Words are deceptive. The existence of the dictionary, years of vocabulary exercises in our youth, and verbal GRE study cards suggest a stable, definite quality to our lexicon. But “words,” as Slavoj Žižek reminds us, “are never ‘only words’.” Words are neither static nor amorphous ‘things’, but nebulous and contested political, cultural, social, and historical spaces. Words are not unlike a UFC match, where the ring’s cage-like barriers are seemingly fixed, but realistically flexible and sometimes violently permeable. Within the ring, the forces of politics, culture, and society duke it out for the win: the power to manipulate and redefine the word to suit their respective purposes. Sometimes, one champion reigns; other times, he becomes displaced. The cycle is continuous and uncertain. And it all occurs in front of a cheering and jeering audience that assesses and interprets the events playing out before them in myriad ways based on loyalties, desired outcomes, and the power of suggestibility.
A few weeks ago, Anne Applebaum wrote an article for Slate showcasing the “smears,
stereotypes, and clichés” commonly used in Ukrainian and Russian media and political rhetoric to define the
crisis in Ukraine. Applebaum lists seven of the most common: ‘fraternal assistance’, ‘anti-terrorist operation’, ‘coup d’etat’,
‘Nazi', 'fascist’, ‘ethno-linguistic divisions', and 'Yugoslav situation’. Each has exceptional emotionally,
culturally, and historically loaded connotations in Ukrainians' and Russians' living
memories. Applebaum further illustrates
how these words and phrases are being re-purposed and utilized by a variety of
politically-minded groups to rally popular support for themselves or popular
antagonism against their ideological, social, and political foes, primarily through emotional pandering. As the crisis deepens, these terms will become even
more slippery and continue to transfigure and metamorphose.
But this Frankenstein-esque reanimation of words and phrases is
not limited to Ukraine and Russia. Western rhetoric is also complicit in constructing
analogies and pandering to emotions based on national and cultural historical memory. John Baird, Canada’s Foreign Affairs Minister, called Russia’s troop presence in Crimea “straight out of the Cold War.” An op-ed piece in the New York Times referenced the threat
Russia potentially poses to the “post-Soviet world”. More recently, Western politics and media have been inclined toward a ‘Crimea as the new Sudetenland’ analogy, apparent in Baird’s
interview and King’s piece. The Huffington Post and The Australian also ran articles with this analogy at the forefront. And then there
are the oft-referenced bits about ‘democracy’ and ‘freedom’, the ultimate American stereotypes and clichés. This is perhaps best illustrated by US Secretary of State John
Kerry's assessment of the Ukrainian mood during his recent visit to Kyiv: “It is universal, it is unmistakable,this call for freedom.” Yet Ukraine’s provisional government’s attempted elimination of a law allowing official
representation of regional, minority languages is a keen example of how words are politically and culturally constructed
battlegrounds. It begs the question of what, exactly, ‘freedom’ and 'democracy' mean in this context, and to and for whom.
“Words matter,” as Žižek reiterates.
It is often said that the past informs the present. But we can also use the present to
reflect upon the past in our work as historians. In
your own research, how much attention do you give to words, their meanings, applications, and intents -- and the nuances within those spaces? How often do
you consider what words mean in a specific context or source? How conscious are you of your own cultural
associations and biases against a word or phrase? How much thought do you give to the
historical and/or cultural distance between yourself and the word you’re trying to define? Have you ever discovered indeterminateness in the use and meaning of words and phrases where you expected stability?
