As Russian missiles killed nine children and destroyed homes in Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy’s hometown of Kryvyi Rih, Slovak Prime Minister Robert Fico stood before a crowd in Bratislava to honour the legacy of the Soviet Red Army and thank the Kremlin’s ambassador in person. While other 61 civilians lay wounded, Fico welcomed Russian and Belarusian diplomats to a state ceremony marking the 80th anniversary of Bratislava’s liberation, which EU ambassadors boycotted in protest. Echoing Kremlin rhetoric, Fico condemned Western defence policies, proposed a referendum against NATO-aligned military spending, and announced he would travel to Moscow in May to express gratitude for the Soviet Union’s role in World War II. At a time when Europe’s eastern flank was under attack, Slovakia’s leader offered no mention of the war, no word for Ukraine, and no condemnation of Russia.
A Stage for Historical Memory and Political Messaging
Held on 4 April 2025, the 80th anniversary of Bratislava’s liberation was commemorated at Slavín—a monumental war memorial and burial site for over 6,000 Soviet soldiers. Yet what should have been a unifying tribute to the victims of fascism was reconfigured by Slovak Prime Minister Robert Fico into a partisan platform. Speaking to a crowd of largely elderly supporters, he framed the gathering as a civic affirmation of national pride, deliberately contrasting it with ongoing anti-government protests across the country.
“This is a meeting for something, not against something,” he declared, urging citizens to reject criticism of his increasingly Russia-aligned policies. “Such meetings make sense. But to go around shouting ‘Fico to jail!’ and ‘Enough of Fico!’ because I adopted the Russian law – I truly reject that.” He lavished praise on attendees: “If I could, I would shake each of your hands and hug you because you deserve it,” and proclaimed Slavín as “Slovakia’s Statue of Liberty.”
But while Fico was invoking Soviet sacrifice and railing against the West, a far starker reality was unfolding just 1,200 kilometres away.
That same afternoon, a Russian missile strike killed 18 people, including nine children, in Kryvyi Rih, the hometown of Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy. A further 61 civilians were injured, among them a three-month-old baby and elderly residents. A playground was hit. Homes were destroyed. Two children remain in critical condition. “Every missile, every drone strike proves Russia wants only war,” Zelenskyy wrote after the attack. “There can never be forgiveness for this,” added Oleksandr Vilkul, head of the city’s defence council.
EU Diplomats Absent as Russia Takes the Stage
No European Union ambassadors were present at the Slavín ceremony. Their absence was not incidental—it was a deliberate act of diplomatic protest. The Russian ambassador to Slovakia, Igor Bratčikov, had been invited to speak at the event, despite representing a regime responsible for war crimes, the illegal annexation of sovereign Ukrainian territory, and the systematic bombing of civilian infrastructure.
Bratčikov’s address celebrated supposed “shared truths” between the Russian and Slovak peoples and warned that forgetting Soviet sacrifice would be “the greatest betrayal.” His presence was not symbolic—it was strategic. So too was the presence of Belarus’s ambassador, representing a state complicit in Russia’s military operations by hosting troops and launch sites.
Prime Minister Fico did not merely permit these appearances. He embraced them. He publicly thanked both ambassadors and asked them to convey Slovakia’s gratitude to Moscow and Minsk.
EU member states, in response, stayed away. But rather than reflecting on this diplomatic rupture, Fico attacked it. “EU ambassadors told us they won’t come because I invited the Russian and Belarusian ambassadors and let them say two sentences.” He ridiculed them: “A small child can sulk. I had a son who sulked. But ambassadors’ duty is not to sulk, it is to work.” Then he escalated: “Should the German or Japanese ambassador have spoken here instead?”
In effect, Fico used the absence of democratic allies as evidence of Western hypocrisy, while granting a stage to the very regimes whose bombs were, at that exact moment, landing on Ukrainian civilians.
Revisionism and Reverence for the Red Army
Fico’s speech went far beyond commemoration. It served as a strategic rehabilitation of Soviet glory—aligned with Russia’s own propaganda narratives. “I want to personally thank Moscow for the Red Army’s role in the victory over fascism,” he said, announcing his plan to attend Moscow’s Victory Day parade on 9 May. “Long live the glorious Red Army,” he proclaimed.
He invoked staggering losses—“21 million lives lost – that can’t be ignored”—and declared: “We respect every single WWII victim. But is anyone denying that the greatest sacrifice was borne by the Soviet Union?”
Absent from his narrative was any reference to the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968, to the 2022 invasion of Ukraine, or to the 18 dead civilians in Kryvyi Rih just hours earlier. His silence was not accidental—it was ideological. The speech sought to position Russia not as aggressor, but as liberator, with Slovakia as its grateful heir.
A Call to Undermine NATO Defence Commitments
In a moment of populist deflection, Fico shifted from history to the present. He turned his fire on NATO and EU security policy, questioning the West’s defence spending and readiness initiatives. “Why should Europe suddenly spend 800 billion on armament?” he asked—mirroring Kremlin narratives that portray Western military support for Ukraine as provocation rather than deterrence.
He downplayed Slovakia’s own vulnerabilities: “We don’t even have systems to protect nuclear plants. We’ll probably have to buy something. But why force small countries like Slovakia to keep pace with great powers?” He scoffed at NATO capability planning: “What difference does it make whether we have 12 or 18 fighter jets? None.”
Proposing a national referendum on defence spending, he framed the question as one of basic survival: “Shouldn’t we ask citizens whether armament should come at the cost of living standards?” Then came his lowest rhetorical move: “Tell people in eastern Slovak villages they won’t get water or sewage because we’re buying two more rockets.”
This populist turn ignored the very real threats facing Europe’s eastern flank. At the same time as Fico was making these remarks, UK and French military chiefs were meeting President Zelenskyy in Kyiv, pledging joint support for Ukraine’s long-term security and forming what has been described as a “coalition of the willing” to prepare for post-war stabilisation.
“Peace, Peace, Peace”—But at What Cost?
Fico closed his address with appeals for peace—but not peace through strength or rule of law. Instead, he dismissed Europe’s defensive posture as hysteria and called for disengagement. “No to war. It seems like someone is preparing for war again,” he said. “Yes to peace. Peace, peace, and peace,” he repeated.
But peace divorced from truth is surrender. As Kryvyi Rih’s hospitals filled with wounded infants and charred civilians, Fico offered no condemnation of their attackers. He did not mention Putin. He did not acknowledge the war. He did not say a word about Ukraine.
What unfolded at Slavín was not a remembrance of the past—it was a rehearsal for realignment. A pivot away from Slovakia’s democratic allies, toward a version of history where aggressors are saviours, victims are forgotten, and memory is weaponised.
With one speech, Slovakia’s Prime Minister revealed a worldview where imperial nostalgia trumps democratic solidarity, and where the future of Europe is shaped not by freedom, but by selective remembrance and geopolitical convenience.
