Kin Majorities: Identity and Citizenship in Crimea and Moldova 9780228013044

Table of contents :
Cover
Kin Majorities
Title
Copyright
Contents
Tables and Figures
Acknowledgments
Abbreviations
Note on Usages and Transliteration
Maps
1 Introduction
2 Kin-State Politics through the Identity-Citizenship Nexus
3 Crimea and Moldova as Kin Majorities
4 To Be Discriminated Against, or Not, in Crimea
5 Neither Russian Citizens nor Compatriots
6 To Be Nested, or Not, in Moldova
7 From Nested Identities to Nested Citizens
8 Identity, Citizenship, and Kin Majorities
Appendix: A Note on Methods and Methodology
Notes
References
Index

Citation preview

Kin Majorities

Kin Majorities Identity and Citizenship in Crimea and Moldova

eleanor knott

McGill-Queen’s University Press Montreal & Kingston • London • Chicago

© Eleanor Knott 2022 ISB N 978-0-2280-1150-7 (cloth) ISB N 978-0-2280-1304-4 (ep df) ISB N 978-0-2280-1305-1 (ep ub) Legal deposit third quarter 2022 Bibliothèque nationale du Québec Printed in Canada on acid-free paper that is 100% ancient forest free (100% post-consumer recycled), processed chlorine free

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Title: Kin majorities : identity and citizenship in Crimea and Moldova / Eleanor Knott. Names: Knott, Eleanor, author. Description: Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20220206724 | Canadiana (ebook) 20220206902 | ISB N 9780228011507 (cloth) | IS BN 9780228013044 (eP D F) | I SB N 9780228013051 (ePUB ) Subjects: lc s h: Citizenship—Ukraine—Crimea. | l c sh : Citizenship—Moldova. | lc sh: Group identity—Ukraine—Crimea. | l csh : Group identity—Moldova. | lc sh: Geopolitics—Ukraine—Crimea. | l cs h: Geopolitics—Moldova. | l c sh : Crimea (Ukraine)—Ethnic relations. | l cs h: Moldova—Ethnic relations. Classification: l cc j f 801.k56 2022 | ddc 323.6—dc23

This book was typeset in 10.5/13 Sabon.

Contents

Tables and Figures

vii

Acknowledgments

ix

Abbreviations

xi

Note on Usages and Transliteration xiii Maps xv 1 Introduction

3

2 Kin-State Politics through the Identity-Citizenship Nexus 16 3 Crimea and Moldova as Kin Majorities

31

4 To Be Discriminated Against, or Not, in Crimea 69 5 Neither Russian Citizens nor Compatriots 107 6 To Be Nested, or Not, in Moldova 151 7 From Nested Identities to Nested Citizens

191

8 Identity, Citizenship, and Kin Majorities 237 Appendix: A Note on Methods and Methodology 265 Notes 283 References 305 Index 345

Tables and Figures

ta b les 1.1

Kin majority typology and universe of cases

9

1.2

Crimea and Moldova as a messy comparison 13

2.1

Examples of kin-state citizenship and quasi-citizenship 18

2.2

Mapping intersections within the identity-citizenship nexus

3.1

Comparing Crimea to other Ukrainian regions

3.2

Unpacking the “occupation versus liberation cliché” 56

3.3

Ways to acquire Romanian citizenship through application

4.1

Inductive categories of identification in Crimea

5.1

Practices of Russian citizenship in Crimea

5.2

Practices of Russian quasi-citizenship in Crimea

5.3

Practices of citizenship and quasi-citizenship in Crimea

6.1

Mapping language and legitimizing myths onto inductive categories 154

7.1

Practices of Romanian citizenship in Moldova 222

7.2

Practices of citizenship and quasi-citizenship in Moldova 234

8.1

Fractures of identification in Crimea and Moldova 241

8.2

Intersecting identification and citizenship

29

37 60

72

111 126 148

249

A.1 Interview topic guide 270 A.2 Participants in Crimea and Moldova by gender and age 272

viii

Tables and Figures

A.3 List of participants in Moldova 279 A.4 List of participants in Crimea 281

fi gur es 2.1

Multiple meanings of identity and practices of citizenship

25

3.1

Children in Russian-speaking kindergartens (1995–2013) 38

3.2

Students in Russian-speaking and Ukrainian-speaking schools (2012–13) 38

3.3

Students in Ukrainian and Russian in higher education institutions (2012–13) 39

3.4

Annual quotas for post-Soviet citizens and compatriots abroad to study in Russian institutions 48

3.5

Citizenship applications requested, processed, accepted, and refused 61

3.6

Acquisition and reacquisition of Romanian citizenship by article and most prevalent states of origin (2014) 61

3.7

Citizenship requests made and processed by article over time 64

3.8

Romanian kin-state scholarships

4.1

Graffiti in Simferopol, Crimea: “Crimea is not Makiivsky, Simferopol is not …” 90

