The aim of the VERTA! Programme is to strengthen the capacities and resilience of regional NGOs and national-level NGOs engaged in advocacy, enabling them to safeguard and promote European Union values, including democracy and human rights, increase civic participation, contribute to democratic governance, and strengthen advocacy capacities at all levels.

Following the evaluation of applications by experts, funding has been awarded to 20 non-governmental organisations. Through their projects, the organisations will seek to promote and safeguard EU values, strengthen civic participation, and advocate more effectively for changes in public decision-making at both local and national levels.

The projects will be implemented between 1 September 2026 and 30 September 2027. Individual projects will run for 10–12 months.

Projects Selected for Funding

The applications will now be revised in line with the experts’ comments, followed by the finalisation of funding agreements.

Reserve List

If a funding agreement is not concluded with any organisation on the list of projects selected for funding, organisations on the reserve list will be invited to conclude an agreement in the order in which they are listed.

The post Lists of Projects Selected for Funding and Reserve List under the Internal Call of the VERTA! Programme Announced appeared first on ALF.

Services for vulnerable groups, community mobilization, and the defense of human rights and the public interest are among the essential functions of non-governmental organizations. Without them, no society can remain healthy for long. If we want democracy to stand on more than independent media and the judiciary alone, we need a strong, politically independent NGO sector. And while it is always easier to complain about a lack of money, the deeper problem may lie elsewhere: not in the amount of funding, but in the absence of strategic vision within the institutions that shape social policy.

International experience makes one thing clear. A sustainable NGO ecosystem depends on long-term institutional funding, diversified sources of support, and investment in people’s skills and organizational capacity.

Norway offers a compelling example. Multi-year programmatic agreements, lottery-based funding allocations, and compensation mechanisms give organizations the stability to plan ahead, invest in their teams, and improve the quality of their work. Just as importantly, Norwegian politicians do not treat funding as a weapon, even when civil society is critical of them. Dissent is accepted as part of democratic life, not punished as disloyalty.

Switzerland provides another lesson. There, strong support from corporate foundations and philanthropy reduces civil society’s dependence on the state and on shifting political cycles. This is where Lithuania still lags behind. The gap is not only financial. More importantly, it is systemic. It is a question of political trust in civil society and of whether the state sees NGOs as partners or merely as temporary contractors.

That is where Lithuania’s real problem lies: in the structure of funding and in chronic political short-sightedness. Too many organizations are still forced to survive from project to project, depending on funding cycles set by the state, the European Union, or international donors. But social problems do not disappear when a one-year project ends. Communities do not stop needing support just because an administrative timeline has run out.

When organizations cannot plan several years ahead, they cannot invest seriously in their teams, their internal development, or their ability to measure impact. The result is predictable: NGOs remain fragile, and the services communities rely on become unstable and inconsistent.

This model also produces fragmentation. Tools, methodologies, and digital solutions are often developed within short-term projects and disappear with them. Political short-sightedness pushes organizations to focus on immediate survival rather than long-term change. That is a costly mistake. If we are serious about resilience, democracy, and social cohesion, we need to invest in lasting impact, not temporary outputs.

Lithuania’s 1.2% personal income tax designation mechanism is a valuable instrument, and it is encouraging that this support is now directed more clearly toward NGOs. But this alone cannot provide stability for the whole sector. Not long ago, the same mechanism was also benefiting public institutions such as state kindergartens and schools. That should serve as a warning: progress is never irreversible, and without political will, backsliding remains possible.

The broader logic of public funding is still deeply flawed. Too often, the focus remains on formal compliance and micro-control rather than on meaningful long-term outcomes. The system is still better at checking receipts than at evaluating public value.

The situation is even more fragile outside the major cities. In the regions, we still hear stories of NGOs expected to demonstrate full loyalty in exchange for a few hundred euros from municipal budgets. That is not a healthy relationship between local government and civil society. It is certainly not compatible with the idea that NGOs should be free to criticize power when necessary.

If Lithuania genuinely wants a strong civil society, the response must be systemic, not cosmetic. And it would not take decades to see the difference. A few serious political decisions could reshape the ecosystem within just a few years.

Three steps, in particular, could change the picture dramatically. First, three- to five-year institutional funding agreements should become the rule rather than the exception. Second, funding decisions should be insulated as much as possible from political cycles and indexed to inflation. Third, strengthening NGO competencies and expanding philanthropy should become an integral part of public funding policy, so that the state and international donors are not the only dominant pillars of support. Even without dramatically increasing the total amount of funding, such reforms would produce a very different result.

The encouraging part is that Lithuania does not need to invent solutions from scratch. It already has working models and proven administrative expertise. Over the past five years alone, the Open Lithuania Foundation has attracted and distributed more than €12 million from international donors to civil society organizations. This support has reached more than 300 NGOs and local communities across the country. Our model is grounded in international transparency standards, professional administration, grantmaking and subgranting mechanisms, systematic capacity-building, and the promotion of democratic values and civic culture in communities.

Still, a sustainable system will not emerge from government decisions alone. The NGO sector also has responsibilities of its own. Organizations must stop seeing themselves only as applicants and start acting more confidently as partners. They need to articulate their value more clearly, strengthen their negotiating power, and diversify their sources of income. Dependence on a single source of support weakens not only financial stability, but also independence and voice.

The sector must also make better use of its own expertise and build a stronger economic base through a more respectful and professional culture of collaboration. And business, too, should be encouraged to engage with NGOs not only as beneficiaries of charity, but as credible partners and service providers.

If Lithuania wants a more resilient democracy, it needs a stronger civil society. And if it wants a stronger civil society, it must finally move beyond short-termism, political control, and the illusion that project funding alone can sustain the public good.

The post Sandra Adomavičiūtė. Rethinking NGO Funding: From Short-Term Projects to Strategic Vision appeared first on ALF.

Inferior in power, inferior in that great moral quality of self-control, we shall look up to them as to the acme of all that the best and wisest man can ever dare to aim at. No evil passions, no jealousy, no avarice, no impure desires will disturb the serene might of those glorious creatures. Sin, shame, and sorrow, will have no place among them. Their minds will be in a state of perpetual calm, the contentment of a spirit that knows no wants, is disturbed by no regrets. 

[…] Day by day, however, the machines are gaining ground upon us; day by day we are becoming more subservient to them; more men are daily bound down as slaves to tend them, more men are daily devoting the energies of their whole lives to the development of mechanical life. The upshot is simply a question of time, but that the time will come when the machines will hold the real supremacy over the world and its inhabitants is what no person of a truly philosophic mind can for a moment question. 

These lines are from an 1863 letter by Samuel Butler to the editor in the New Zealand daily The Press, titled “Darwin Among the Machines.”1 Butler’s idea, further developed in his utopian novel Erewhon2, is straightforward: humanity, frail in body and weak, rose to the top of the evolutionary chain by using the power of the mind. If a form of life more intelligent than humans were to emerge, then, at best, humans would become its tools, at worst – its slaves. Moreover – because it is humans who, using their intellect, create new things rather than merely harvesting nature’s fruits and materials – this new stage of evolution would emerge from human activity itself. 

What makes Butler remarkable is his Darwinian insight that we should not view evolution and selection solely through a biological lens: non-living entities can insert themselves into the process. Today, Silicon Valley’s elite not only dream of rule by machines freed from human error, frailty, temporality, and limits, but also nurture a vision of digital immortality – a future in which human consciousness can be uploaded to a medium and preserved beyond our body’s decay. Ultimately, each individual could merge into a shared digitized consciousness. This raises a fundamental question about the meaning of individual life: what is the value of our own and our loved ones’ personal experience that cannot be replaced by a virtual, digitized, flattened world-mind? Why do we cherish our own and our people’s stories even as they fade and may be forgotten? Only by confronting the moral meaning of human existence can we create a counterweight to artificial intelligence and preserve our political and personal freedom. 

The Enlightenment Promise: A Revolution of Reason and the Foundations of Just Order

The thinkers of the Enlightenment shared a radical faith in the exceptional power of human reason. In science, the discoveries of Copernicus and Galileo showed that sensory experience can be false and misleading, diverting us from the truth: beyond our senses there are laws of the universe and nature invisible to the human eye. Enlightenment philosophers believed that through systematic doubt and verification, the human mind could attain certainty in knowledge. René Descartes argued that certain knowledge rests on the human capacity to think and reflect, using doubt as a method.3 Accordingly, the only way for humans to free themselves from error and misfortune – famine, disease, violence – and to harness destructive forces of nature for our benefit is the cultivation of reason. 

Reason allowed us to master natural processes so they would not destroy us. Patient inquiry helped repel nature’s threats and rein in forces that devastate humankind – from natural disasters to epidemics. The power of reason produced unprecedented improvements in human life. The British economist Angus Maddison calculated that while world GDP per capita barely doubled from 1 CE to 1820, between 1820 and 2008 it increased more than tenfold. This remarkable growth was accompanied by equally striking social and economic gains. For example, average global life expectancy rose in just two centuries from 31 to nearly 73 years. 

Such progress could only be achieved by abandoning predatory behavior – replacing aggression and violence with cooperation and making joint action with others a foundational principle of human coexistence. In other words, by rejecting their animal nature and employing intellect, humans can create a new political order. 

Like many Enlightenment philosophers, Descartes believed society could be organized according to rational – or at least reason-guided – principles: reason meant emancipation from opinion, superstition, and the chains of authority. No wonder Alexis de Tocqueville, one of the most penetrating thinkers of modern democracy, called Descartes’s method “the method of democracy.”4 Reason is a universal capacity that creates equal opportunities to know reality and, accordingly, to act on the basis of knowledge.5 Thus there is no argument left for why others must rule us. All of us, endowed with thought, are capable of deciding for ourselves. 

