Professor Ayşegül Aydıngün, a sociologist at Middle East Technical University (METU) in Ankara, has spent decades tracing how identity is formed, threatened, and remade across the post-Soviet world. Her work follows communities shaped by exile and return—Meskhetian Turks, Crimean Tatars, Georgians, Ukrainians, Kazakhs, and Kists—while examining the fault lines of ethnicity, nationalism, religion, and state power. She has written extensively on language politics, cultural revival, minority rights, and nation-building, and during Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, she helped bring global attention to Ukrainian academics through the “Science Amid the Terror of War” initiative.

In this conversation, Aydıngün unpacks Russia’s assault on identity in both Crimea and mainland Ukraine—from the dismantling of Crimean Tatar education to forced Russification, systemic repression, and the ICC-recognized abduction of Ukrainian children. She explains how Moscow’s historical narrative underpins these policies, how diasporas have mobilized in response, and why the erosion of international law endangers far more than Ukraine. Aydıngün also reflects on the ethics of fieldwork under pressure, and on the responsibilities scholars carry when documenting communities living under occupation.

Scott Douglas Jacobsen: Since Russia’s 2014 invasion and annexation of Crimea, how have Crimean Tatar identity, everyday language use, and the structure of their schooling system been reshaped?

Professor Ayşegül Aydıngün: First, I would like to note that I conducted several field research in Crimea between 2002 and 2014. This allowed me to observe the return process of the Crimean Tatars to Crimea after their deportation to Central Asian countries by Stalin in 1944. It was only in 1989, shortly before the dissolution of the Soviet Union, that they obtained the right to return to their homeland, despite resistance from Crimean Russians and the Crimean government.

This return was quite a difficult one as the Crimean government did not welcome them, and those who settled in their houses after deportation were afraid that the Crimean Tatars would claim their houses. However, the Crimean Tatar leadership and Crimean Tatars articulated their demands in an extremely peaceful manner, openly stated that they would not seek to reclaim their previous homes, and began settling on the outskirts of the cities. They first lived in tents, and later built homes and mosques. The process of returning to their homeland, from 1989 to 2014, was actually quite difficult. But the Crimean Tatars, without losing determination and without entering into any conflict with the local population, began to build a new life for themselves from scratch.

The Crimean Tatar Mejlis and activists initiated a cultural revival project. They began reviving traditional cultural elements, ranging from the restoration of Crimean Tatar cultural heritage sites to the preservation of handicrafts. They established National Schools. In these schools, alongside the Ukrainian curriculum, the Crimean Tatar language was also taught. Many Crimean Tatar children were mostly going to these schools. Yet at that time, Crimean Tatar was not recognized as an official language in Crimea. Nevertheless, there was no obstacle to offering it as a subject, nor was there any objection to the opening of these schools.

After the invasion and annexation of Crimea by the Russian Federation in 2014, National Schools were subjected to strict control. First and foremost, the use of Ukrainian state textbooks in all schools, including National Schools, was prohibited. I had the opportunity to observe the post-annexation situation in Crimea as a member of the unofficial Turkish delegation in 2015, which was, at the time, one of two delegations to enter Crimea after the annexation. I spoke with some teachers and learned that new textbooks were not provided and that children’s education was disrupted. Although the Crimean Tatar language was legally recognized as an official language after the annexation, I learned how great the pressure on language was. People were even afraid of speaking it outside the home. A policy was adopted requiring children to speak only Russian.

Briefly, during our visit to Crimea, we had the opportunity to meet with both Crimean de facto government officials and Crimean Tatars. In these meetings, we identified significant differences between what the official authorities said and what the Crimean Tatars reported. We realized that the social realities on the ground aligned far more closely with the accounts given by Crimean Tatars. We also observed a major discrepancy between what de facto authorities claimed and the actual situation regarding language use and education.

Jacobsen: What forms of human rights abuses have Crimean Tatars and Ukrainians faced under Russian occupation, and how have those violations evolved?

Aydıngün: Human rights violations against the Crimean Tatars have significantly increased after Russia’s invasion and annexation of Crimea in 2014. Soon after the annexation a sharp increase in harassment of Crimean Tatars, especially against the members of the Mejlis and members of the Crimean Tatar movement. Disappearances of Crimean Tatars, arbitrary arrests, torture, unlawful detentions, illegal raids in Crimean Tatar homes and mosques became very frequent.