6.1

Recent Moldovan census results for ethnic identification 153

7.1

Practices of Romanian citizenship by outcome and category 197

65

A.1 Example of two-dimensional coding of data 274

Acknowledgments

This project has enjoyed and endured a long journey over the past decade. At its heart are a number of complex problems that have often stumped and consumed me, not least Russia’s 2014 annexation of Crimea, which threw this project and its assertions into turmoil. Putting all this together has been a challenge that has been steered and supported by many along the way. I am especially grateful to my PhD supervisor, Denisa Kostovicova, who gave the project the space and intellectual probing that it needed from the outset, as well as my PhD advisor, John Breuilly, who provided the scholarly backbone of nationalism studies, out of which this project grew. I am also grateful to Richard Ratzlaff, Edwin Janzen, and McGill-Queen’s University Press for their support in publishing this book, and the two anonymous reviewers who invested a great deal in providing constructive suggestions that helped immensely to transform this from manuscript to book. I am both grateful and indebted to the research participants of this project in Simferopol and Chis¸ina˘u, who gave their time and insights, and to my hosts in both cities, who shared their homes. I hope this work pays at least some tribute to their immense contribution and daily struggles, especially in Crimea. I am also grateful for the assistance of Julija Ogarkova, Anna Boyce, Alexandra Sta˘nescu, and Andra Ora˘s¸anu in transcribing the interviews. I am also extremely grateful to the Economic and Social Research Council for funding my PhD, including the fieldwork that forms the backbone of this project. Thank you also to the community of scholars in the fields of Everyday Nationalism, Citizenship, Post-Soviet Studies, and East European Studies for fostering a supportive and interrogative community, hosting and organizing conferences, and the opportunity to sound out research in draft form and verbally which, to others, might seem obscure if not obtuse. In particular, I’m grateful to Angela Kachuyevski, Caress Schenk,

x

Acknowledgments

Dan Brett, David Stroup, Gerard Toal, Guzel Yusupova, Jan Kubik, Jon Fox, Igor Cas¸u, Maryia Rohava, Mitchell Orenstein, Paul Goode, Petru Negura˘, Sherrill Stroschein, and Yossi Harpaz. I am also grateful to my dissertation examiners, Sherrill Stroschein and Stefan Wolff, for believing in this project and pushing it forward, and for their letters of reference. I would not be here having published this manuscript but for my PhD colleagues, Ed Poole, Gisela Calderón Góngora, Jose Olivas Osuna, Marta Wojciechowska, Pınar Dinç, Randi Solhjell, and Robert van Geffen, who today remain close friends across the various corners of the world. I miss you all and the daily, windowless turmoil of 421. I am grateful to have an academic home of colleagues and friends within the Department of Methodology at the London School of Economics, where I have grown and learned a great deal, intellectually, methodologically, and pedagogically. Thank you to all for being the best colleagues an early career researcher could ask for – and especially to Flora Cornish and Audrey Alejandro. Revising this manuscript during a pandemic was a particular challenge. Thank you to Oliver Zelenczuk, who particularly helped the writing process with emotional and social support, walk, cycles, and feasts. Thank you also to my colleagues in the weekly (sometimes daily) writing group, especially Sonja Marzi and Marta Wojciechowska. Without all of this support, it is hard to imagine how I would have pushed through the work required for this book during 2020. Thank you also to my cohort, and beyond, of assistant professors at lse ; you make navigating the nuances and difficulties of this profession much easier and a great deal more fun, especially in the years of the pandemic. Lastly, I’m grateful to my parents, Judith Knott and Simon Knott, who continue to nurture me and my intellectual curiosity. At about ten years old, I had a dream of writing a book and inventing a word. I haven’t yet invented a word, but I’m working on it. My mother, in particular, has been a tireless sounding board, reader, and proofreader, especially throughout the PhD. I also thank her for reminding me that writing this book never had to be an existential crisis. I dedicate this book to my parents and to my late grandfather, Frank Kenyon, who instilled in me a love of maps. Thank you for everything. I also dedicate this book to all Ukrainian campuses and libraries that were bombed by the Russian army, to all Ukrainian students, scholars, and citizens who are displaced, and to refugees. I stand with Ukraine and work for peace.

Abbreviations

bsf cis echr eu gongo hcnm nato osce rsfsr ssr ussr wwii

Black Sea Fleet (Chernomorskii Flot) Commonwealth of Independent States European Court of Human Rights European Union governmentally organized non-governmental organization High Commission for National Minorities North Atlantic Treaty Organization Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe Russian Soviet Federal Socialist Republic Soviet Socialist Republic Union of Soviet Socialist Republics World War II (also known as Great Patriotic War)

po li ti cal parti es and o r g a n i z at i o n s Moldova

pcrm pdm pf pl pldm pnl psrm

Partidul Comunis¸ tilor din Republica Moldova (Communist Party) Partidul Democrat din Moldova (Democratic Party of Moldova) Frontul Popular din Moldova (Popular Front of Moldova) Partidul Liberal (Liberal Party) Partidul Liberal Democrat din Moldova (Liberal Democrat Party) Partidul Nat¸ional Liberal (National Liberal Party) Partidul Socialis¸tilor din Republica Moldova (Socialist Party)

xii

Abbreviations

Romania

anc dprrp

rcc re rok

Autorita˘t¸ii Nat¸ionale pentru Ceta˘t¸enie (National Authority for Citizenship) Departamentul Politici pentru Relat¸ia cu Românii de Pretutindeni (Department for Relations with Romanians Abroad); previously drp/dprp, Departamentul pentru cu Românii de Pretutindeni (Department for Romanians Abroad) Crimea Russkii Kulturnii Tsentr (Russian Cultural Center, Crimea) Russkoe Edinstvo (Russian Unity) Russkaia Obschina Kryma (Russian Community of Crimea) Russia

rmf Fond Russkii Mir (Russian World Foundation) Rossotrudnichestvo Federal’noe agenstvo po delam Sodruzhestva Nezavisimykh Gosurdastv, sootechestvennikov, prozhivai ushchikh za rubezhom, i mezhduarodnomy gumanitrarnomu sotrudnichestvu (Federal Agency for the Commonwealth of Independent States, Compatriots Living Abroad and International Humanitarian Cooperation)

Note on Usages and Transliteration

Throughout the text, I refer to the Republic of Moldova, the state that came into being in 1991, simply as Moldova, for ease. At the same time, I recognize this is a point of contention within the Republic, as Moldova is also a present-day region within Romania. For Russian and Ukrainian, I use the Library of Congress “ala-lc Romanization Tables: Transliteration Schemes for Non-Roman Scripts” (и/i, й/i, ы/y, я/ia, and ю/iu in Russian; i/i and ï/ï in Ukrainian) except in a few cases where more common forms are used (e.g., Yeltsin, not El’tsin; Yalta, not Ialta; Simferopol, not Simferopol’; Sevastopol, not Sevastopol’; oblast not oblast’). Romanian is given as written, including ligatures.

