of land concessions as land swap. But how is it a swap if only Ukraine’s land is to be ceded?

The pornography of land concessions

Like Zarembo, I too have long been perplexed by such readiness – at times, even eagerness – of Western audiences (be it among political, analytical and media professionals or the general public) to have Ukraine give up its land to Russia. In fact, when I reflect on real-life conversations I have had on this topic, I observe that people get physically excited when broaching the question: ‘What will it be?! How much?! How soon?!’

In the non-stop media coverage of those who suffer from war-inflicted and other violence, the victims are reduced to (anonymous) exhibitionist objects for the viewers’ voyeuristic ends

Others have long coined the term ‘the pornography of pain’ to capture the phenomenon in which another’s pain is ‘obscenely titillating precisely because the humanitarian sensibility deemed it unacceptable, taboo.’ In the non-stop media coverage of those who suffer from war-inflicted and other violence, the victims are reduced to (anonymous) exhibitionist objects for the viewers’ voyeuristic ends. Susan Sontag added more layers to this in Regarding the Pain of Others (2003), her book-length essay on the uses and meanings of the images of war and the limits of human empathy. Yet others have used the term ‘the pornography of poverty’ to describe ‘the worst of the images that exploit the poor for little more than voyeuristic ends and where people are portrayed as helpless, passive objects.’

In a similar vein, I suggest we introduce the term ‘the pornography of land concessions’ to describe the phenomenon (widespread well beyond the case at hand) in which people get excited at the idea of giving up land that is not theirs for little more than curiosity and a game for the mind. As Kateryna Zarembo says in her above-mentioned Facebook post, ‘Your worldview can be so different, if you’re in a different world.’

What lies at the root of this readiness and even eagerness to have Ukraine give up its land? I have thought about this for years, and have resorted to several logical sets.

Partial explanations

I have explained it to myself, my students and my conversation counterparts using the general point that many people ‘do not know where Ukraine is.’ Despite Ukraine being the largest country in Europe, it is routinely missing from the mental maps of (Western) Europeans. And one cannot care about something one does not know.

I have explained this by highlighting the recurring pattern of ‘denying Ukraine agency’ and the omnipotence of Westsplaining in the knowledge production on this war – an argument colleagues and I develop in greater depth in our award-winning article on the subject. As a response to Westsplaining, Eastsplaining emerged – though with limited traction. (Notably, the University of Amsterdam did run a stellar public lecture series ‘Eastsplainers’ in 2023-2024.)

I have explained it by referring to ‘goldfish memory’ and the apparent collective amnesia about the fact that, in the absence of viable Western military, economic, and political support, Ukraine has de facto lost 7% of its land to Russia in 2014-2015 with the annexation of Crimea and the occupation of parts of Ukraine’s East. To be clear: 7% of Ukraine is more than 100% of the Netherlands, and Russia currently occupies 20% of Ukraine – a territory 2.75 times the size of the Netherlands. ‘Giving’ Russia 7% of Ukraine, however, did nothing to prevent further Russian aggression. To the contrary: this very land served as a platform for more. The same situation, the same reasoning, the same trap. In a span of ten years. Goldfish memory.

7% of Ukraine is more than 100% of the Netherlands, and Russia currently occupies 20% of Ukraine – a territory 2.75 times the size of the Netherlands

I have explained this apparent readiness for Ukraine to give up land through ‘not knowing how bad Russian occupation is.’ Without exaggeration, any sign of Ukrainianness on the Russian-occupied territories is an act of resistance and puts one’s life at risk. A situation that is twistedly ironic, considering Russia used the pretext of violations against Russian speakers for its invasion of Ukraine in 2014.

I have explained that ‘Ukrainian lives are not-so-grievable,’ following Judith Butler’s work on grievability. In their book Frames of War: When Is Life Grievable? (2016), Butler posits that grievability is the presupposition of a life that matters and that the ability to designate lives as grievable or expendable is a central quality of power structures. There are distinct international hierarchies at work: just think back to all the news reports on airplane crashes and terrorist attacks accompanied by a meticulous count of Americans, Brits, Western Europeans… in the total number of casualties. In this logic, a Ukrainian life is less grievable than, say, a Dutch life. Although still, as a student of mine argued in her thesis, Ukrainian lives are more grievable than Palestinian ones.

I have explained that this readiness for concessions simply means ‘taking Russia’s side,’ because there is a lot of that going around, too.

Ukraine in the European imagination

Each of these explanations has some merit; all of them are partial and unsatisfying. I always feel that something else is at play here; the well runs deeper yet. The work of Volodymyr Yermolenko, a Ukrainian philosopher, writer and journalist, finally gave me a clue.

In his latest book Eros and Psyche: On love and culture in Europe (2023), in the essay ‘Byron, Mazepa and the eros of romanticism’, Yermolenko scrutinizes the portrayal in the Western European cultural canon of Ivan Mazepa, the Hetman of Ukraine in late 17th-early 18th centuries. In a fascinating non-chronological manner, Yermolenko guides the reader through the portrayal of Ivan Mazepa in Voltaire's History of Charles XII (1731) and a long list of influential works it inspired throughout the 19th century: Lord Byron’s narrative poem ‘Mazeppa’ (1819), Théodore Géricault’s painting ‘Mazeppa’ (1820), Eugene Delacroix’s painting ‘Mazeppa on the Dying Horse’ (1824), Horace Vernet’s painting ‘Mazeppa and the Wolves’ (1826), Victor Hugo’s poem ‘Mazeppa’ (1829), and Franz Liszt’s symphonic poem ‘Mazeppa’ (1851-54). (By way of a sidenote: now that ‘Kyiv, not Kiev’ campaign had some success, Ukrainians should consider launching a ‘Mazepa, not Mazeppa’ one.)