Descartes thus sketched an egalitarian, universalist political ontology: unlike wealth or social status, reason is given to all. Each person is capable of judging what is good, desirable, just, and true – of contributing equally to building a wise order. This universal power of reason provides a durable foundation for democracy, in which the right to a voice belongs to everyone regardless of race, nationality, religion, or political beliefs. Historically, the revolution of reason inspired two monumental political revolutions that sought to enshrine equality, liberty, and the conviction – grounded in the power of reason – that all citizens can govern themselves: the ideals of the Enlightenment inspired the French to rise against Louis XVI and helped set the American Revolution in motion. 

A new, better, and fairer order can be built only through collaboration: research, sharing information, and reflecting together on unfolding processes. Such cooperation is the beginning of the human political condition and the embryo of the state. The human capacity to reflect on our condition made it possible to replace hierarchical social order, based on the power of the stronger, with new forms of political organization – such as democracy – that require trust in everyone’s ability to decide on matters of common life. The search for orders grounded in universal justice and human dignity is distinctly human trait. 

The Enlightenment instilled the belief that moral and political progress could go hand in hand with scientific progress – or, more precisely, that science would naturally lead to a more just, better, more moral political condition. We live in historically unprecedented times: scientific discoveries drive wave after wave of experimentation and advancement. Conditions look ideal for the triumph of universal reason. In the 18th century, the search for truth was an especially complex, long process requiring time, effort, and education. Not so in the 21st century: virtually all information is available instantly, and knowledge is nearly costless. So what happened that, over the last two centuries, as information has exploded and become widely accessible, we have not managed to enshrine justice as the foundation of political order – and in the West we are experiencing a crisis of freedom and self-government? How did doubt – meant to lead us closer to truth – become the solvent of our social bonds, leaving each of us living in a pseudo-reality of our own illusions? 

Paradoxically, as smart technologies advanced, we handed over the power of our own minds – the power to think and decide based on knowledge “produced” by us – to machines. Today artificial intelligence (AI) already exists that surpasses humans in rationality, knowledge, and durability. The ongoing automation and autonomy of reason has enabled AI to achieve what the totalitarian regimes of the 20th century once sought: control of the human mind. Given the tools and channels now available – through which people are pumped full of disinformation and fictions – and algorithms that keep us within the frames constructed by AI itself, freedom would stand no chance against tyranny. It is no surprise, then, that the rise of AI at the expense of human thinking and decision-making evokes fears of a new tyranny. 

By placing reason at the summit of evolution, Enlightenment thinkers believed the only obstacle to a just order was a lack of information and knowledge and their unequal distribution – knowledge monopolized by privileged strata. The persecution of philosophers like Socrates or scientists like Galileo suggested that real social progress required the universal education of reason through the spread of knowledge and the cultivation of thought. If knowledge could be equalized – if everyone had access to information about reality – then all could not only decide for themselves but make better decisions. Error stems from ignorance, and all forms of domination likewise stem from false or restricted knowledge – whether constrained by power, scarcity, or limited access. Put simply: knowledge processed by the human mind enables resistance to forms of subjugation and the overcoming of tyrannies. Hence Enlightenment authors first sought to elevate the authority of science, which they saw as the source of knowledge expansion and multiplication. 

Yet the underlying assumption is mistaken: that every person who can distinguish truth from error will, accordingly, choose good over evil – that knowing the truth means people will care for it and choose it. As knowledge expands and becomes instantly available – when encyclopedias and reference books fit in a device in our pocket – we need a whole different kind of commitment to truth: not political or methodological, but moral. When we consider how to bolster societal resilience today, we must return to foundational moral questions about truth’s place in the order of human affairs. 

The Counter-Revolution of Reason: Radical Doubt and the Enslaved Mind

The clearest manifestations of Butler’s dystopia were the two totalitarian regimes of the 20th century, which showed that, by targeting the mind, total domination becomes possible in ways unattainable through violence and terror alone. Comprehensive control over human life – including the mind – was an unprecedented element of tyranny. 

Totalitarian tyranny is distinctly modern. After Enlightenment’s political revolutions brought universal freedoms and political rights, modern tyrannies had to create the illusion that they arose from society itself – unlike premodern tyrannies, which imposed themselves by force. The falsification of consent through seduction and control of the mind – ideology, propaganda, and disinformation – is a defining feature of this tyranny, stemming from modern political thought’s ambition to include every individual in political life.6 Totalitarian power takes root not as an external force but crystallizes from within; it not only invites people to join a political program but dictates what constitutes beauty, courage, patriotism, honor, marriage, motherhood, or death. Machines played their part here too – first through radio waves reaching millions, mechanically repeating messages, infiltrating everyday life, and shaping the aesthetic appeal of ideology. By invoking the “true” interests of the nation, race, or people, ideologues erased the line between tyrannical rule and the will of the nation, race, class, or people – until it became nearly impossible to distinguish the executioner from the victim, the persecuted from the persecutor. 

Hannah Arendt, one of the 20th century’s foremost philosophers, wrote in The Origins of Totalitarianism that the main goal of totalitarian ideology and propaganda is not to persuade with lies – that is, to replace reality with a convincing fiction – but to sow doubt about the very existence of reality and the possibility of knowing it. Where nothing is true, everything becomes possible. When people can no longer tell where truth ends and lies begin, persuasion is unnecessary. More crucially, when a person can no longer distinguish the real from the unreal, they become pliable material. The ideal subject of a totalitarian regime, Arendt noted, is not the convinced Nazi or Communist, but the person for whom the distinction between fact and fiction, truth and falsehood, no longer exists.7 Arendt thus identified a new, distinctive feature of totalitarianism: the derangement of the mind. 

Show trials in the Soviet Union – well known to Lithuanians – aimed to undermine confidence in reality and confuse the mind. Their purpose was to create total dissonance between facts and meaning: resistance to slavery was branded as treason against the nation, the people, the state; truth-telling became heresy. Forcing dissidents – writers, scholars – to confess to fabricated crimes, the trials did not seek to demonstrate judicial fairness, but to break the unity between action and meaning. The growing gap between deed and significance breeds distrust – in norms, laws, and courts. For defendants, the intended effect was to shake confidence in their own actions, judgments, and thoughts; for observers – to create a rift between what is seen and felt and what is understood. 

When nothing is certain – say, when we cannot event be sure that the imprisonment of a neighbor of another faith or ethnicity is unjust – then we cannot trust our inner moral convictions or decisions either. Totalitarianism’s aim is to make the human wholly subservient to the regime by cultivating constant uncertainty, ignorance, and loss of control – when it seems that nothing depends on one’s actions and no decision can change injustice or lies. This breeds apathy, passivity, and self-limitation: you can never be sure that tomorrow won’t bring accusations of treason, deportation, or torture for what seemed like a fight for truth or justice. By targeting minds, modern tyrannies not only silenced dissidents but sowed self-doubt – about moral sense, ability to judge reality, and to act as free citizens endowed with will and political power. 

A common distinction is drawn between 20th-century totalitarian regimes, rooted in fixed ideologies (however illusory the promise of a better future), and today’s postmodern tyrannies, which operate without a clear ideological core. Just as Enlightenment thinkers, following Copernicus and Galileo, urged skepticism toward deceptive sense impressions, 21st-century dictators and authoritarians persuade us that what happens before our eyes isn’t real. Writer Peter Pomerantsev adapted Arendt’s phrase – “where nothing is true, everything is possible” – to describe Putin’s 21st-century nihilist dictatorship: the current Russian regime consolidates its power through the very absence of ideology and fixed meaning – where war can be peace, subjugation can be freedom, and occupation can be liberation.8 

Historian Timothy Snyder speaks of Russia’s “strategic relativism.”9 After the February 24, 2022 invasion, Russia advanced many mutually contradictory explanations: the war was simultaneously a “special military operation,” a metaphysical struggle against evil, and NATO aggression against Russia. One of the most “successful” claims was that Ukraine is not a “real state,” even as, nearly three years in, Russia continues to fight the very real Ukrainian army. This dissonance between proclaimed “reality” and reality itself disorients. We find ourselves in a surreal world where the norms of interaction and cooperation no longer apply. Disorientation leads first to passivity: the world looks like a malleable mass that deforms at the slightest touch. 

Russia infiltrates democratic states in the same way, spreading propaganda that there is no essential difference between Western democracies and Russian authoritarianism: everywhere, politics is corrupt, the rule of law and fair elections are fictions masking power and minority interests. If anything is “real,” it is crude power – guns, money, oil. Politicians everywhere share the same motives – lust for power and fame, greed and egoism. Thus, even in free societies we drift back toward nihilism: no regime is better or worse politically or morally than any other, since behind each lurks the same will to power and hypocrisy. Defending democracy becomes harder; the world begins to resemble a battlefield where the only question is who grabs more first. 

This systematic, unbroken derangement of the mind not only replaces reality but relieves us of responsibility – especially when the regime can raise the “price” of truth by persecuting those who speak it. It may feel safer to convince yourself that Ukrainians aren’t fully human or that a Mexican migrant is evil incarnate than to risk your comfort. Modern tyrannies have discovered subtler forms of mind control that prevent us from deciding and acting freely. 

The Machine and the Will to Power

The People’s Republic of China illustrates what totalitarian rule means in the age of artificial intelligence, building a digital panopticon used to systematically monitor and control certain groups. Uyghurs in China must install smartphone apps that function like a social credit system, measuring productivity and obedience to the regime. The apps not only track movements but also transmit all phone data to authorities. Through smart devices, police monitor electricity use – changes can signal unusual activity (gatherings, hidden persons) – and collect information on purchases and leisure. The goal is to strip the person of subjectivity altogether, suspending freedom of choice and action, even the hope of evading the “Big Brother” gaze. 

This extends beyond crude control of specific groups. Modern technologies enable a robotized “thought police” across the world’s second-largest nation. More than a decade ago, China’s “Great Firewall” began preventing citizens from seeing or searching words and phrases like “Tiananmen” or “1989.” Various comment-management tools automate content blocking: programs – like digital policemen – suppress information that could “harm state security or national interests.” 