Map 1. Ukraine and Crimea. Source: the author.

Map 2. Romania and Moldova. Source: the author.

Kin Majorities

1 Introduction

The breakup of the Soviet Union and Yugoslavia led to state- and nation-building. But it also led to burgeoning forms of extra-territorial politics of identity and citizenship, and in recent decades the number of dual citizens has risen exponentially. In Moldova, one million people have acquired Romanian citizenship (Stiriletv 2018). In Bosnia and Herzegovina, half a million (or 16 per cent) are estimated to have acquired Croatian citizenship (Sarajlic´ 2012, 374), and many thousands in Macedonia have acquired Bulgarian citizenship (Štiks 2015; Dumbrava 2019).1 Crimea, too, preceding the Russian annexation in 2014, was described as a region that had been granted citizenship, or “passportized,” by Russia. Moldova, Crimea, and Macedonia, as well as Kosovo, Taiwan, and Republika Srpska, are all kin majorities – places with local majorities claimed as co-ethnic by external kin-states that offer policies such as citizenship based on extra-territorial, co-ethnic claims. As functioning citizens of the states in which they reside, kin majorities need not acquire citizenship from a kin-state; yet many are doing so. This is the first book to examine kin majorities and to explore kinstate politics of identity and citizenship comparatively and from the bottom up, focusing on the cases of Crimea and Moldova. The book interrogates what it means to be a kin majority, and how and why kin majorities engage with kin-states via citizenship, through the lens of the plural manifestations and intersections of identity and citizenship which I describe as the identity-citizenship nexus (see Chapter 2). Drawing on approaches to everyday nationalism that focus on how ordinary people negotiate and articulate identification (Brubaker et al. 2006; Fox and Miller-Idriss 2008; Goode and Stroup 2015), I expand this approach to study the plural, relational, and cross-border manifestations of identity that the kin majority context provides. I also expand the everyday nationalism approach by examining the plural, relational, and

4

Kin Majorities

overlapping practices of citizenship, foregrounding individual agency to study how multiple meanings of identification and multiple practices of citizenship intersect. Scholars often talk about the effect of identity on citizenship or vice versa but there is little research that interrogates the messy, contingent, and bi-directional intersections of identity and citizenship. With dual citizenship increasing for kin majorities, as well as more broadly (see the next section), it is important to understand the multiple meanings of identification and multiple practices of citizenship, and how these intersect in messy, overlapping, or contesting ways. For example, focusing on plurality, we can study how and if identification drives engagement with citizenship and, in turn, how citizenship affects identification with a home-state and a kin-state. Specifically, we need to understand how different articulations, understandings, and negotiations of identification map, or not, onto different citizenship practices and how different motivations for citizenship map, or not, onto different meanings of identification. It is also important to examine what these messy and multiple intersections can tell us about kin-state politics more broadly. Analyzing two kin majority cases, Crimea and Moldova, this book uses the identity-citizenship nexus to compare, from the bottom up, the heterogeneity of citizenship practices and the meanings of identification between these two cases as well as within each case. The data from this field research, collected in 2012 and 2013, is crucial for providing a window on the recent history of Russian identification in Crimea during the time of calm before the annexation, and to compare this with Moldova. When I left Crimea in June 2013, neither the participants I interviewed nor I had any inkling of the events that would occur just eight months later. Annexation, let alone a relatively bloodless form of annexation, was inconceivable.2 While Russia held a referendum seemingly to demonstrate support for annexation, referenda do not tell us about how citizens feel, or how they relate such feelings to identity, citizenship, and the kin-state. In fact, during the period of field research, I was more concerned with the future of Moldova’s extra-territorial politics, as a site which Romania was investing in economically and politically, extracting labour from, and transforming into a more pro-Romanian space. Before my first visit to Crimea, in 2011, I had anticipated that local engagement with Russian citizenship would be prevalent there. Instead, Russian citizenship was an absent discourse and practice in Crimea, at least before 2014, compared to the strong presence of Romanian citizenship in Moldova. For example, Romania’s consulate in Chis¸ina˘u, Moldova’s capital, was packed, each day, with people

Introduction

5

making citizenship, visa, and scholarship applications. Meanwhile, there were no queues for Russian citizenship or passports at Russia’s consulate in Simferopol before 2014. Barely anyone entered the consulate during Russia’s presidential elections on 4 March 2012, in which Putin infamously returned to the presidency in a landslide victory.3 These details, and the events that have transpired since my data was collected, contribute to the analytical leverage of comparing Moldova and Crimea. In particular, this comparison provides perspective on the nuances and contradictions within, and between, these two cases when examining the plural and intersecting manifestations of identity and citizenship.

wh y k i n majo r i t i e s? The twentieth century saw a rapid shift of norms governing dual citizenship. No longer was citizenship conceived as a singular marriage between an individual and a state. No longer were dual citizens considered bigamous, as if those with multiple loyalties could not be trusted (Hague Convention 1930). Instead, states have increasingly accepted and eased the acquiring of multiple citizenships, to be more inclusive of migrants.4 No longer do states necessarily imagine dual citizens as security threats. In addition to cases of migrants becoming dual citizens, however, kinstates also facilitate and create non-resident dual citizens. For kin majorities, acquisition can occur on a larger scale than for kin minorities, with potential for more significant effects upon kin-state claims and the states in which kin majorities reside. The lens of kin majorities is not usually how we study kin-state politics. Instead, we assume the subjects of kin-state co-ethnic claims to be kin minorities who are also local minorities (Sievers 2009; see also Stjepanovic´ 2015; Caspersen 2007; Bárdi 2003; Helton 2000). But we need to distinguish between kin minorities and kin majorities, because their demography is different and their experiences and status are also likely different. Kin minorities are often the victims of state policies of marginalization and discrimination, like ethnic Russians in Latvia and Estonia, or ethnic Hungarians in Romania. Put simply, we should not assume these experiences are commensurate with those of kin majorities, because minorities’ and majorities’ experiences likely differ significantly, in post-Soviet space and elsewhere.5 Kin-states have been critical in providing leverage for at-risk kin minorities, at home and internationally (e.g., within the eu ), including those that became securitized and trapped in post-Communist states, projected as “suspect groups” and potential fifth columnists (Quigley 1996,

