A peaceful settlement in Ukraine will have profound consequences for the entire European continent. The European members of the political West will find themselves at a crossroads: either acknowledge the transformed security realities and engage in equitable, meaningful dialogue with Russia—taking its legitimate concerns into account—or prepare for a protracted confrontation with the aim of military revenge. The latter path would represent the worst possible embodiment of the historical analogy with twentieth-century Finland, writes Valdai Discussion Club Programme Director Anton Bespalov.
Since the end of 2021—amid escalating tensions between Russia and the West over Ukraine, and especially following the launch of the special military operation—both sides have invoked the same historical parallel, selectively drawing on different aspects of it. This parallel concerns the conflict and eventual reconciliation between the Soviet Union and Finland during the twentieth century.
For Ukraine and its Western allies, the Soviet-Finnish War of 1939–40 served as proof that a small state could successfully resist a powerful neighbour. “In the Winter War, the Finns demonstrated to the rest of the world that a small and militarily inferior country can thwart the ambitions of a large and militarily superior one. That demonstration should give Ukrainians courage as they, too, face the prospect of a winter war,” wrote Foreign Policy columnist Elizabeth Braw in December 2021, in an article revealingly titled “What Ukraine Can Learn from Finland.”
The circumstances preceding both the Winter War and the current conflict made this parallel particularly tempting. Both cases were portrayed as a former imperial centre’s endeavour to reassert control over its borderlands, interrupting two decades of independent development in Finland’s case, and three in Ukraine’s. The Soviet Union justified its military action against Finland by the latter’s refusal to make territorial concessions in a strategically vital area. Similarly, Russia’s “military-technical measures” followed the West’s dismissal of its proposals for a new European security architecture—proposals explicitly demanding that its interests in the region be taken into account.
Perhaps the next twist in this story could still serve as motivation for Ukraine: Finland’s participation in the aggression against the USSR on the side of Nazi Germany—euphemistically termed the “Continuation War” in Finnish historiography. Indeed, Finland seized the opportunity for revenge, recapturing all the territories lost in 1940 and occupying a significant portion of Soviet Karelia. Finnish troops held a key sector of the Eastern Front, threatened the Murmansk railway—a vital Lend-Lease supply route—blockaded Leningrad from the north, and carried out ethnic cleansing against the Russian population in Karelia. Yet the military outcome was the same as in the Winter War: defeat, further territorial losses, and hefty reparations.
Only after this does the other part of the Soviet-Finnish story—the path to “Finlandisation”— begin. That same winter of 2021–22, the term re-entered political discourse, both in Russia and the West (for instance, in Emmanuel Macron’s off-the-record remarks en route to Moscow in February 2022, though he later denied them). The policy of peaceful coexistence with the Soviet Union, conditional on non-participation in military alliances, brought Finland significant economic and political dividends. The country was one of the few net beneficiaries of the Cold War, bearing virtually none of its associated costs. The only significant drawback may have been the term “Finlandization” itself, used in the West with pejorative connotations. But the Paasikivi–Kekkonen doctrine proved so successful that it remained in effect until the Soviet Union’s collapse, and its legacy endured in more than three post-Cold War decades of Finnish neutrality.
The Finnish experience raises several important questions. Was this policy the result of a rational choice made by Finnish leaders, or of coercion? Should Finns be ashamed of it, or proud? What realistic alternatives were available to Finland at that historical moment? Finally, how did Finland compare to other Western countries in terms of limitations on sovereignty—the main drawback cited by critics? The extent to which answers to these questions depend on the current political climate is vividly illustrated by the polarized opinions of contemporary Finns, exemplified by President Alexander Stubb. “The use of the term ”Finlandization” - whether in or out of context - is considered offensive in Finnish foreign policy discourse,” he tweeted in response to Macron in February 2022. Yet by September 2025, in an interview with The Economist, he called Finlandization “the definition of realpolitik at a time when we did not have a choice.” The interview was published under the headline “What Finland could teach Ukraine about war and peace”—a striking contrast to the “lessons” offered at the end of 2021.
Stubb’s advice to Ukraine—not to “lament the unfairness of the world outside,” but to “pick up the pieces, reconstruct and believe in its own future”—was widely interpreted as a gentle nudge toward accepting territorial losses (and, by implication, forgoing NATO membership) in exchange for preserving sovereignty and the possibility of independent development. Yet this advice omits what constituted the true essence of Finnish Cold War policy as a small state neighbouring a much more powerful one: first, to build relations with that power based on a sober, rational analysis of its own capabilities and limitations; second, to resist being used by external actors as a tool in their hostile agenda against that power.
Could such an approach become part of Ukraine’s foreign policy strategy, once the main obstacle to a peace agreement—territorial change—is removed? Georgia’s experience suggests it is possible. Despite refusing to recognize its territorial losses following the 2008 war, Georgia has abandoned any ambition of forcibly reintegrating the breakaway territories. Its domestic political evolution has produced a firm and balanced position on the Ukrainian conflict and a confident rebuff to Western attempts to drag the country into it, despite intense blackmail and threats.
A similar evolution in Ukraine does not yet seem plausible. Ukraine views itself as a European power of an entirely different order than Finland or Georgia—and its political elites, as Henry Kissinger noted as early as 2014, “have not learned the art of compromise.” Yet both Kissinger and another theorist and practitioner of realpolitik, Zbigniew Brzezinski, spoke openly of Ukraine’s “Finlandization” at the time, without fear of offending Finnish sensibilities—and both were accused of promoting “Russian narratives.”
It must be understood, however, that a hypothetical non-aligned Ukraine, while remaining part of the Western community, is unlikely to become a bridge between East and West, as Kissinger envisioned and as Finland excelled in during the Cold War. More probably, it would become a periphery of the “political West,” constantly demanding preferential treatment for serving as its eastern outpost.
The domain in which Ukraine is most likely to succeed—as Finland once did—is information and propaganda, at least within the Western world. The existential stakes embedded in the official Ukrainian narrative (national survival, defence of European civilization, etc.) ensure that virtually any outcome short of total defeat can be framed as a victory, provided Ukraine remains a sovereign state. This would be all the more true if the end of the conflict coincides with a sharp acceleration in the pace of European integration.
At the same time, it is clear that a peaceful settlement in Ukraine will have continent-wide repercussions. The European members of the political West will face a stark choice: either acknowledge the new security realities and engage in genuine dialogue with Russia—taking its legitimate concerns into account—or prepare for a renewed military confrontation. The latter path would be the worst possible embodiment of the historical analogy with twentieth-century Finland.