The Crimean Tatar Mejlis was closed down, and its members were exiled, imprisoned, or regularly interrogated. In addition, they were forced to take Russian citizenship. If they did not take the Russian citizenship, they would be unable to receive their pensions, access hospitals, receive education, in short, they would be deprived of basic civil rights. Another important point was the transition to a new legal system. The transition to the Russian legal system was announced on March 21, 2014, and later extended to January 1, 2015. However, based on the information we obtained, we realized during our visit to Crimea that events that occurred before that date were also carried out under the Russian legal system.

Many Crimean Tatar activists were criminalized based on their electronic communications that fall before the specified dates. It was clear that their legal rights, privacy, and communication rights were violated. We have seen that the Crimean Tatars do not trust the de facto authorities and live under pressure and fear. We have also understood that Russia’s laws on extremism, separatism, and terrorism were used by the de facto authorities to suppress the Crimean Tatar people. The Crimean Tatar leaders were accused of extremism. Crimean Tatars were subjected to systematic and arbitrary interrogations and arrests. They were also subjected to unfair trial procedures. Freedom of expression, travel, demonstration, and assembly were forbidden. There was intense pressure on the media and journalists. These practices have not only continued but have escalated steadily into the present.

In fact, the most shocking human rights violation, which began in 2014 and has intensified even further after 2022, has targeted Ukrainian children. I cannot help but emphasize this. This situation has also been recognized by the International Criminal Court as an act of genocide. Russia has been abducting Ukrainian children from the territories under occupation, transporting them to Russia, granting them Russian citizenship, erasing all records of their past, and placing them for adoption with Russian families. Initially, these children were taken from orphanages; later, those who lost their parents in the war were taken; and in some cases, parents were coerced or manipulated into giving up their children. These children are being forcibly Russified. It is impossible to accept this attack on Ukrainian identity, carried out through the children.

Jacobsen: How should we interpret Russia’s identity-targeting policies in Ukraine, including in Crimea, and what deeper historical or ideological currents help explain them?

Aydıngün: I believe Russia’s actions cannot be understood without knowing Russian history; yet international relations experts and military analysts tend to overlook or dismiss it. Putin, however, heavily relies on history to justify his actions. A clear example is his February 21, 2022, speech recognizing the so-called Luhansk and Donetsk People’s Republics. This nearly 56-minute speech is key to understanding today’s events in Ukraine.

Putin devoted minimal attention to security issues and instead built his argument almost entirely on the Russian national historical narrative. He claimed that since the 17th century, Ukraine has been an inseparable part of Russia in historical, cultural, and spiritual terms, stressing blood ties and kinship between Russians and Ukrainians. He also noted that before the 17th century, Ukrainians referred to themselves as “Rus” and “Pravoslav.”

One of the most striking elements of this speech was Putin’s criticism of Lenin. He argued that Lenin had divided Russian lands into artificial administrative units. This reveals that Russia’s territorial claims are not confined to Ukraine, and that Putin believes he has rights over states established on what he regards as “historical Russian lands.” Putin defined the territories of the Soviet Union as historical Russia. He further claimed that Stalin incorporated lands taken from Poland, Romania, and Hungary into Ukraine during the Second World War, and that Crimea was handed over to Ukraine in 1954.

Putin also asserted that Ukraine had never been a real state, that after 1991 it adopted a state model incompatible with its history and realities, and that Ukrainian leaders ignored the interests of their people. He stated that Russians were made to feel unwanted through legal regulations, that clergy linked to the Moscow Patriarchate were discriminated against, and that without the territories taken from the Ottoman Empire and called New Russia in the 18th century, Ukraine would lack both those cities and access to the Black Sea.

Thus, understanding how Putin justifies his decisions and Russia’s policies requires understanding not only the dominant Russian historical narrative but also the historical facts that often contradict it. In hindsight, this speech provided significant clues about the full-scale invasion of Ukraine and what would follow.