AI can now process and analyze, at lightning speed, volumes of data beyond human grasp. Smart machines not only allow unprecedented data collection but draw conclusions from quantities inaccessible to us, creating extraordinary possibilities for controlling people – even their inner world. Unlike the 20th-century totalitarianism, control is now fully autonomous: it is not the policeman or warden (as in tyranny) or even the court (as in democracy) but the machine that decides what is acceptable, what is true. It functions as an instrument of thought control, tracking habits, predicting hopes, views, actions, and choices – including potential political dissent. The aim is to preempt opposition before it even arises, preventing the very formation of ideas contrary to the regime’s aims. Modern information technologies need no overseer who must still weigh conscience before repression. They reduce their subject – the human being – to a pattern, predicting worldviews and behaviors and inserting corrections. 

Thus, perfected information technologies – intended to liberate us – have become new instruments of subjugation, blurring the line between free, democratically governed societies and nondemocratic regimes. The machine-generated flood of information itself becomes a primary form of disinformation. In democracies, we willingly surrender our will to machines: rather than seeking information actively, we get lost in abundance and trust algorithms to “feed” us. The machine aims to please: by reading our data, it projects our values and political leanings and serves content that confirms them. This not only heightens self-satisfaction but also provides moral justification for political violence. If we see only stories about crimes by migrants, racial conflict, and political corruption, we begin to rationalize violence, discrimination, and cruelty. 

In the 20th century, the boundary between person and power vanished because power was everywhere – kindergartens, schools, sports clubs, marriage halls, funeral homes, national holidays, shops. In the digital age, power becomes depersonalized, automated, self-replicating – a political force turned inward upon itself. It lacks the attributes of genuine political power – vision, agenda, purpose. It functions as an information-replication mechanism indifferent to meaning, accuracy, or truth. If the counter-revolution of reason destroys the rule of law and democratic self-government, we may discover there is nothing behind it – no one to accept responsibility or propose a vision for rebuilding the world. 

Looking at populist movements across democracies – from the United States to Hungary – we can fairly say that populists have adopted the machine’s methods. Their modus operandi is relentless criticism of the present without any positive vision or plan. Populist leaders often mimic AI: they sow doubt and mistrust, attack existing institutions, flaunt open aggression, yet rarely rally around a forward-looking vision. Instead, they manipulate nostalgia. Their only promise is destruction, not creation. Where there is no clear vision or agenda, there can be no responsibility. 

Smart information technologies also create unprecedented conditions for simulating the democratic process. We can form opinions about the most distant countries and events, yet lose connection to our immediate surroundings. Online, we are encouraged to be humane and civic-minded and to “take a stand”: sign petitions, raise funds, join campaigns – concern for endangered species, views on protests in the U.S., or migration in German provinces are presented as reflections of our moral character and political awareness. In truth, we increasingly simulate political will, focusing on matters beyond our influence rather than those we might alter, however slightly – a signature or “like” is only a proxy for the will democracy requires. Today’s information bubbles and radicalized doubt about everything around us lead to loneliness. 

The world draws closer, yet identity and information bubbles leave people feeling cut off: the World Health Organization has declared loneliness a global health problem.10 We can watch events unfold in real time thousands of miles away yet become ever more isolated from one another, captive to worldviews crafted by algorithms. These tools strip us of privacy and, by feeding algorithms, restrict our will and freedom, narrowing to a minimum the world we see through our devices. The virtual town square does not provide the communal closeness born of direct interaction. Smart technologies bring the world closer, yet make it feel alien – no longer speaking to us or bearing meaning. As Jan Patočka put it, the “meaning of the world” is no longer “humanly centered”11: it does not arise from our immediate experience but is generated and imposed by the algorithm. 

The pursuit of total control always goes hand in hand with the elimination of direct experience and relations with others by pushing people into isolation and restricting their ability to act. Isolation is achieved not only by physical separation – say, restricting freedom of assembly. It is achieved by sowing doubt about reality and the meaning of events before our eyes. Protest can be labeled treason; a violent assault on legitimate institutions can be celebrated as a “day of love,” as with the 2021 storming of the U.S. Capitol. When the ability to understand reality is undermined, we cease to share a common world – the same events mean different things to different people. This is the essence of today’s smart technologies: not only to mislead but to isolate. We see this now in the United States: some feel they live in a dystopia; others believe a golden age has dawned – without no common ground. Politically, citizens lose their ability to mobilize, creating conditions for uncontrolled expansion of power. As Arendt observed, a totalitarian regime seeks maximal isolation – not only limiting people’s ability to act freely alongside others but also fostering mutual distrust. Absolute loyalty can be expected only from a completely isolated person who, lacking ties of family, friendship, or community, derives meaning solely from belonging to a movement or party.12 

The Promise of Freedom: A Virtue Ethics for the Age of AI  

Facts alone do not produce a better society. The assumption that merely knowing the truth ensures its establishment and care is fundamentally wrong. Truth requires a moral commitment. There will always be situations where it is easier and safer to abandon it; in plain terms, truth is often not the most “rational” choice. Truth demands humility – we must conform ourselves to it. History – especially its painful chapters – makes this clear. Once we acknowledge the Holocaust and its scale, we must also accept that it could not have occurred without local collaboration, meaning that our own citizens were complicit. The only way to avoid that responsibility is to deny the truth. Commitment to truth also entails commitment to other people. Denying a historical event goes hand in hand with refusing to recognize the value of another person’s life. Only by recognizing equal human dignity – accepting the Holocaust as absolute evil – does the fact itself, the six million murdered, speak to us with the weight truth carries. 

Consider an even harder case: citizens under National Socialism or Communism who refused lies and disobediently chose to live in truth, incurring persecution, deportation, or the gulag. In such circumstances, holding to truth may be not only irrational but dangerous. Yet many did so. The courage and resolve of that choice tell us something profound about a person who takes truth as the compass of moral and political judgement. Such a person refuses to be an instrument of lies or a pretender. This decision cultivates virtues – humility, responsibility, fidelity – and fortifies moral character. Butler rightly noted that machines can make decisions unburdened by emotion and thus may help avert tragedies born of pride, ambition, and egoism. But that also means our common life would no longer be shaped by positive springs of action: courage, solidarity, compassion, loyalty. Without these virtues there would be no Lithuanian state – no people willing to risk everything by living in truth. Today there might be no Ukrainian state without those who have bound themselves to life in freedom, even at mortal risk. 

The aim of disinformation, propaganda, algorithms, and other tools of mind control is not only to convince with lies or confuse – to deprive us of the means to tell truth from falsehood. Their purpose is to grant a mandate to immoral impulses: to reject the other, evade hard truths, stoke radicalism over moderation, and legitimize violence. Russia’s regime is nihilist precisely because respect for truth has been maximally suspended; the supposed mark of a “strong” person becomes the ability to deny and openly reject it. 

A moral commitment to truth means not only deciding for ourselves, but also owning our errors – when we misjudge information or draw faulty conclusions. Consider the dilemma of the self-driving car. A machine can model risks more precisely in a dangerous situation. Yet such a car does not exist because, at a fundamental level, we must program a principle: if a collision looms, should the car swerve toward an animal to spare a human life? What if a collision is unavoidable and the choice is between an elderly person and a young one? Between a child and a scientist who may discover a cure next week? In an extreme situation without algorithmic intervention, outcomes are largely determined by chance. Chance is part of the human condition. It often brings novelty into the world and forces us to adapt to events we cannot fully control. To admit that we cannot control everything is to acknowledge that freedom exists – and that reason and moral agency are ways of adapting ourselves to the world, not remaking it to fit an ideal structure imposed upon it. Misfortune is a possible fruit of contingency. But many discoveries also carry elements of ignorance and openness to the unexpected. Here we return to the ethical relation between people: what matters is openness and even the willingness to assume responsibility that allows us to rally around common tasks. 

Butler’s warning – that artificial intelligence will enslave us – will come true if we reduce both AI and political life to the mere production and dissemination of knowledge. We have reached a point where our capacities for speed and scale of analysis have already been surpassed. What separates us from AI is the power of moral judgment: a machine lacks unpredictability; history cannot fill it with pride; the fragility of a meaningful life will not move it to fight, even at risk of death; facts will not awaken in it a sense of duty. 

Freedom requires a distinctively human moral capacity – to decide for ourselves and take responsibility for the world around us. And it is precisely the space of freedom guaranteed by the legal, democratic state that ensures respect for human dignity and rests on justified trust in the human ability to decide, act, and govern. This moral core is the meaning of a democratic order and society.  

References:  

Arendt, Hannah. The Origins of Totalitarianism. Vilnius: Tyto Alba, 2022. 

Batanova, Milena, Weissbourd, Richard, McIntyre, Joseph. Loneliness in America: Just the Tip of the Iceberg?:  

https://static1.squarespace.com/static/5b7c56e255b02c683659fe43/t/67001295042a0f327c6e6fab/1728058005340/Loneliness_+Brief+Report+2024_October_FINAL.pdf.  

Butler, Samuel. Erewhon, Adamant Media Corporation, 2000. 

Darwin Among the Machines (To the Editor of the Press, Christchurch, New Zealand, 13 June, 1863): https://web.archive.org/web/20060524131242/http://www.nzetc.org/tm/scholarly/tei-ButFir-t1-g1-t1-g1-t4-body.html.  

Descartes, Rene. Discourse on the Method. Vilnius: Jonas ir Jokūbas, 2017.  

Patočka, Jan. Heretical Essays in the Philosophy of History. Vilnius: Phi Knygos, 2021.   

Pomerantsev, Peter. Nothing is True and Everything is Possible: The Surreal Heart of the New Russia. PublicAffairs, 2014.  

Snyder, Timothy. The Road to Unfreedom: Russia, Europe, America. Vilnius: Hubris, 2024.   

Tocqueville, Alexis de. Democracy in America. Vilnius: Amžius, 1996.  