6

Kin Majorities

458).6 Due to potential and actual discrimination, international organizations like the Venice Commission and the Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe (osce ) have tolerated the use of leverage by kin-states against home-states to offset discrimination toward minorities (Venice Commission 2001; osce hcnm 2008; osce hcnm 2012). As Sabanadze (2009, 312) argues, “kin-State involvement may be the only hope minorities have for physical survival and the protection of basic rights.” But kin majorities do not experience the same discrimination and do not need kin-state support, let alone kin-state citizenship. For these reasons, it is worth exploring how kin majorities engage with kinstate citizenship, how this plurality of identity and citizenship manifests and intersects, and, more broadly, what this engagement means for kinstate politics. Kin majorities are also the most likely cases in which citizenship has been, or could be, conferred en masse, which remains the most controversial aspect of kin-states expanding citizenship. For example, the osce has repeatedly warned kin-states not to grant “citizenship en masse to citizens of another State, including if this happens as the result of a sum of individual applications,” because it might threaten “good neighbourly relations” (osce hcnm 2012, 44; osce hcnm 2008, 18–19; Sabanadze 2009).7 However, individual states (including kin-states) can confer citizenship upon whomever they want. Within the eu , citizenship is a member-state competence whereby member-states can grant citizenship (and hence eu citizenship) under whatever criteria they wish – whether ethnic, territorial, or by investment.8 Thus, international organizations cannot influence decisions as to who receives citizenship in a given state, and who does not. Rather, their power lies in reminding states that citizenship should be conferred only in cases where there is a “genuine link” between individual and state.9 En masse acquisition of citizenship has been so contentious because of its potential extra-territorial effects, such as undermining a homestate’s sovereignty, especially when “the groups targeted by the granting of citizenship are large and geographically concentrated” (Arraiza 2015, 114; see also Milano 2011; Galbreath and McEvoy 2011). En masse acquisition was also feared as potentially fomenting self-determination struggles, extra-territorial nationalism, expansionism (irredentism), or open conflict (Stjepanovic´ 2018; Arraiza 2015). After all, contestations over citizenship – including overlapping and expanding citizenship regimes – are often at the heart of violent conflicts, whether in the former Yugoslavia or Abkhazia and South Ossetia.10 If en masse conferral is at the heart of concerns over the proliferation of dual citizenship

Introduction

7

by kin-states, then we need to study instances of kin majorities where en masse conferral is both more likely and already occurring, and the potential for extra-territorial effects likely greater. Differentiating Kin Majorities from Kin Minorities

Kin majorities do not need kin-state support, materially or symbolically, as kin minorities might. Bar a few exceptions, such as the Alawi minority that holds power in Syria (Haklai 2007), majorities usually hold state power and are rarely exposed to discrimination and marginalization to the same extent as minorities. Minorities come into being because of their relationship with “another, more numerous and dominant group” (Palermo and Woelk 2003, 6). In democracies, especially ethnic democracies, majorities have a “privileged position” compared to minorities because they can utilize the “state [or sub-state] for [their] own political, social, cultural and economic benefits” (Štiks 2010, 1634–5). Thus, kin majorities are less likely than kin minorities to be exposed to threats of discrimination at home. For example, most kin majorities do not live under regimes of discrimination that render them politically disenfranchised and stateless, as many kin minorities do.11 Kin majorities hold stronger claims of legitimacy within the state or sub-state in which they reside. By contrast, kin minorities such as the Russian minorities in Estonia and Latvia, or the Hungarian minorities in Romania, are often conceived of as being generously “hosted” by their home-state, and as “security” issues; in turn, their exposure to discrimination is almost always justified on this basis (Pogonyi 2017a; Štiks 2010).12 A kin minority may need external protection from a kin-state to provide leverage against home-state discrimination. But kin majorities rarely need to rely on such leverage and support. Instead, kin majorities enjoy sources of power and legitimation at home that kin minorities often lack, such as legal institutions to protect their language. Kin majorities also interact differently with homelands than kin minorities, for whom homelands are “external” (Brubaker 1996). But kin majorities do not conceive homelands as something “out there,” meaning they are not external but disconnected. A kin majority’s homestate is its homeland and, for some within the kin majority, their kinstate is also their homeland. Among kin minorities there are exceptions, such as Transylvanian Hungarians in Romania, who would conceive of themselves as “native” to Transylvania, just as ethnic Romanians do (Bárdi 2013). In these instances, it can be problematic to externalize the notion of a kin minority’s homeland, as if they do not belong to it or