Throughout history, Russia’s use of the slogan “the brotherhood of the Ukrainian and Russian peoples” has effectively served as an assault on Ukrainian identity, culture, art, and independence—indeed, as an attempt to appropriate them. Numerous historical and contemporary facts support this, including Russia’s refusal to recognize Ukraine as a sovereign state or the Ukrainians as a distinct people.

Some analysts recently argued that Ukraine holds existential significance for Russia, and understanding this is crucial. It is existential because recognizing the independent existence of the Ukrainian people, and the sovereignty and territorial integrity of the Ukrainian state, would require Russia to redefine its own identity and reconstruct its historical and national narrative—something, as reflected in Putin’s speech, that Russia is not currently willing or able to do.

For this reason, Ukraine is of existential importance to Russia. However, this reality must not be used to legitimize the invasion of an independent state, but rather to understand the motivations behind it and Russia’s broader policy.

Ukraine remains poorly understood in the West, where many still believe Russians and Ukrainians are part of the same nation—a notion rooted in centuries of Russian narrative. Until 2014, Ukrainians were often seen as “brothers” or even the same people, a stereotype used politically by Russia. The post-2014 conflict revealed the contradictions of this narrative, as many struggled to reconcile Putin’s actions with the idea of fraternal ties.

The claims of shared religion and language are also overstated. Ukraine is multi-religious: a significant portion is Orthodox, with a smaller Greek Catholic (Uniate) population in the West, and Jews and Muslims, including Crimean Tatars, also reside in Ukraine. Even within Orthodoxy, national distinctions exist, and language does not straightforwardly define identity. Studies confirm this complexity.

From a Russian historical perspective, Kyiv is symbolically central as the city of the founders of “Holy Rus,” a Russian state. Ukraine is also crucial for the Russian Orthodox Church, as its leadership depends on controlling Ukrainian churches. For Russia, these issues carry demographic, spiritual, social, political, and ideological significance.

Throughout history, Russia has sought to establish dominance over Ukrainians, rejecting everything unique to them and reshaping it according to its own needs. However, it should be noted that since the mid-17th century—when Moscow began to establish control over today’s Ukrainian territories—and especially since the mid-19th century, Ukrainians have resisted this, sometimes successfully, sometimes unsuccessfully.

To understand the Soviet period and its aftermath, we must briefly consider the earlier era. The Russian claim of “brotherhood” between Russians and Ukrainians predates the Soviet Union, rooted in a time when religion was a defining element. This does not mean Ukrainians were unaware of their distinct identity, nor does it mean that sharing a religion led to full assimilation. Historically, close ties with Russians were maintained mainly by Ukrainian political elites and intellectuals, not the rural population.

After 2014, these elites became the most anti-Russian, marking a decisive turning point when Ukrainian identity found political mobilization, and politicization became inevitable. By 2019, Ukrainians realized their “brothers” could kill them, a perception sharpened further since February 2022. Whether Russia truly believes in this “brotherhood” is unclear, as history is often written by states that marginalize societies.

Russian migration to Ukrainian lands began in the 14th–15th centuries and continued through the Soviet era. Cultural dominance gained political force with the 1654 Pereyaslav Agreement, which placed the Cossack Hetmanate under Muscovite protection.

During the Soviet era, Russian migration to Ukraine continued, while Ukrainians were also strategically resettled across Soviet republics, often being perceived as Russians and adopting this identity. From the 1930s to 1989, the Russian population in Ukraine grew from roughly 4 million (10%) to over 11 million (20%). Differences between Russians and Ukrainians eroded, especially in urban areas, as Russian became widespread, Soviet policies minimized distinctions, and mixed marriages increased.

Dissident Ukrainian nationalists existed but were labeled “bourgeois nationalists,” preventing the full development and politicization of Ukrainian identity. After the Soviet collapse, migration flows continued in both directions, with some Ukrainians returning home, others moving to Russia, and Russians migrating to Ukraine.

Ukrainians remained among the peoples closest to Russians in the post-Soviet republics. National identity emerged through the self/other dichotomy, and Russia’s imperial mindset denied newly forming nations like Ukraine and Belarus. Slavic Orthodox peoples, especially Ukrainians and Belarusians, hold existential importance for Russia due to their centrality to the Russian historical narrative and demographic concerns.