***  

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“This initiative by the Open Lithuania Foundation took shape as an effort to preserve and continue the legacy of Professor Irena Veisaitė – one of the founders of the Foundation. She devoted particular attention to building an open society and strengthening a free Lithuania through books, education, culture, and scholarship. Each year, outstanding thinkers from around the world will be invited to deliver a lecture that reflects the values she championed and encourages discussion on liberal democracy and the principles of an open society,” said Sandra Adomavičiūtė, Director of the Open Lithuania Foundation.

At the inaugural lecture, the audience will be welcomed by the Ambassador of Canada to Lithuania, Janet Sautner, and the Rector of Vilnius University, Prof. Rimvydas Petrauskas. Following Prof. Michael Ignatieff’s lecture, entitled “Embattled Freedom: Reinventing the Liberal Ideal for the 21st Century,” a discussion moderated by Veisaitė’s grandson Michael Slavinsky will take place.

The visual identity of the memorial lecture series was created by another grandson of Irena Veisaitė, Daniel Slavinsky. The lectures are planned to be held annually, symbolically marking Veisaitė’s birthday on 9 January.

Irena Veisaitė was one of the most influential intellectual figures of modern Lithuania. She combined academic work with civic responsibility, contributing to the moral foundations that supported Lithuania’s democratic transformation. Colleagues and friends often referred to her as a spiritus movens – the driving force behind the creation of an open society in Lithuania in the 1990s and beyond.

Veisaitė was a beacon of tolerance and dialogue. She believed in steady work and patience, in forgiveness and rebuilding. She viewed honest engagement and reconciliation with the Holocaust and Soviet repression as essential preconditions for freedom. Her work and legacy transcended national borders, and her contributions were recognized both in Lithuania and abroad.

This year, on 16 January at 3:00 p.m., the inaugural lecture by Prof. Michael Ignatieff will take place at the Aula Parva of Vilnius University (Universiteto St. 3). The event is organized by the Open Lithuania Foundation in partnership with Vilnius University, the Embassy of Canada to Lithuania, and Irena Veisaitė’s family and colleagues.

About the Speaker

Michael Ignatieff is one of the world’s leading liberal thinkers – a historian, essayist, and public intellectual who has spent decades examining how people search for dignity and decency in turbulent times. As President and Rector of the Central European University (CEU) from 2016 to 2021, he guided the university through a landmark battle for academic freedom after Hungary’s government sought to curb its independence. His leadership turned CEU into a global symbol of civic courage and the defense of truth – values central to both the Open Society Foundations and Veisaitė’s vision of a humane and open Lithuania.

A former Leader of the Liberal Party of Canada and Member of Parliament, Ignatieff has taught at Harvard, Cambridge, Toronto, and CEU Vienna. Like Irena Veisaitė – who inspired generations of Lithuanian students even under Soviet censorship – he views teaching as a moral act: a way to awaken critical thought and civic responsibility. For both, the classroom has always been a space of quiet resistance and hope.

A recipient of the Dan David Prize for his defense of democracy and human rights, Ignatieff continues to speak and write on how liberal societies can withstand growing political and cultural authoritarianism. His Vilnius lecture will explore how new authoritarian currents in Europe and North America challenge the moral foundations of democracy – reshaping truth, culture, and civic trust – and what virtues citizens and institutions must rediscover to keep societies open and humane.

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To take the examples already mentioned: it is fairly safe to say that Niccolò Machiavelli did not think deceit, hypocrisy, violence, and cynicism were commendable tools of politics; that Plato did not propagate a notion of love devoid of sexual relations; and that Fukuyama, in his famous “end of history” thesis, did not mean that history had literally ended with the collapse of the socialist bloc. Yet precisely such views are often attributed to them when these “philosophemes” are discussed.

The idea of the open society can confidently be added to this list of notions popularized in distorted form. It is undoubtedly one of today’s most ubiquitous topics in public debate – especially in our region, whose contours, in this context, are still drawn by the former borders of the socialist camp in the second half of the 20th century. Tracing the popularity – or rather, the relevance – of the idea of the open society is not difficult; the story is widely known. As the socialist system began to unravel, the American investor of Hungarian origin George Soros set up Open Society foundations in the countries of the socialist bloc; their task was to promote the idea of the open society. Soros borrowed it from the philosopher Karl Popper, with whom he had once studied at the London School of Economics and Political Science. In addition – somewhat atypically for a financier – Soros is a prolific writer: among his many books, at least several discuss the open society directly from various angles: at the intersection of socialist and capitalist systems, in the context of global capitalism, and so on. You would think this information is widely known and part of the public discourse; thus, whenever the idea of the open society is defended or attacked – especially with reference to Soros and Popper – you might expect that both pro and contra arguments would be grounded in primary sources. As we shall see, that is exceedingly rare.

Before discussing the content attributed to the open society – whether in praise or blame – let us first do what is typically not done when speaking about it: let us turn to the primary sources, that is, to Popper’s own idea of the open society as presented in The Open Society and Its Enemies. Popper’s starting point, the central premise of his political theory, is a resolute rejection of historicism. By “historicism” he means the view that an individual human being does not matter in history and that “the truly important actors on the Stage of History are the Great Nations and Great Leaders – or perhaps the Great Classes or Great Ideas.” The defining characteristic of historicism, as Popper understands it, is the belief that history has meaning, logic, and laws, which, once uncovered, will allow us to unlock the course of history itself. Writing during the Second World War, Popper is especially concerned with the specific form of historicism he discerns in fascist and Marxist ideologies.

The former, openly racist, proclaims one race – the Aryans – superior to others, “the chosen instrument of destiny,” granting it special powers and rights while denying them to others, and in some cases denying others any right to exist at all. Marxist ideology, in Popper’s view, is class-based: it posits a strictly agonistic economic logic as history’s central law. The struggle of different classes over, first and foremost, economic goods – but also recognition in G. W. F. Hegel’s sense – constitutes the dynamic aspect of history. Popper rejects both ideologies: they are not only historicist, claiming to have discovered the laws of history, but also closed – everything is subordinated to implementing the “discovered” logic of history. Popper’s program is essentially political: to formulate a conception that resists the temptations of historicist thinking. From what has already been said we can sketch what Popper calls an open society: a society open to the idea that history has no laws – no transcendent logic, no higher mind determining what happens. If so, individuals themselves must assume responsibility for what happens in history.

Societies governed by a rigid historicist worldview Popper calls tribal or closed. Their essential feature is the belief in an order not created by human beings themselves. Popper links such belief with magical thinking. The key element of a magical view of society and history is “the absence of any distinction between the customary or conventional rules of social life and the regularities observed in ‘nature.’ Closely connected to this is the conviction that both the rules and regularities are established by a superhuman will.”

Open societies enjoy no such “luxury.” Their essential mark of openness, as noted, is the conviction that there is no universal, superhuman order – meaning that the future awaiting us is not predetermined. It is noteworthy that Popper – somewhat counterintuitively – rejects prognostication altogether. In his view, the social sciences should not engage in prophecy; doing so only distorts the principles of the scientific method. It follows that the very choice between an open and a closed society is arbitrary – devoid of any element of historical predestination.

Still, Popper finds the open society more appealing – not only because, in his opinion, it better reflects the condition of human societies (historicism is mere speculation that cannot be falsified scientifically). Historicist thinking also deprives the individual of what moral philosophy calls agency – in other words, it “interprets them as puppets, a not-very-important instrument of humanity’s universal development.”

As already noted, Popper’s program is, at bottom, political: while the open society is a philosophical concept, Popper undoubtedly believed he was offering something that could – and, in his view, should – be applied in building a stable political system. From here there arises not only the critical, negative element of his theory (represented by the “enemies” of the open society described in his book) but also a positive political program: a set of features essential to an open society. For example, an open society frees human critical thinking. This is not only because, unlike a closed society that supplies ready-made answers, an open society invites us to seek them.

Another feature is the recognition of individual autonomy and freedom: “The magical, tribal, or collectivist society will be called the closed society; and the society in which individuals are confronted with personal decisions will be called the open society.” This follows not only from skepticism toward putative laws of history but also from Popper’s affirmation of fundamental human dignity. In his words, “the unique individual and their unique actions, experiences, and relations with other individuals can never be fully rationalized.” More than that, Popper holds that “it is this irrational realm of unique individuality that gives human relationships their significance.” A third important aspect of the open society is its democratic character.

For Popper, the fundamental question of politics is not, as the classics thought, “Who should rule?” but rather “How can we organize political institutions that bad or incompetent rulers would be prevented from doing too much damage?” The nature of democracy is that it allows us to replace bad rulers with others. This self-correcting mechanism – dictated by the same anti-historicist stance – leads to another key principle of the open society: piecemeal social engineering. A closed society, convinced it knows where history is headed, engages in utopian engineering: categorical blueprints for society often pursued by brutal, coercive means. Adherents of the open society do not presume to know where society ought to end up; therefore, they avoid such utopian approaches. Instead, they “will seek methods by which they can detect the greatest and most urgent evils of society, and to fight them, rather than search for, and fight for, the greatest ultimate good.” Thus the open society views social “programming” and social construction in a cautious and skeptical way – aiming not to impose a predetermined ideal but rather to eliminate what is widely recognized as evil.

Finally, having renounced any single “true” social doctrine, the open society is pluralistic by nature, which entails a special importance for tolerance. In Western Europe, tolerance emerged in the context of the wars of religion: at first it spread, with the onset of modernity, as the notion that people of different faiths would no longer be forced to convert. In Popper’s theory, the scope of tolerance is greatly expanded – tolerance of other opinions becomes one of the cornerstones of social life. Of course, one can – and indeed should – ask about the limits of tolerance: Popper’s famous “paradox of tolerance” (“unlimited tolerance must lead to the disappearance of tolerance”) is one of the consequences of the open society that must be addressed both conceptually and practically. It is important to note that Popper himself formulates this paradox. Though the idea of the open society has political implications, The Open Society and Its Enemies is not a party pamphlet but an invitation to reflect together on the kind of society we wish to build.