8

Kin Majorities

engage in discourses (including nationalist ones) that reinforce ties to this territory (Csergo˝ 2007, 75). However, home-states participate in externalizing kin minorities through reinforcing discourses that homestates “host” minorities that belong to external homelands. As a more dominant and powerful category of constituent, kin majorities do not experience such home-state externalization as they conceive of themselves as belonging to the home-state or sub-state, and perhaps also to a disconnected homeland. For example, many ethnic Russians in Crimea see both Crimea and Russia as homelands (although disconnected ones) and Crimea as a rightful homeland of ethnic Russians (see Chapter 4). In sum, kin majorities do not need kin-state citizenship policies for which they are eligible. Members of kin majorities are more likely to be functioning citizens in the states and sub-states in which they reside, compared to kin minorities. In contrast, kin-state citizenship can provide kin minorities access to rights, from citizenship to voting rights, that are lacking in their home-state. For kin majorities, however, choosing to acquire kin-state citizenship is about accessing supplementary rights. Thus, kin majorities provide a fascinating set of cases to observe how people choose, or not, to engage with kin-state policies of citizenship and quasi-citizenship because of the en masse potential and circumstances in which such rights are acquired. Kin Majorities as an Object of Analysis

I conceptualize kin majorities as having three components: 1) being claimed as a co-ethnic demographic majority by an external kin-state, and 2) existing within a politically defined territorial unit, which 3) comprises individuals who are eligible for kin-state policies. These criteria outline the universe of kin majority cases for this study (see Table 1.1). First, kin majorities are those claimed as co-ethnic majorities by an external state (a kin-state). Kin-states provide leverage internally, and externally vis-à-vis the external community, such as by lobbying the eu . I exclude instances when local majorities do not have corresponding kin-states. For example, the Basque Country (Euskadi) in Spain and the Francophones of Quebec comprise local majorities within territorially defined political entities, but neither has an external kin-state that claims it as co-ethnic, lobbies for it across borders, or provides kin-state support through policies such as citizenship. Relatedly, kin majorities are demographic majorities of a state or sub-state that are claimed as co-ethnic by an external kin-state. For example, ethnic Russians are the majority in Crimea, and ethnic Serbs

Introduction

9

Table 1.1 | Kin majority typology and universe of cases

Type of kin-state policy

Eligible for citizenship Territorial status

State

Moldova (Romania), Kosovo (Albania), Macedonia (Bulgaria), Taiwan (China)

Sub-state

Republika Srpska (Serbia), South Tyrol (Austria)

De facto state

Eligible for quasi-citizenship

Crimea (Russia)

NagornoKarabakh (Azerbaijan)

nb : Cases considered in this book are italicized while countries in parentheses are the relevant kin-state facilitating these policies. Crimea is considered here before 2014, i.e., as an autonomous republic of Ukraine.

are the majority within Republika Srpska, a sub-state of Bosnia and Hercegovina.13 This conceptualization of kin majorities is from the perspective of a kin-state that claims an external majority as co-ethnic. Kin majorities, or constituents within them, might well dispute these claims. For example, although Bulgaria and Romania claim the majorities in Macedonia and Moldova, respectively, as Bulgarian or Romanian, many in those populations (though not all) resist these co-ethnic claims. Both kin-states ignore these contestations and elide categories of identification. Nonetheless, both Moldova and Macedonia are still considered kin majorities because the kin-states claim the respective majorities to be co-ethnic (Smilov and Jileva 2010). These contentions and contestations are an intriguing dimension of kin majorities and provide a rich basis for exploring meanings of identification within kin majorities.

10

Kin Majorities

Second, I focus on kin majorities claimed as local, co-ethnic majorities that exist within defined political and territorial boundaries, such as states, de facto states, or sub-states. A territorially defined concentration of a local majority provides the kin majority with a certain degree of political autonomy sufficient for there to be a sense of boundedness and political power as a group. For example, Crimea and Republika Srpska are both local majorities and enjoy territorial recognition and forms of political autonomy (see Chapter 2 for further discussion of Crimea).14 This definition excludes communities that are not local majorities, such as ethnic Russians in eastern Kazakhstan, and in the Donetsk and Luhansk oblasts in Ukraine, as well as communities that may be local majorities, especially at the city level, but lack territorial and political forms of autonomy, such as ethnic Russians in Narva, in Estonia, or Daugavpils, in Latvia. Third, this book focuses only on kin majorities that are eligible for kin-state policies of citizenship and quasi-citizenship, where kin majorities have the potential to interact, personally and institutionally, with the kin-state. I do not regard the presence of kin-state policies to be a defining characteristic of kin majorities per se. Instead, I focus on the existence of such policies for scope and comparability, as well as the potential for en masse acquisition, which can make the practices and policies of kin-state acquisition more contentious and politically salient. This conceptualization, and its three criteria, outline the cases within a kin majority typology (Table 1.1). In this typology, there is a diversity of kin majority cases along two axes: territorial status and type of kinstate policy. Taking a bottom-up approach, this study focuses on the latter axis – kin-state policy – and in particular what this means for engagement with the kin-state. Further research could fruitfully explore the former axis of a kin majority’s territorial status from the top-down. While many of these cases are from eastern and central Europe, as regions of territorial flux, there is nothing inherent to suggest that kin majorities need be restricted conceptually, as a phenomenon, to this region. Rather, kin majorities arise for reasons of nationalism and border change that extend well beyond the region. For example, China continues to advance co-ethnic claims vis-à-vis Taiwan (not only ethnic but also political claims), even as these are resisted within Taiwan. While currently there is only this sole example beyond eastern and central Europe, there is certainly potential for other cases, within and beyond this region, to arise in the future with the proliferation of dual citizenship.