The events of 2014 and the full-scale invasion of 2022 disrupted historical intertwinement, close relations, and even family ties, accelerating the politicization of Ukrainian national identity.

Crimean Tatars’ identity has also been targeted since 1783. After this date, more than 2 million Crimean Tatars were gradually forced to migrate to Ottoman territories. Following the first annexation of Crimea, Russians began a process of “de-CrimeanTatarization,” culminating in 1944 with Stalin’s deportation of nearly the entire Tatar population to Central Asia. While Crimean Tatars had made up over 85% of the population during the first annexation, by 1944 their presence had been reduced to almost zero.

After 1944, Crimean Tatars were forced to live in the Central Asian republics, yet they never lost their identity or their desire to return to their homeland. In 1989, after decades of struggle for the right to return, they officially regained this right and began to return. This process, full of hardships but also hope, came to an end in 2014 with the second annexation of Crimea. Thus, the project of de-CrimeanTatarization of Crimea was implemented for a second time.

Jacobsen: What legal mechanisms still matter for safeguarding minority language and education rights, especially in an era when international norms are increasingly under strain?

Aydıngün: We are unfortunately living in an era in which legal instruments and international law in general are being trampled on. This is not only true for Russia. Other global powers are also remarkably unwilling to protect the global legal order that they themselves established.

This is a situation of anomie, as Durkheim would put it. The violation of international law disrupts the global system’s stability and shakes the existing security order. It is a global issue that concerns all of us because the erosion of the international legal order paves the way for power politics, which, in my view, it already has—repeats legal violations, and even increases the risk of war. The reason I say it has paved the way for power politics is that competing global actors—namely, the U.S., Russia, and maybe Europe—who do not trust one another, who critique and accuse one another, can nevertheless agree on decisions that undermine confidence in the global system. This, without doubt, manifests globally in the form of weaker states being forced into agreements that trample on international law and are compelled to adopt unlawful decisions.

What is being imposed on Ukraine today is precisely this. In this context, if global institutions fail to act as required, they lose legitimacy, and the purpose of the entire system comes into question. Therefore, I would like to emphasize—by underlining it—that the violation of international law is not merely the problem of the states involved, but that it fundamentally threatens the global order. In such a situation, discussing education and language rights becomes meaningless.

First and foremost, we need to understand this: in many countries around the world, including for Ukrainians and Crimean Tatars, people’s most fundamental right—the right to life—is not being protected.

Jacobsen: What insights did the “Science Amid the Terror of War” project offer about how Ukrainian academics are navigating the war and developing strategies for intellectual and personal survival?

Aydıngün: Let me first explain what the “Science Amid the Terror of War” project is. I thought about what we could do for Ukraine after the invasion started in 2022. As a faculty member and a sociologist, I considered focusing on the experiences of our professional community. I shared the idea of preparing video notes with İsmail Aydıngün and Irina Pokrovska, and we developed it together.

Our goal was to share how our colleagues experience this war in their personal lives, and to amplify the voices of Ukrainian academics. Another aim was to document and preserve these experiences, raising awareness of the hardships, pain, and struggles our colleagues face. However, this was not just the work of the three of us; many colleagues supported us, for example, in editing and preparing the videos, translating them, and handling the technical terminology. We consulted and received help from many experts, who contributed with great enthusiasm. We decided to prepare a series of ten videos, and of course, we could not have achieved this without the support of our Ukrainian colleagues. Despite the difficult conditions, they sent us the videos they recorded with their mobiles.

In these videos, we identified two common messages. The first was the determination of Ukrainian academics to continue their scientific work despite the war. The second, which echoed the sentiments of the Ukrainian people in general, was that they were resolved to continue living and resisting wherever they are.

I believe that these video notes have successfully conveyed the voices of Ukrainian academics to many of our peers around the world. We shared them not only on YouTube but also on platforms like Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. In this way, we emphasized our solidarity with our Ukrainian colleagues.

Jacobsen: How are diaspora networks influencing policy in countries outside Ukraine, and in what ways have these communities mobilized in response to the war?