To summarize this brief overview of Popper’s conception: the open society is characterized by skepticism toward “laws of history”; by critical rationalism; by respect for individual autonomy; by a democratic order; by piecemeal or modest social engineering; and by tolerance and pluralism. All these features are interconnected and mutually reinforcing. It is, in short, a complex – indeed, holistic – approach.

Having reviewed Popper’s views, we can look at some insights offered by commentators on the open society in Lithuania. Vytautas Radžvilas, one of its most consistent critics, writes in one essay that “the attempt to create a new human being of the future was an absolutely essential element of building communism.” Popper himself would certainly agree. Radžvilas continues, however: “But this attempt [to create a new human being] is by no means alien to the builders of the open civil society. […] The true and decisive factor that ‘creates and guarantees’ openness – the very essence of this society – lies in its architects’ ambition to transform without restraint the ‘plastic’ human material, so as to produce a somewhat different kind of person – the ‘improved,’ and therefore ‘more perfect,’ twin of the failed communist man.” Unfortunately, Radžvilas provides neither examples nor arguments, making it difficult to determine what exactly he means in claiming that the idea of the open society is to create a new human being. As we have seen, this is a strictly anti-Popperian notion. Radžvilas himself notes as much in a later text, where he refers to Popper’s idea of piecemeal social engineering – though he neglects to mention that Popper elaborates it precisely as an alternative to the utopian social engineering typical of Marxism.

Radžvilas is, of course, not only a philosopher but also a politician; perhaps it is natural that his comments contain distortions and purely rhetorical flights. Yet he is not alone in oddly ignoring Popper’s own ideas and fighting a foe of his own invention. For example, in a text published a decade ago, Alvydas Jokubaitis also criticizes the idea of the open society, but unlike Radžvilas, what bothers him is the very notion of openness. In an essay tellingly titled “A Completely Open Society Is Doomed to Collapse from Its Openness,” Jokubaitis writes: “Today we must rethink the idea of the open society. Seen from a 25-year perspective, it is clear that the very term ‘Open Lithuania’ encoded a contradiction.”  Jokubaitis’ chief target is openness itself. Although he mentions Popper several times, he uses the term “openness” in a sense entirely different from Popper’s. For Jokubaitis, openness means, rather, dissolution into a global identity. He writes: “Lithuanians can be open to the world, but if they want to remain Lithuanians, they must have something other nations and societies do not have. That ‘something’ inevitably distinguishes, limits, and closes them off.” As our brief review showed Popper’s openness has nothing to do with “openness to the world”: for him it signifies, above all, openness to (social and political) uncertainty. It is not an identity question at all but an epistemological one: recognizing that I do not know the laws of history, I am prepared to listen to other rationally grounded opinions (critical thinking and pluralism), to proceed cautiously (piecemeal social engineering), and to correct my own and my government’s mistakes (a democratic order).

Jokubaitis does not address these aspects – his “open society” is something else. He links it to moral relativism and the admission of the other: “If the Swedes cared only about the idea of the open society, they should forget that they are Swedes and send all their means of transport to Africa and other continents to bring in poor immigrants.” This is, of course, untrue – at least if we understand the open society as Popper proposes it. It seems Jokubaitis is battling an image of a radically borderless society that does not know its own limits – what Povilas Aleksandravičius aptly dubbed “the leaky society.” As Aleksandravičius writes, “the leaky mode of experiencing identity […] tends to deny the value of identity’s content altogether.” But obviously this has very little to do with Popper’s idea of the open society: as we have seen, one of Popper’s premises is the postulate of the individual’s unique value.

More such examples could be gathered. In a sense, Popper has been unlucky: his theory found a person with sufficient financial means and imagination to ensure it could no longer be ignored – and that inevitably provokes a backlash. In Popper’s spirit, I would say that this very backlash – criticism of the idea of the open society – should be welcomed, especially when it proceeds by rational argument and serious engagement with one’s opponent, rather than by constructing a straw man argument. Indeed, the very fact that the idea of the open society elicits so many reactions is probably the best sign that it is alive, relevant, and timely.

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Around 2010, while working in an international organization, I had colleagues from all over the world – among them, a Hungarian woman I had known through the International Committee of the Red Cross. We once had lunch together. At the time, people were already warning that Viktor Orbán’s populist “democracy” in Hungary might endure for a long time – that this was the beginning of a new trend. It still seemed hard to believe, and I asked her what she thought. She said, roughly, “I think it was the era of liberal elites. Now it’s someone else’s turn.” Her tone surprised me, as did her reluctance to judge that “other” elite. In time, I understood why. She now works in one of Hungary’s top state institutions and, as far as I can tell, sees no moral or other dilemmas in that. Once again, I felt naïve, realizing how easily people – even those trained in international and human rights law – can end up on the opposite side of the barricades. For a while I believed education and knowledge could change the world. Unfortunately, Lithuania, too, has its share of similar examples.

I recall another conversation, this one with a professor from St. Petersburg. He told me: “If the ‘Kaunas boys’ had been given economic freedom before 1990, no one would have fought for political independence.” I’m not sure he was right – I like to think better of my people. Still, I think back to that era – the final decade of the USSR – when our parents, and we their children, could live tolerably well, yet could not paint the Columns of Gediminas on a wall or raise the tricolor flag. And I ask myself: how many people truly felt then that they lacked human rights? The dream I remember most vividly was to “live better” – to live like one’s relatives, if one had any, in the West. Only dissidents – whom few knew personally – spoke of human rights. The wider public accepted that resistance led only to KGB cells. In my childhood, I probably never heard the words “human rights” at all – except in propaganda about how brutally they were being violated in the United States.

So for me, human rights have always carried a certain paradox. Most people care about them not in the abstract, but only when faced with a personal injustice, an abuse of power, or arbitrary treatment. Human rights are often called a new religion, bound up with individual liberalism and contrasted with collective visions of society or dismissed as a Western invention. Worse still, the very idea of universal human rights is sometimes portrayed as a colonial product – something imposed on other societies. Why, then, do those societies sign human-rights treaties? Because they’re forced to! Otherwise, they lose access to the privileges concentrated on the “human-rights” side of the global divide.

In Sapiens, Yuval Noah Harari – whose book, though not old, already feels a bit naïve in today’s changed world – describes human rights as a universal achievement. Even when challenged, he writes, it is not the concept that is disputed, but the scope and content of human rights. China, for example, does not reject the idea of human rights; it simply emphasizes economic rights over political ones (which, as we know, it lacks under the Communist Party’s “leading role”). Meanwhile, in the materially comfortable West we debate new generations of rights – the right to internet access, to biodiversity, even to a healthy climate. From the same root idea, we’ve extended the logic of rights to animals, and even to potential future synthetic or cybernetic beings.

For some, there are simply too many human rights. They see them as an obstacle to family, to the state, to its strength. Human rights are blamed for social permissiveness, moral decay, disobedient children. They’re even blamed for depleting resources: our “dignified life” standard, based on human-rights ideals, would require three Earths if extended to all. Human rights are a constant battlefield – and not everyone wins.

Thus, on the one hand, human rights can be viewed very narrowly and simply: as laws that establish norms and their interpretation in judicial practice; and on the other hand, very broadly – as a concept that has transformed the world and humanity’s place within it.

We all know that universal human rights are not ancient – particularly as an international construct. There were the Magna Carta, the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen, and national constitutions enshrining certain rights. But can we really speak of a unified “age of human rights”? For us in Lithuania, it began only with the fall of the Iron Curtain and the Soviet Union – when we joined the so-called “golden billion.” For many others, the human-rights debate remains a theoretical luxury of the rich, not a lived reality. In Europe we can argue about the right to a healthy environment, about planes not flying overhead. But who in the developing world can relate? Conversely, there’s that (perhaps apocryphal) story of an American who, hearing how the Soviets deported Lithuanians to Siberia, asked: “Why didn’t you call your lawyer?” The gap in understanding between someone raised amid an abundance of rights and someone who has only heard of them is vast.

Maybe that’s why the new era of “Trumpism” feels so frightening. The aggressive neighbor to our east stands at the spearhead of human-rights denial, while our long-admired allies – those we’ve looked up to since 1945 – seem adrift.

Some might object: neither Trumpism nor Orbanism – nor even Putinism – is openly against human rights per se. Let them exist, say their defenders, but not in excess. They object not to rights themselves but to their “overextension”: to sexual rights (same-sex marriage, transgender rights), to the “dictatorship” of minorities – racial, ethnic, religious, etc. They say, “Fine, let human rights exist – we like them too, just not the new ones.” And they ask: human rights are about the individual – but what about the state, the community? Are their interests forgotten? Aren’t individuals abusing their rights?

It’s no secret that anything can be abused – including human rights. And abuses always draw more attention than the ordinary exercise of rights.

This brings us to the essential question too often missing from human-rights debates: the question of the minority – or, more precisely, the disempowered. Human rights are, at their core, about protecting those who need protection most. If you hold power or wealth – which you can convert into power – or belong to the dominant majority, human rights may feel irrelevant because you already have them. Historically, human rights arose not from abstract philosophy but from resistance to arbitrary power: first against kings in medieval Europe who refused to share authority with nobles, townsmen, and later, the “third estate.” When monarchs disappeared, the struggle was between the state and the individual – and later, between stronger and weaker groups: men and women, adults and children, majorities and minorities. Human rights, however noble, always emerge from conflict.

They are also inconvenient – they demand effort, action. And, ironically, they can also become tools of hypocrisy. Students of history will recall that the so-called Opium Wars, when Britain forced China to submit, began with the “rights” of British traders imprisoned for smuggling opium. Did those merchants care about the rights of the Chinese people to whom they sold the drug? Hardly. Modern parallels are not hard to find – for example, migration. Wealthy societies are reluctant to share their prosperity with newcomers; there simply isn’t enough “good” to go around. In the United States, mass deportation campaigns now openly proclaim – even in pop lyrics – that “human rights are for Americans,” meaning U.S. citizens only.