There are far more artworks on the subject than Yermolenko discusses in his essay: my follow-up research shows that the Louvre catalogue alone lists nine additional pieces on ‘Mazeppa’. Still, it is the works cited above that came to form the core of the Western European cultural canon on the theme – consistent across literature, fine art, and music – and that shaped both the Europeans’ cultural reference image of Ukraine and, through it, their geopolitical imaginary.

And you know what these all have in common? They repeatedly and consistently portray Ukraine as an empty steppe. Not a village, not a house, not a person in sight (occasionally, a wolf, though). A wild, endless, deserted land-scape. Byron uses the word desert (sic!) for Ukraine and describes it as a land of emptiness, other-worldliness, the afterlife, in which his Mazeppa does not encounter a single living creature for days on end. The Ukrainian steppe in Delacroix’s painting appears as ‘a true “nature morte”, “dead nature”, as if parched by the fire of the angel of apocalypse. […] an un-natural or super-natural world. The world on the other side of life, on the other side of civilization,’ to quote Yermolenko. Liszt’s symphony – with ‘its impatience, dynamics, rhythm, an existential sprint’ – is ‘an arrow shot into the empty space of the Ukrainian steppes’, ‘the sound of moving through the emptiness in which there is no one, nothing to constrain you, no resistance’, to quote Yermolenko again. This same imagery permeates other artworks reviewed in Yermolenko’s essay (and I reviewed them all) and others I discovered in my research for this essay.

Re-reading Byron and Hugo might be too big an ask, but do look at the paintings and listen to Liszt’s symphony (it’s under 15 minutes!) – and you will immediately understand what Yermolenko observed and what so resonated with me.

Linking back to the present-day wartime conundrum, I submit to you this: it is because Ukraine exists (to the extent that it even exists) in the cultural and geopolitical imaginary of the West as empty land that there is no loss seen in giving up some of this land! This here is the deeper cultural underpinning of the pornography of land concessions which I have discussed in the paragraphs above.

Ukraine as an ‘Other’ unlike others

In his essay, Yermolenko remarks that such portrayal of Ukraine as empty fundamentally differs from the portrayal of Europe’s Oriental ‘Other’. Indeed, put simply, the Orient is a some-where else with a some-one else, a distant land with a different people and a distinct culture. As Edward Said demonstrated in Orientalism (1978), this European construction is pejorative at its core and serves to advance (neo)colonial endeavours of European states. But however twisted, stereotyped and fetishized Europe’s Oriental ‘Other’ is, it remains desirable for Europe (even if for all the wrong reasons).

There are more ‘Others’ in Europe besides Ukraine, which I would like to add to the mix to extend Yermolenko’s observation.

Another ‘Other’ for Europe is the Balkans. In Imagining the Balkans (1997), Maria Todorova articulates Balkanism as distinct from Orientalism and points out that, while both are exercises in pejorative cultural stereotyping for political gains, the Orient is an essentially desirable ‘Other’ with certain admirable traits and the Balkans is a vastly un-desirable one with a bagful of wicked characteristics. For the purposes of this essay, however, it is important that the Balkans is also seen as a some-where else with a some-one else, a distant land with a different people and a distinct culture.

Russia is however respectfully framed as sui generis and endowed with a mysterious soul. It is a some-where else so large that ‘big’ is mistaken for ‘great’, and ‘great’ – for ‘grand’

Yet another ‘Other' for Europe is Russia. Not quite the Orient, cast as perpetually in transition and civilizationally behind, Russia is however respectfully framed as sui generis and endowed with a mysterious soul. It is a some-where else so large that ‘big’ is mistaken for ‘great’, and ‘great’ – for ‘grand’. It is a some-where else with a some-one else so ruthless and despotic that it is to be feared and ‘approached with caution’. Desirable for some, undesirable for others, exciting for all, Russia too is a distant land with a different people and a distinct culture. One could even suggest that Russia might consider handing out some of its land, being the world’s largest country due to centuries of imperial conquest and the systematic ‘emptying’ of this land of population, through the violent erasure of indigenous peoples that this imperial conquest entails even today; but that’s for another essay.

Compared to these three ‘Others’ (the Orient, the Balkans, and Russia), Ukraine is cast as the ‘Other’ where there is … no other. In the public imagination, there are no ‘others’ in this empty steppe, no one living on the land which Russia claims. There is no one to find desirable or undesirable in the empty steppe. Ukraine is an instance of empty-ness rather than other-ness. It is just land. And, let me repeat myself: since it is just land, there is no harm in losing some. Following centuries of portraying Ukraine as an empty steppe in (Western) European cultural canon, we arrive at the present-day pornography of land concessions under the pretext of seeking ‘peace for Ukraine’.

Let me counter this imaginary – and end this essay – with an artwork by a Ukrainian artist Bogdana Chilikina: ‘TUT LYUDY’ (‘PEOPLE HERE’). There are people here. A simple, necessary, crucial reminder I make at the start of every talk I give on Russia’s war against Ukraine.

Artwork by a Ukrainian artist Bogdana Chilikina: ‘TUT LYUDY’ (‘PEOPLE HERE’). Used with the artist's permission.