Aydıngün: The annexation of Crimea brought together Crimean Tatar diasporas across different countries. Similarly, the invasion of Ukraine united Ukrainian diasporas. Moreover, the diasporas of both peoples began collaborating and have remained in continuous solidarity. The two diasporas have carried out many joint activities—and continue to do so. Crimean Tatars have provided remarkable support to Ukrainians, a support that has only grown since the occupation of Crimea. Undoubtedly, pro-Russian voices exist, but these small groups are marginal and ineffective, as they are disconnected from societal realities.

The vast majority of Crimean Tatars have taken a stance in support of Ukraine and have shown strong resistance against the Russian occupation both within the Crimean Peninsula and internationally. By the end of 2018, Ukraine and the Crimean Tatars had formed an alliance against Moscow. 50 Crimean Tatar associations in Turkey, home to the world’s largest Crimean Tatar diaspora, came together to declare their opposition to the occupation. In addition to these organizations, the decisions of the 2nd World Congress of Crimean Tatars, organized with the participation of 184 civil society organizations from 16 countries worldwide, are noteworthy. The Crimean Tatar Kurultay and Mejlis also demonstrated their clear support for Ukraine. Crimean Tatar associations have opposed not only the occupation of Crimea but also the invasion of Ukraine.

Similarly, the Ukrainian diaspora has shown solidarity with Crimean Tatars, both in Turkey and in countries such as Canada and the United States. Ukrainian associations have strengthened their cooperation through conferences, exhibitions, and fairs to raise awareness of the situation in Ukraine. Approximately 65,000–70,000 Ukrainians currently live in Turkey, half of whom arrived after the occupation. The first Ukrainian associations were established in Istanbul in 2008 and in Antalya in 2009. In 2017, six more associations were founded in different cities. Today, there are 23 Ukrainian associations across 14 cities. Today, there are 23 associations across 14 cities. These organizations have played a crucial role in organizing the Ukrainian diaspora in Turkey, providing support to those who fled the war, and, both independently and in cooperation with Crimean Tatars, organizing demonstrations and activities.

Jacobsen: From a research standpoint, how do you balance access and ethical obligations with the need to protect people’s safety when working in or near an active conflict zone?

Aydıngün: Except for my 2015 visit to Crimea with the unofficial Turkish delegation, all my research in Crimea and Ukraine was conducted before 2014, and my research in mainland Ukraine was conducted before 2022. Therefore, I have not been in an active conflict zone. However, despite this, the sensitive situation of the groups I worked with, the challenges and pressures they faced, required serious caution even during periods when life appeared normal. The safety of the individuals I interviewed has always been my priority.

I have always viewed collecting data in ways that could endanger them as an ethical problem. In situations like this, I did not conduct the interviews. In sensitive settings and circumstances, I avoided recording; whenever possible, I took notes either immediately after the interview or during it. Recording often limits what interviewees are willing to share and also draws unnecessary attention, potentially putting the interviewee in a problematic or risky situation. On the other hand, when a recording is made, ensuring its security can also be difficult in certain situations. As for my notes, I never write the names of the people I interview at the top. The security of the notes themselves is also of particular importance. Therefore, a researcher’s ethical responsibility towards the individuals they interviewed does not end until they return to their country with the notes and until the use of the data is fully completed.

It is clear that doing research during so-called “normal times” and active conflict requires methodological caution and moral responsibility. As I mentioned in 2015, I went to Crimea as a member of the unofficial Turkish delegation to study the situation of the Crimean Tatars. At that time, conducting interviews was extremely risky for the people we spoke to, because there was immense pressure on the Crimean Tatars. This situation continues. We only spoke with those who wanted to talk to us. On the one hand, we needed to document the situation, confirm disappearances and deaths; on the other hand, we could not compromise on ethical principles. Those were quite challenging days. But as I said, we only spoke to those who approached us voluntarily, and it was already known that our delegation would be coming. In fact, it was mainly those who were actively involved in the Crimean Tatar national movement who wanted to speak with us. They were already at risk and accustomed to living with that risk. I did not call anybody I knew from my earlier research. The atmosphere of fear was so intense that, while interviewing in a café, the owner asked us to leave.

Jacobsen: Thank you, Ayşegül, for your insight and for sharing your time.