Listening to the chorus of opinions, you get the sense that many people today can hardly imagine a world without human rights – a world where only the strong, only the majority, matter. To them, I’d suggest a thought experiment. Do you think you belong to that majority? Test it in a country known for violating human rights. Are you a woman? You have no rights. A child? No rights. An ethnic, racial, religious, or national minority? No rights. A sexual minority? No rights. The Iranian Revolution of 1979 shows how quickly rights can vanish – and for how long. Putinism in Russia shows the same.

In Lithuania, we live in a strange time. Human rights were at least formally central to our political agenda until we joined the European Union – more than twenty years ago – but since then we have drifted. How many tragedies did it take to finally reform the child-protection system? The Istanbul Convention on preventing violence against women remains stalled, buried under imaginary fears. Same-sex partnership is still unresolved. Even after the Constitutional Court gave the green light, new parliamentary initiatives have already emerged to block it again.

And of course, there is the specter of LGBT rights – dismissed in vulgar discourse with the phrase “let them do what they want at home, but not in public.” Here lies another paradox: LGBT people are often colorful, loud, and unwilling to blend in. They are a minority, yet precisely because of their visibility, they stand out – and crowds dislike that. Part of this, perhaps, stems from the Soviet experience, which tolerated no brightness – not in architecture, art, or life. It also suppressed sexuality, locking it away behind the façade of propriety or vulgar jokes. Recall Orwell’s 1984, where Winston’s wife regards sex only as “a duty to the Party.” The greatest paradox, however, is that even those who suffered under Soviet repression now claim that the regime “protected us from Western degeneracy” – meaning, above all, LGBT+ rights.

At the same time, the prominence of LGBT+ rights can have an unintended effect: sharp polemics on this issue, amplified by the media, often overshadow other pressing human-rights concerns – such as the rights of people with disabilities or mental illness.

Take, for example, a widely publicized case in Lithuania where police officers shot and killed a woman with a mental disorder whom they could not subdue. Public discussion – especially online – focused almost entirely on the officers’ right to self-defense. Few defended the woman’s rights, even her most basic right: the right to life. Instead, people repeated statements like, “You have no idea what a mentally ill person can do.”

Another painful example is the instrumentalized migration crisis. Most migrants trying to cross illegally from Belarus into Lithuania are third-country nationals who are turned back and trapped in limbo, though the European Court of Human Rights has ruled such practices a violation. The issue is complex. Many are economic migrants for whom Lithuania is merely a gateway to the EU. Still, their fate in the border zone often stands in stark conflict with basic principles of humanity. Lithuania faces an impossible dilemma: it must defend its border, while Belarus uses migration as a tool of hybrid warfare. The situation leaves Lithuania in a kind of no-win trap – letting migrants in seems impossible, but pushing them back is a violation, and for some it means death. Public discourse focuses almost exclusively on migrants as a “threat,” ignoring that among them are genuine asylum seekers. Organizations that help them are demonized. Any balance in the conversation is lost.

I also sense a broader disillusionment – the sense that human rights are just lofty words on paper. Watching Russia’s full-scale war against Ukraine since 2022, reading reports of tortured prisoners, bombed cities, and destroyed infrastructure, despair is understandable: what human rights? Who still cares? The Israeli–Hamas war after October 7, 2024 raises similar questions. Can a state, even when responding to a brutal attack, justify civilian deaths on such a scale? Can it block humanitarian aid or target rescue workers? Once again, society splits into opposing camps: opponents of Israel (for reasons that are not entirely clear) view the war started by Hamas as Palestine’s fight for freedom, while Israel’s supporters tend to dismiss all talk of Israeli violations.

Sadly, this “us versus them” mindset seeps even into the field of human rights itself. Narratives are dominated by loud extremists who quickly gather followers, while genuine dialogue collapses before it begins. In public discourse, only a few still attempt nuanced, multi-layered discussion.

In such a toxic climate, the question “Where are human rights?” is hard to answer – and the answer itself is not simple. My only reply is this: we know that certain acts are violations of human rights, and they must not be tolerated. Because without the very concept of human rights, we wouldn’t even be able to ask the question. It’s small comfort, I know, to those who suffer or die.

Still, skepticism – especially the normalization of rights violations – is another nail in the coffin of the idea itself. As long as we recognize that these rights exist, that they must exist, that they must be defended – and that their violation doesn’t mean they’ve ceased to exist but simply that they’ve been breached – there remains hope of restoring them, even of holding violators accountable. But if we begin to claim that such violations are normal, that we no longer need what “doesn’t work,” we will be making a terrible mistake.

I titled this essay with a linguistic play on words: a shrinking world [translator note: trumpėjantis in Lithuanian means both shrinking and becoming “Trump-like”]. The title refers not only to Trump but also to something broader – the way, as studies and our own experience show, our attention spans are shrinking, our patience waning, our grasp of complexity diminishing. From its very beginning, the Open Lithuania Foundation sought polylogue: to bring freer, more diverse conversation – one capable of healing the traumas and memory wounds of the Soviet era. That kind of speech is essential for any meaningful discourse on human rights. If we can remember this, if we resist turning human rights into mere fodder for culture wars, if we keep talking about them and honoring them in our everyday lives, perhaps we will not repeat the darkest pages of the second half of the 20th century.

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At six in the morning I set out, walking nearly an hour down a drizzle-soaked dirt road. The daily Rokiškis–Vilnius bus that once passed here had been canceled a year ago. For many in the parish center and surrounding villages it had been the convenient link to Utena and Vilnius – and from there to other cities. If you left in the morning, you could return in the evening. The bus even stopped at Santariškės hospital, a lifeline for a dozen or so Jūžintai residents undergoing cancer treatment. The bus company justified canceling the route with familiar arguments: too few passengers, poor road conditions – especially in winter, when a ten-kilometer stretch turns to ice and cannot be graded. For locals, the question of paving the road has become a festering sore over the past decade. More than once, a paving project was announced, red-painted stakes appeared along the verges, prep work began – and each time, for one reason or another, hopes were always dashed before the end. Now, without an intercity bus, the road’s classification has changed, and few believe it will ever be paved. To get asphalt, the daily intercity service would have to be restored. But the bus company won’t risk its vehicles on potholes. It’s not worth it.

Approaching the stop, I fall in step with others coming from side roads – dressed neatly, headed to town. We nod, start chatting. The topics are exactly what you’d expect. In their voices I hear disappointment, a touch of anger, and quiet resignation.

I’m a local who comes and goes, so I tend to judge change by an aesthetic measure of the natural and social landscape around me: they closed the school? A pity – the building will just sit there, no kids playing on the field. They cut down the century-old ash avenue by the road? I’ll miss the rustle and the cooling shade. I remember a car pulling into the yard and a young woman inviting me to sign a petition to pave the gravel road. I hesitated: did I really want to give up the photogenic, archaic romance of stones underfoot?

For people who live here, these changes are not aesthetic. They are personal – about dignity and the quality of daily life. A cut tree is not just a visual change; it’s memories, a piece of everyday scenery, woven into local identity. No wonder every change feels like a wound. The worst is when decisions come from outside, made without listening.

Traveling around Lithuania, I see the same story again and again. The sorest points are always education, health care, and transportation. In other words: schools consolidated and shuttered, clinics and hospital stripped of services, public transport networks thinned to threads.

If we saw the country as a human body, then in recent decades we’ve focused on the arteries – the big cities and the roads connecting them. We’ve achieved enviable quality of life and services in major cities. Other large vessels are maintained too – new roads, logistics hubs, special economic zones. Through the veins flow freight and city-dwellers, reaching their weekend homesteads without complaint. But at a community meeting I once heard a man put it differently: the tiny blood vessels – the capillaries – are left to fend for themselves. Starved of blood, the nerves in the extremities go numb. What doesn’t hurt, we don’t care about.

Circulatory diseases are the leading cause of death in Lithuania.

I remember when the closure of the Salakas school began. In the local press it was a minor headline – a small school shutting in some unknown town, and I, too, shrugged. Later I saw the drama from within, at a meeting between municipal officials and the school community. It started by chance: while filling out a project application, teachers learned from staff that the school would soon close – that applying was pointless. Alarmed, the teachers appealed to the district authorities and were invited to a meeting.

The small assembly hall filled with teachers, parents, representatives of other Salakas organizations, and district officials.

“Today let us to talk not about this school’s future, but about the fate of the entire town and community,” headmaster Leonas Sadauskas began.

Bureaucrats spread spreadsheets across the tables; staff from the Education Department kept glancing down, looking for something in the numbers, jotting notes. Worried parents and soon-to-be-unemployed teachers asked questions. The vice-mayor was blunt: the school cost too much, there weren’t enough pupils, so there was no alternative. But there was: Salakas had 56 students, just four short of the minimum. Since Dūkštas school nearby was also being merged, its pupils could have filled the gap. Combined classes could have been subsidized – that would have cost about thirty thousand euros a year, enough to keep teachers and staff employed. Other solutions existed too: attracting new families, drawing in children from elsewhere. Salakas school was 116 years old; many of its teachers were alumni who had returned home after studies in Vilnius to teach community’s children. “These kids will represent our region,” teacher Dalia said. “How can we educate them by cutting corners?”

Still, the main classes were abolished. It wasn’t worth it. Several teachers lost their jobs. The librarian asked: “And what exactly will be better for the community thanks to the savings?” No one could answer. Officials reassured people that the school wouldn’t be closed entirely – the primary grades would remain.

But a few months later, just three days before September 1st, I got another call from Faustina, a mother of six whose family I’ve long photographed. On the phone she recounted what sounded like a novel: on a late summer walk to the lake, she met a teacher in tears. The teacher told her that the primary classes had been cut too, despite being approved before summer. Parents and children were thrown into chaos, ready for school in two days with nowhere to go. The eldership said it had orders from the ministry; the ministry said the municipality hadn’t done enough and had failed to inform the school earlier. Everyone was right, therefore no one was responsible. Parents and children had to scramble to find places elsewhere. Salakas is far from the district center, Zarasai. Now Salakas children travel over an hour by bus each day to their new school.