Introduction

11

wh y c r i mea and m o l d ova ? This book is the first to explore Crimea and Moldova as kin majorities comparatively and from the bottom up. More generally, these two cases are less examined in the realm of kin-state politics and are rarely compared. As kin-states, Romania and Russia are also rarely compared. More commonly explored kin-states include Hungary, Serbia, and Croatia, as well as Russia, but Romania is often ignored.15 Indeed, Romania is considered a “low profile” kin-state, as its efforts in Moldova have received less attention (Csergo˝ and Goldgeier 2013, 130) despite en masse conferral of citizenship. Romania’s obscurity contrasts with Russia’s high geopolitical profile. Even if Russia’s efforts in Crimea, before annexation, have been equally underexplored, its efforts as a kin-state and an actor engaging in passportization have received a great deal of attention. We do not need to justify Russia’s activities as a kin-state to understand how Russia is conceived differently, as a coercive geopolitical actor. For example, Palermo describes Austria’s behaviour as “normal” for taking an interest in the “well-being of minority groups abroad” (Palermo 2011, 23). But Western scholars rarely frame Russia’s behaviour as normal; more often, Russia is framed as a coercive geopolitical actor. Romania receives even less scrutiny than Austria and is often characterized as even more passive, and never coercive (see Chapter 3). Moldova and Crimea are kin majorities because of co-ethnic claims that emanate from their respective kin-states toward most of the population residing in these territories. While Crimea is assumed to be a “most likely case” of kin-state engagement,16 in fact, Moldova exhibits many of the characteristics assumed of Crimea (Romania as an active kinstate, en masse conferral of kin-state citizenship). Meanwhile, Crimea has many characteristics (the problematization of Russia as a kin-state, absence of kin-state citizenship) that are often overlooked in how we usually understand Crimea. The comparative focus is also bottom-up, examining how members of kin majorities themselves give meaning to their identification and engage in kin-state practices of citizenship and quasi-citizenship. As kin majorities, Crimea and Moldova are similar in ways that aid comparison (see Table 1.2). The same highly centralized Soviet state governed both cases until 1991, which ensured similar ethnicity and citizenship policies. Equally, both cases emerged from the Soviet Union in contexts where identity became contested and where such contestations had territorial implications. For example, after 1991, would Crimea

12

Kin Majorities

remain a part of post-Soviet Ukraine, become independent, or join Russia? Would Moldova remain independent or join Romania? These contestations remain, in both cases, in the twenty-first century – especially in Crimea since its annexation by Russia in 2014 (see Chapter 3). These two differences are not the basis of the comparison per se, but offer an interesting and messy context for examining and comparing these kin majorities from the bottom up. In the messy social world, these contextual differences will always exist (Tilly 1984; Brubaker 2000). The point is not to reduce and control for this messiness but to examine how the messy context intersects with the cases being compared. Indeed, this messiness is an important element when comparing Crimea and Moldova from an interpretive perspective, focusing on how the meanings and practices of kin majorities vary within and across these two cases.17 Interpretive and contextual comparisons differ from “paired comparisons,” which leverage variation and control in terms of causes and effects, such as the reasons that might explain different revolutions (Tarrow 2010; Slater and Ziblatt 2013). Instead, interpretive and contextual comparisons help in “demonstrating complexity, analyzing ambiguity, and investigating incoherence” across contexts by combining the richness of fine-grained immersive data and the rigour of comparative, across-context analysis without attempting to control for contextual differences (Simmons and Smith 2019, 344). Empirically, contextual comparisons provide useful ways to learn about each case. By looking across cases, we can examine what is common and what differs between cases, and think about what might explicate these similarities and differences. Aside from these key similarities and the different kin-state policies, Crimea and Moldova are also different in important ways (Table 1.2). First, and most apparent, they have different political statuses, as a state (Moldova) and an autonomous sub-state (Crimea, before 2014). This top-down difference is more contextual than consequential for such a bottom-up comparison of identity and citizenship.18 Second, and more significant here, these kin majorities mean different things for their respective kin-states and inform how these cases are compared from the bottom up. Crimea is a pearl of Russia’s national imaginary – an idyllic site of military victory and Russian culture. For Romania, Moldova is a destitute periphery. However, turning to kin-state policies, Crimea appeared not to be a priority for Russia before annexation. By contrast, Moldova was, and remains, a priority of Romania as a kin-state, underscored by its generous and expansive citizenship policy. The bulk of empirical material that I analyze in this study is gleaned from interviews that I conducted with everyday people during field

Introduction

13

Table 1.2 | Crimea and Moldova as a messy comparison

Similarities

Differences

Crimea

Moldova

Soviet approach to ethnicity

Yes

Yes

Post-Soviet identity contestations

Yes

Yes

Territorial flux

Yes

Yes

Kin-state policies

Quasi-citizenship

Citizenship

Political status

Autonomous substate (before 2014)

Sovereign state

Meaning to kin-state

Pearl of Russia

Destitute periphery of Romania

research between 2012 and 2013 (fifty-two interviews in Crimea and fifty-five in Moldova; see the Appendix for an expanded discussion). I supplement this interview data with historical and contemporary data from censuses, surveys, news reports, and policy analysis in the kin-states and among the kin majorities. Collecting the kind of interview data as I analyze – in particular, focusing on questions of Russian identification and engagement with Russia – is today very difficult because of the hyper-politicization of this issue since 2014. For the foreseeable future, it may be too dangerous for researchers to ask such questions and for participants to answer them.19 This study’s scope is limited, first, as an examination of Crimea and Moldova before 2014, and is not explicitly about Crimea’s annexation. However, this book is uniquely positioned to illuminate the varied experiences, preferences, and understandings in relation to identity and politics of people living in Crimea in 2012–13, in the months preceding annexation. Second, this book is concerned neither with ethnic minorities nor inter-ethnic relations, as these are outside the scope of this study of kin majorities. Thus, explicitly, the book does not deal with minority communities and perspectives in either case, namely Ukrainians and Russians in Moldova, and Crimean Tatars in Crimea. Third, this study

14

Kin Majorities

focuses on relatively mundane kin-state politics and avoids more highly charged geopolitical questions in regions proximate to, but outside, the kin majority cases, such as de facto states like Transnistria or the question of Sevastopol and the Black Sea Fleet.20 Finally, the book does not consider citizenship acquisition from other states, such as Russian or Ukrainian citizenship in Moldova (or Transnistria). These are all separate, though relevant, questions that merit their own analyses.

