The limits of gratitude by Edoardo Moretti

The decision to send Prime Minister Yulia Svyrydenko rather than President Volodymyr Zelenskiy to a major recovery forum in Poland has inevitably invited speculation. Officially, it appears to be a practical effort to prevent a diplomatic disagreement from overshadowing a conference devoted to reconstruction and investment. Unofficially, it serves as another reminder that the relationship between Ukraine and Poland has never been quite as simple as the popular wartime narrative suggests.

From the first days of Russia’s full-scale invasion, Poland emerged as Ukraine’s most enthusiastic advocate. Millions of refugees crossed the border. Polish households opened their doors. The Polish government became one of Kyiv’s loudest supporters within NATO and the European Union. In much of the Western press, the two countries were presented as partners united by a common threat and bound by a shared vision of European security.

Yet history has a way of refusing neat storylines. The assumption that Russian aggression erased every disagreement between Warsaw and Kyiv was always more hopeful than realistic. Beneath the remarkable solidarity of the past few years lies a relationship shaped by centuries of competing memories, territorial disputes, and unresolved historical wounds. These tensions did not disappear when Russian tanks crossed the border in February 2022. They merely became less visible.

The most difficult issue remains the legacy of the Second World War, particularly the massacres in Volhynia and Eastern Galicia. For many Poles, these events are not distant historical footnotes but defining national traumas. For many Ukrainians, the figures associated with those events occupy a far more complicated place in national memory, often intertwined with narratives of resistance against Soviet domination. Neither side has found a language that fully satisfies the other.

History, however, is only one layer of the problem. Economic interests have repeatedly collided despite declarations of friendship. Disputes over grain exports exposed how quickly strategic solidarity can encounter domestic political realities. Polish farmers, concerned about competition, demanded protection. Ukrainian officials argued that wartime circumstances required flexibility and support. Both governments spoke the language of partnership while defending their own constituencies. Neither was willing to absorb significant political costs for the other.

This is not hypocrisy. It is politics. The romantic notion that nations permanently transcend their interests during moments of crisis rarely survives contact with reality. Poland sees itself as a frontline state carrying substantial burdens for regional security. Ukraine sees itself as a nation fighting for survival and expects understanding from its allies. Both perspectives contain truth. Both can also generate resentment.

The current diplomatic friction should therefore surprise no one. What is remarkable is not that disagreements exist, but that they remained relatively contained for as long as they did. The extraordinary cooperation of recent years was real. So too are the differences now resurfacing.

Relationships between neighboring nations are rarely defined by a single emotion. They are mixtures of gratitude, rivalry, admiration, frustration, memory, and self-interest. Ukraine and Poland exemplify this complexity. They need one another strategically, yet they continue to view parts of their shared past through fundamentally different lenses.

The recovery forum may proceed more smoothly without presidential-level tensions dominating headlines. But the gesture also acknowledges a deeper reality: alliances forged by necessity do not automatically erase history. They merely postpone the moment when history asks to be heard again.