The consequences: several clubs shut down, a renovated activity center left half-empty, two families moved away, other cultural organizations – those directly linked to the school’s 56 children – withered or closed.

At one gathering about the school’s closure, a mother said almost in passing: today we should fear most the bureaucrats who do their jobs well. Every link does its part, but no one sees the whole. It wasn’t clear who ought to have initiated discussion and brought the community together to look for solutions.

I travel the regions constantly, photographing people. Every portrait brings a conversation. I see an extraordinarily beautiful country. I hear genuine, vibrant citizens who care. And I feel the tension of a changing way of life: people freeing themselves from a Soviet regime of imposed living (collective farms, drained homesteads and villages, growing small towns) and looking for new ways of living.

You feel it most on the periphery, which over the last three decades has been abandoned by young people seeking opportunities in the big city, leaving to study and never returning. Urban life offers polished paths to self-realization: events, galleries, media – everything that creates meaning and image. There should be an asterisk at the end of that sentence, because there are always conditions attached.

As professor Egidijus Aleksandravičius notes, the “Little Moscow” complex still lingers – the belief that if you’re not there, your life is worth nothing.

Brewer and local historian Simonas Gutautas would object to my word “periphery”: “Here the city has never been the center. Lithuanians saw the city as a constraint on their freedom. Only those unable to sustain themselves in the countryside, the landless without a farm, were drawn to cities.”

Small towns and larger villages are going through metamorphosis. We lack a far-sighted regional policy, or it’s ineffective – no clear vision of what to do with depopulating settlements, how to guarantee a dignified life and access to services for those who remain, how to attract qualified professionals and young families. That uncertainty hastens decline, because few will tie their future to a place shadowed by constant insecurity.

Each municipality tries their own solutions – offering financial incentives to attract high-skill workers, local action groups managing EU programs and teaching people how to use them. They try to lure in big-capital companies, hoping they will attract a new factory.

For now, nature itself is the strongest draw. Life in the countryside, cheap empty homesteads – these attract remote-working city people, often burned out. I could name at least five social-media influencers who have, in recent years, left the city for a lone farmstead, becoming ambassadors for their place.

Here we can’t do without Krzysztof Czyżewski’s term “wild-hearted believers”. He uses it for those who have found their place outside the metropolis, convinced that life there is not condemned to dull routine but full of opportunity.

Czyżewski himself needs no introduction. A Polish intellectual and writer, he left Warsaw for the distant town of Sejny, revived – with his own funds – the Miłosz family manor in Krasnogruda, and founded the influential Borderland Foundation there. In his “Little Center of the World,” he has been weaving the social fabric for a decade – gathering locals for cultural work, mentoring Sejny youth who now impress salons in New York. The most sought-after Polish and global intellectuals are regular guests in Krasnogruda.

For Czyżewski, a provincial is not someone who lives outside the big city, but someone whose place of residence fills them with an inferiority complex. Seeking to cure it, they look for their center somewhere else than where they live. The problem is they do not love the place they live in; they’re ashamed of it and push it into secrecy (even if they wear the face of a liberated citizen of the world). In Czyżewski’s view, the world that created the provincial – or that they agreed to live in – takes away the place where they live; they disown the place they live.

A little over a decade ago my friends Guoda and Šarūnas got off the train in the Švenčionėliai station. What drew them first were the 19th-century brick buildings along Lithuania’s first railway and the closeness of nature: right past the tracks runs the Žeimena, and the Labanoras Regional Park begins. At the time I had moved to Visaginas and often visited them. I saw how a spontaneous idea – guided by a strong sense of possibility – grew into that “Little Center of the World.” The growing Švenčionėliai “Forest Port” community is the clearest example of such positive change. Young people saw potential, moved their work there, and revived a small town: empty buildings inhabited again, institutions created, jobs and cultural spaces opened, an old sawmill reborn as a lively cultural venue. Most important, long-time residents were drawn into the effort.

You can find communities like this, large and small, scattered along the coast, in Anykščiai, Antazavė, Antalieptė, Salakas, Musteika, Krokšlys, and surely elsewhere. These wild-hearted believers change the fate of a place and infuse it with new energy. Traveling around Lithuania I also meet newcomers who simply chose to move – often young families. A few years ago, I reclaimed my grandparents’ and great-grandparents’ homestead. It has become my anchor – the place I no longer wish to leave for the city.

After years of repairing a house that sat empty for a decade – where I once spent my summers until it was sold – friends began visiting. Now I see a growing community: my friends have bought three neighboring homesteads, and our presence has truly enlivened the place and bound us with living ties.

In his book Borderlands and Centers (Paribiai ir centrai), Ramūnas Čičelis rejects the comparison between life in the city and the region, arguing that it has no logical basis. Each person chooses where they’re better off.

“Perhaps the only healthy stance, free of complexes, is that of a thoughtful person who constantly weighs reality, not one who is closed off and fossilized. Only then does it become clear that someone who grows and tends trees in their yard is far stronger, healthier, and often deeper than those walking on concrete slabs. For a person of the ‘province,’ the place where they live is still the center – the point of reference from which they see the world. For the de-centered denizen of the megalopolis, what remains are chance, inner chaos, and great insecurity – the roots of our era’s disorders. Those who shout to small-town folk ‘hang in there!’ in fact have no ‘here’ of their own. Their big city is not a place or a center for them; it is just a space they can swap out at any moment, so being responsible for it seems old-fashioned. Only the person of a small town can still say they are ‘here,’ because physically, in thought and feeling, they are bound to their place – a place that obliges and gives meaning,” Čičelis reflects.

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Together with our partners Panevėžys Rain Children and the Institute for Public and Business Development, we shared how non-governmental organizations (NGOs) play a vital role in Lithuania — bringing people together, encouraging active participation in community life, and strengthening civic engagement. We also highlighted the importance of supporting NGOs — helping them learn, grow, and build the skills they need to carry out this crucial mission.

We are grateful to the European Commission Representation in Lithuania for the opportunity to meet and share our stories. Our sincere thanks also go to the European Commission’s CERV programme (Citizens, Equality, Rights and Values), which helps us empower small organizations in the regions so they can gradually become local “centers of democracy” — close to the people they serve.

Photos courtesy of the European Commission.

The post European Commissioner Michael McGrath Visits the Open Lithuania Foundation appeared first on ALF.

This call is open to NGO consortium, with each consortium comprising at least one organization with experience in human rights advocacy, and two smaller regional NGOs.

The call is part of the “Grassroots” program. It aims to fund at least 18 projects, with a total budget of €1.08 million. Applications are open until October 5. The call is being launched simultaneously in Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia.

The “Grassroots” program is funded by the European Union and implemented by the Open Lithuania Foundation, in partnership with the Center for Equality Advancement (Lithuania), the Marta Centre (Latvia), and the Women’s Support and Information Centre (Estonia).

Application links:

• For organizations based in Lithuania: https://gap.lt/veikiam/

• For organizations based in Latvia: https://www.marta.lv/veicam 

• For organizations based in Estonia: https://naistetugi.ee/projekt/grassroots/

“Civil society plays a vital role in responding to gender-based violence. NGOs are closer to marginalized groups, who often face higher risks of GBV. It is crucial that NGOs take practical steps to shift perceptions of GBV and strengthen its prevention. That is why this call supports practical organizational initiatives focused on advocacy, education, and awareness-raising,” says Marta Gadeikienė, the program’s lead.

Applicants and partner organizations must uphold core EU values—respect for human dignity, freedom, democracy, and equality (including gender equality), the rule of law, human rights, and the rights of minorities (based on race, ethnicity, disability, age, sexual orientation, gender identity, etc.). Discrimination of any kind is not tolerated. Applications may be rejected—or funding withdrawn—if it is found that the applicant or its partners do not comply with these principles.

We invite organizations to apply and take action!

More information about the program: www.olf.lt/veikiam

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Denys was only 21 years old when he joined the Armed Forces of Ukraine in 2014, volunteering for the Anti-Terrorist Operation (ATO).

“I don’t have any close relatives; I’m an orphan and only have my aunt,” Denys says. “She asked me, ‘Why are you getting involved in this? What good will it do you?’ But I was stubborn. My mind was made up – I was going.”

Military service quickly drew Denys in. He felt he was doing something meaningful, finding his purpose within a strong team, with career prospects, while still having the opportunity to visit his family.

In February 2022, Platoon Sergeant Denys and his comrades were awaiting their next rotation, preparing to return home after six months on the frontline. Instead, they were among the first to face the full-scale Russian invasion near Avdiivka.

“Fierce fighting broke out,” Denys recalls. “The ground was shaking. Planes, missiles – it was terrifying. Many of our soldiers were killed there.” Denys was fortunate to survive, but he sustained a serious leg injury during one of the brutal battles in the Luhansk region.

“I’m missing four centimetres from two bones in my leg, and metal rods are now inside,” Denys explains. “I spent six months in hospital in Rivne. Afterwards, I was bedridden at home for a long time, and my muscles wasted away. I couldn’t even stand on the injured leg.”

The long and difficult recovery took a significant toll on Denys’s mental health. He felt apathetic, rarely went outside, even on crutches, and barely spoke to anyone. People around him often irritated him. “I was slowly losing my mind,” he admits with a sad smile.

Many veterans find themselves in similar situations after service or injury; prolonged isolation and constant reminders of trauma can severely worsen their condition.

“A lack of timely psychological support can contribute to chronic depression, anxiety disorders, and post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD),” explains Lyudmyla Sviridova, psychologist at “Checkpoint”. “Unresolved psychological issues can complicate relationships with family, friends, and colleagues, causing isolation and conflict. Without adequate support, some veterans turn to alcohol or drugs as coping mechanisms. Chronic stress and psycho-emotional strain can also lead to cardiovascular, gastrointestinal, and other physical health issues.”