o utli ne o f the b o o k This introduction has sketched out the rationale of considering kin majorities, comparatively and from the bottom up, through the lens of plural manifestations of identity and citizenship and by comparing Crimea and Moldova. Chapter 2 presents the identity-citizenship nexus as the book’s theoretical framework and situates this within existing research on kinstate politics and citizenship. Chapter 3 considers Crimea and Moldova as kin majorities and maps their historical and institutional relationship with the respective kin-states of Russia and Romania. The next two empirical chapters concern Crimea. Chapter 4 examines the fractured meanings of Russian identification in Crimea by constructing a set of inductive identification categories to differentiate between the most and least pro-kin-state constituents. Chapter 5 uses these categories to explore engagement with Russia through the lens of practices of citizenship and quasi-citizenship. While we might expect Crimea to be a most likely case of engagement, very few were interested in engaging with Russia via citizenship. In this regard, the chapter explores how and why most participants in Crimea were uninterested in Russian policies and disenchanted with Russia as a kin-state. The next two empirical chapters examine Moldova. Chapter 6 explores the fractured meanings of Romanian identification in Moldova, beyond the mutually exclusive ethnic categories of Romanian and Moldovan. Constructing identification categories inductively, the chapter explores the understanding, among some Moldovans, that to be Moldovan is to be Romanian; while for others, the difference between these modes of identification are unclear, such that they are hesitant to identify fully as either. Chapter 7 uses these categories to examine engagement with Romania via practices of citizenship and quasi-citizenship. Unlike in Crimea, where few were interested in Russian policies, this chapter finds the opposite in Moldova: many people were actively engaged with Romania, and were seeking or applying for Romanian citizenship and engaging with Romanian quasi-citizenship.

Introduction

15

Chapter 8 reflects on comparative insights between Crimea and Moldova concerning meanings of identification, citizenship practices, and the concept of kin majorities. The chapter explores similarities between the cases in terms of fractured meanings of identification and the stark differences between them in terms of citizenship practices. Chapter 8 concludes by reflecting on how this book may help us to understand contemporary political dynamics in Crimea and Moldova, and calls for more research that focuses explicitly on micro-politics and on what politics means for everyday people. Finally, the Appendix details the methods and methodology of this study, including practical research issues and methodological choices in terms of the data collection and design of this bottom-up, comparative project.

2 Kin-State Politics through the Identity-Citizenship Nexus

“Imagine you woke up one morning and discovered you were in a different country – not physically transported there; in fact you had awakened in the same place, along with the same neighbours. But the name of your country has changed, you’re supposed to salute a different flag, your loyalty is supposed to be for a different president.” Igor Zevelev (2001, vii)

Today, except for the case of Russia since 2014, most kin-states seem to care little about where external kin live and are less concerned with seeking or supporting territorial change to bring kin within the kin-state. Instead, kin-states invest in fostering and maintaining ties with kin “over and above” the political borders separating them (Kovács 2006, 442), transforming kin-state politics from a politics of territorial antagonism to one of extra-territorial institutions of citizenship and quasi-citizenship that operate beyond the borders of the kin-state. These institutions of kinstate politics still represent potential forms of nationalism and irredentism, and give rise to forms of interstate antagonism, but through the lens of extra-territorial politics. In other words, we see extra-territorial expressions of nationalism and irredentism that seek to build ties across borders via citizenship rather than territorial kin-state politics that use nationalism to justify territorial change. For kin majorities, the potential for acquiring citizenship and the extra-territorialization of irredentism and nationalism are especially intriguing, because kin majorities comprise a larger demographic share of states’ populations to be extra-territorialized. However, a kin majority’s capacity to be extra-territorialized, and the greater demographic risks involved in doing so, have so far been unexplored. This chapter maps, theoretically, the need to study kin-state politics from the bottom up and through the lens of kin majorities in the context

Kin-State Politics through the Identity-Citizenship Nexus

17

of a transformation of kin-state politics, away from antagonism and toward extra-territorial policies of citizenship and quasi-citizenship. The chapter then introduces the identity-citizenship nexus as a theoretical framework to study the messy, bi-directional, and contingent intersections of identity and citizenship that have accompanied such a transformation of kin-state politics.

ki n majo ri ti es and t r a n sf o r m i n g k i n-state po l i t i c s The institutionalization of kin-state politics marks a turning point. During the Communist period, cross-border nationalist claims in Central and Eastern Europe did not really emerge.1 However, the collapse of Communism led to concern that processes of state building and nation building could lead to conflict.2 Post-Communist states became reinvigorated to reverse (or at least discuss reversing) the perceived injustices of past and present, including the stranding of kin across borders – whether fixed following the Second World War or created by the disintegration of the Communist ethno-federations (Yugoslavia and the Soviet Union) in the early 1990s. The proliferation and re-engagement of kin-state politics during this period was conceived as a fulcrum of potential conflict (Laitin 1998; Fearon 1998; van Houten 1998; see also King and Melvin 2000). Brubaker (1996) tackled this puzzle of potential antagonism from kin-state politics through a “triadic nexus” of kin minority, external homeland kin-state, and nationalizing home-state. In particular, Brubaker and others focused on the tensions that could arise between the kin-state and home-state over the kin minority, rather than those within the kin minority itself. For example, co-ethnic and territorial claims are often regarded as causing conflict in the Balkans in the 1990s. Similarly, Russia was imagined as the prime instigator of potential conflict, with twenty-five million ethnic Russians “beached” from their kin-state after 1991 (Laitin 1998, 29). The fourteen states that emerged from the Soviet Union were also conceived, at least in the 1990s, as “cauldron[s]” (Brubaker and Laitin 1998, 424) and “sleeping volcanoes” (Ieda 2004, 57) of ethnically motivated violence and irredentism that could potentially erupt into conflict. Mostly, however, kin-state politics did not escalate into violence. Instead, kin-state politics moved away from territorial claims and toward institutionalization of policies, developing and maintaining post-territorial relationships with kin rather than using kin to change borders. Such policies have varied between full kin-state citizenship and forms of quasi-citizenship, such as Hungary’s Status Law (2004) and

18

Kin Majorities

Table 2.1 | Examples of kin-state citizenship and quasi-citizenship Institution

Examples

Citizenship

Romania, Hungary (after 2010), Bulgaria, Croatia, Lithuania, Serbia, China

Quasi-citizenship

Hungary (Status Law), Poland (Karta Polaka), Russia (Compatriot Policy), Slovakia, Slovenia, India (person of Indian origin, non-resident Indian), South Korea (Overseas Koreans Act)

nb : Cases considered in this book are italicized.