Unfortunately, not all service personnel seek psychological help, even when it is available. Many hesitate out of fear of stigma, feelings of weakness, or sheer exhaustion. Denys himself initially refused even to visit a rehabilitation specialist

“A friend messaged me about a rehab centre opening in Zaporizhzhia,” Denys remembers. “She urged me, ‘Go; maybe they can help you.’ But at that time, I wanted nothing more than to stare at the ceiling.”

Eventually, Denys found the motivation and strength to approach the “Checkpoint” Rehabilitation Space, largely thanks to his friend’s persistent encouragement.

“I ignored her suggestion for about two weeks,” Denys recalls. “But she kept asking, ‘Have you gone yet?’ She kept nagging me until I finally decided to give it a go. Once I got there, I liked it and began attending regularly.”

With the help of Iryna, a physical rehabilitation specialist at “Checkpoint”, Denys made significant progress. “Massages and intensive work on my leg and back made a huge difference,” he says gratefully.

Encouraged by these improvements, Denys didn’t stop. Together with his wife, he joined a gym and began training with coach Dmytro. They still attend sessions regularly. In addition, Denys has started psychotherapy with Lyudmyla Sviridova, the centre’s psychologist.

“Initially, I thought, ‘Why would I need a psychologist? What good could that possibly do?’ But our conversations turned out to be enjoyable and genuinely helped me to release emotional tension.”

Working with the psychologist gradually restored Denys’s energy and rekindled his interest in life. Once withdrawn, he became an active member of his local community – he now helps maintain the neighbourhood and has even launched a TikTok blog to share his rehabilitation journey and inspire fellow veterans.

“It’s an amazing experience,” Denys enthuses. “I recommend everyone not to be afraid. Go, meet the specialists at the Rehabilitation Space. They’re wonderful and can help you with anything – whether it’s starting a business, solving a legal issue, or receiving counselling from psychologists. You must give it a try, because staying home alone really can drive you mad.” Denys’s growing online presence has already had an impact, encouraging several veterans and their families to approach the “Checkpoint” Rehabilitation Space.

“People started coming because of me,” Denys says with a smile. “Everyone’s going to the gym, to the lawyers and the psychologists, and enjoying it. They’re thanking me. It’s fantastic!”

Today, Denys has returned to work and leads an active lifestyle, but he still continues to visit the “Checkpoint” Rehabilitation Space. These days, it’s just to work out – and to say hello and chat with the staff.

“They’re my friends,” Denys says warmly. “True friends.”

The “Checkpoint” project was co-funded by the European Union and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Republic of Lithuania. It was administered by the Central Project Management Agency of the Republic of Lithuania, with expert implementation support from the Open Lithuania Foundation. The project concluded in May, but the “Checkpoint” team continues to provide services to veterans, albeit in a different location.

The post “If you close yourself off, you can go insane.” The Story of Veteran Platoon Sergeant Denys appeared first on ALF.

Can we speak today of a shared European understanding of the consequences of World War II?  

A common European understanding of the consequences of World War II is still in the process of formation, and arguably, this process is progressing too slowly. Diverse historical experiences, especially in former Soviet bloc countries, lead to varying interpretations of the war and differing memory politics. While European values such as peace, democracy, and human rights are often proclaimed, their implementation remains inconsistent. Russia’s aggression against Ukraine serves as a painful reminder that the lessons of history have not been fully learned—not only in some EU countries but also in the broader European and global context. Today, populist narratives are increasingly prevalent, calling for a return to a supposed “golden past,” while ignoring or deliberately overlooking historical violence, injustice, oppression, and deportations. 

In the political and public spheres, concerning signs are evident: restrictions on civil society in Serbia, Hungary, and Georgia; weakening of free press; and the undermining of independent institutions. All these indicate that the roots of totalitarianism have not been entirely eradicated. Even more troubling is that an increasing number of people are turning away from fact-based history and historical memory—partly due to information warfare, but also because of growing social inequality and disillusionment with democratic systems. This fosters radicalization, the spread of conspiracy theories, and historical distortions, thereby altering the perception of the long-term consequences of World War II. 

We often lack decisive support for countries currently defending the foundations of democracy—not only Ukraine but also regions where the pursuit of freedom is becoming increasingly vulnerable. A shared European historical memory can only be established when there are no “convenient silences,” and when the historical experiences of each nation are acknowledged, reflecting their sovereignty rather than adhering to a colonial narrative, and are integrated into a common narrative. This requires the courage not only to speak about the past but also to act in the present—not only at the political level but also within our society, which often becomes indifferent.  

How are the lessons of World War II, particularly the understanding of the tragedy of war and the crimes of totalitarian regimes, being reinterpreted today in Ukraine, Belarus, Lithuania, Germany, and Poland in the light of Russia’s aggression against Ukraine?  

The current war in Ukraine has revived painful memories of historical oppression throughout the Eastern European region. In Lithuania, we particularly recall that, although World War II officially ended in 1945, for us, it did not conclude—it was followed by nearly fifty years of Soviet occupation, repression, deportations, and suppression of national consciousness. This experience is still not fully understood or acknowledged in many Western European countries, often leaving our historical voice marginalized in Europe context.  

Due to this historical experience, there is a growing awareness in Lithuania that the lessons of history must not only be remembered but actively defended—through actions against aggression, disinformation, and nostalgia for totalitarianism. The crimes of totalitarian regimes in our region are not merely historical issues—they are evidently relevant today, especially as we witness the same repressive models being applied against Ukraine’s statehood and society. 

This explains the sincere and profound solidarity of the Lithuanian people with Ukraine. We often hear surprise from other countries: “Why does such a small nation support Ukraine so strongly?” The answer is simple—our history does not allow us to remain indifferent. We see ourselves in Ukraine—fighting for freedom, dignity, and the right to exist. Therefore, many Lithuanians say: “With Ukraine—until victory.” This is not just a political slogan—it is a moral stance arising from an experience shared with all nations that have endured Soviet oppression. 

After World War II, the Soviet Union was internationally recognized as one of the world’s superpowers, primarily due to its decisive role in defeating Nazi Germany. Western countries, especially through the Yalta and Potsdam conferences, acknowledged the USSR’s sphere of influence in Eastern Europe. The USSR was often referred to as a liberator; however, especially today, words matter. The USSR was not a liberator but an occupier that came and forgot to leave. We are witnessing the same situation in Ukraine today. 

How does the experience of the war against Ukraine affect the reinterpretation of symbols, commemorative dates, and memory of the past in your societies? 

The war against Ukraine has accelerated processes that were already underway—a growing disassociation from Soviet and other totalitarian symbols, which were long presented as signs of “victory over fascism.” More and more people now clearly identify and speak out that May 9th, as “Victory Day,” essentially symbolized not liberation but the replacement of one totalitarian regime with another. Soviet victory rhetoric is increasingly losing its meaning, as it is based on historical distortion and selective memory.  

A significant portion of our society never felt respect for these Soviet symbols—especially those who directly experienced occupation, deportations, or repression. Another segment, particularly those socialized during the Soviet era or part of the Russian-speaking community, long felt a certain loyalty to this symbolism—often not due to ideological conviction but due to cultural inertia. With Russia’s initiation of the war in Ukraine, the reevaluation of symbols, language, commemorative dates, and the assessment of ethnic minorities has become a source of internal tension: differing experiences, identities, and sometimes miscommunication have clashed, posing a threat to social cohesion. Therefore, we are currently learning the importance of patient, inclusive dialogue and clear value-based policies that do not stigmatize but invite choosing the side of freedom and democracy. 

In Lithuania, which today, after 35 years of independence, can consider itself a full-fledged member of the European Union, May 9th—Europe Day—is becoming more significant not only as a historical date but as a value-based choice: for peace, reconciliation, democracy, and human dignity. 

What role does the rethinking of May 8th play in shaping contemporary political culture and memory of the war? 

The geopolitical reality in which Lithuania is wedged between two aggressive authoritarian regimes—Russia and its ally Belarus—only underscores further that the reassessment of history is not merely a matter of the past. It is a question of present and future security, of value-based choices, and of identity. Lithuania has never felt entirely secure, and our politicians and society have long warned that Russia’s aggression is not a temporary deviation or an isolated tragedy, but a systemic, long-term threat to the entire region.Today, these warnings are confirmed not only by the brutal war in Ukraine but also by Belarus’s hybrid attacks—from the instrumentalization of migration to sustained disinformation campaigns against the West. In this context, the meaning of May 8th becomes vivid and urgent. It is no longer just a commemoration of a historical date but a moral compass: are we ready to recognize threats, defend our values, and truly learn from the past? In Lithuania, there is a growing understanding that we must distance ourselves from Soviet memory narratives that glorified the “capitulation of one aggressor and the victory of another,” while remaining silent about repression, occupation, and the loss of independence. For us, May 8th signifies not only the end of the war but also the beginning of a new chapter in telling history—one that reflects truth, acknowledges painful fates, and embeds democratic values as part of our shared foundation. 

 A message from you to Germany and Europe on 8th/9th of May 2025 

Today, as the shadows of war once again fall upon the European continent, our gaze on May 8–9, 2025, must return to the past—not out of nostalgia, but out of responsibility. Only by remembering past mistakes and learning from them can we build a Europe where aggression, revanchism, and contempt for human dignity have no place. This is not just a history lesson—it is a commitment to present and future generations. 

Political will today is not silent acquiescence to threats but the courage to name them, resist, and act together. Political morality is the ability to choose not what is convenient but what is right. Faith in politics arises when words align with actions, when values are not mere declarations but the foundation of decisions. Let our memory turn into action—for freedom, truth, and human dignity. Only in this way can we build a Europe that can be believed in again, because states are not defeated when tanks roll in, but when people, citizens, cease to strive for them. 

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Project „GrassRoots” (no. 101140032) is co-funded by the European Union. Views and opinions expressed on this webpage are however those of the author(s) only and do not necessarily reflect those of the European Union or European Commission. Neither the European Union nor the granting authority can be held responsible for them.

The project is co-funded by the Ministry of Social Security and Labour of the Republic of Lithuania: International Donor Funded Non-Governmental Organisations Project Co-financing Call 2024.

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