Russia’s Compatriot policy, which provide rights and benefits to kin that approach citizenship but fall short of offering membership (Table 2.1; see Deets 2008; Waterbury 2011).3 This institutionalization of kin-state policies aligns with broader transformations of citizenship in a world shifting from prohibiting to tolerating dual citizenship. Through the lens of migration, citizenship has often been characterized as increasingly de-ethnicized by its seeming detachment from descent-based or cultural forms of acquisition and toward territorial forms of acquisition.4 However, the kin-state transformation of citizenship turns attention back to the contexts where citizenship remains ethnicized, with kin-states granting citizenship to non-resident kin because of co-ethnic claims. Specifically, Romania, Hungary and, more recently, Austria are expanding their national and eu citizenries to include kin who reside beyond these kin-states’ territories.5 As Harpaz (2019a, 64) describes, it is an “ironic development” that eu citizenship, an institution designed to promote internationalism and cross-border mobility, might “reinforce ethnic nationalism.” This shift from territorial claims to citizenship and quasi-citizenship policies has led some to argue that kin-state politics have moved away from nationalist irredentism and toward cosmopolitanist norms. No longer, this argument suggests, will kin-state politics lead to antagonism but to fuzzy norms of shared citizenries and shared governance among states over these citizens (Batt 2002; Fowler 2004).6 But, empirically, there are few instances where home-states have accepted kin-state

Kin-State Politics through the Identity-Citizenship Nexus

19

policies. Instead, kin-state policies of citizenship and quasi-citizenship have exacerbated tensions between kin-states and home-states in many cases, such as the case of Hungary’s Status Law and tensions between Romania and Slovakia,7 and the eu (Waterbury 2008). In other cases, states have prohibited dual citizenship, such as Ukraine and Estonia, fearful of widespread acquisition of Russian kin-state citizenship. In particular, these states fear that acquisition of Russian citizenship could foster a separatist fifth column within these home-states (Schlager 1997). Therefore, home-states do not blithely accept the acquisition by their citizens of kin-state citizenship but have voiced concern about the implications of kin-state citizenship for their sovereignty and territorial integrity (Waterbury 2014). Tensions between kin-states and kin communities (or at least certain mobilized constituents within kin communities) can also exist in regard to such policies and their implications; the Orban government in Hungary, for example, promoted the Status Law as a substitute for full citizenship in 2010 (before being re-elected in 2014) but faced opposition from the World Federation of Hungarians, which wanted full citizenship (Batory 2010). Recognizing that they might be accused of ethnicizing citizenship, kin-states have sought to reframe their citizenship policies for neighbouring states and international organizations by using territorial rather than ethnic rhetoric. For example, Romania insists that kin eligible for Romanian citizenship includes anyone residing in former Romanian territories that were ceded to the Soviet Union in 1941 rather than only the ethnic Romanians residing in these territories. But such rhetoric conceals how Romania is effectively recreating the ethnic citizenry of a nationalist and fascist interwar state (i.e., Greater Romania; see Dumbrava 2013). Therefore, we should be careful in accepting a de-ethnicized transformation of kin-state politics just because kin-states insist that their policies are de-ethnicized. Largely, kin-states have abandoned their territorial aspirations toward kin – so it appeared, at least, until Russia’s annexation of Crimea – but are far from abandoning the nationalist and ethnicized discourses that underpin kin-state politics.8 Instead, today’s kin-state policies signify “irredentism by other means,” using extra-territorial policies like citizenship and quasi-citizenship to build and maintain cross-border ties with kin (Csergo˝ and Goldgeier 2004, 26; see also Ragazzi 2014). To further analyze kin-state politics and citizenship transformations through the lens of kin majorities as sites of potential en masse citizenship conferral, we need to understand kin-state politics from the perspective of kin majorities. Specifically, we need to examine how kin majorities negotiate and understand their relationship to kin-states as the object

20

Kin Majorities

of kin-state claims. This bottom-up perspective can also help develop our understanding of kin-state politics beyond existing top-down and state-centred approaches.9 From the bottom up, we can go to the level of communities – the site of co-ethnic claims – to understand how and why (and if) kin majorities identify and engage with kin-states. We can explore the choices kin make to identify and engage, or not, with kin-states. As Caspersen (2008, 370) advises, doing so can contribute to our understanding of identification within kin-state politics by focusing on “intra-ethnic divisions” rather than just inter-ethnic divisions (see also Caspersen 2007). This focus on intra-ethnic diversity pushes us beyond the assumption that kin are homogeneous in terms of forms of identification, as though coethnicity and identification with a kin-state were analogous. And we can also explore the potential diversity of intra-ethnic preferences vis-à-vis kin-states in terms of citizenship. Rather than imagine them as passive and unitary, we may reimagine kin as active agents – making choices to acquire kin-state citizenship, or not – to help us to understand the transformation of kin-state politics in new ways.

th e i d enti ty-c i ti zen sh i p n e x u s While scholars often talk about identity and citizenship simultaneously, they tend to focus on the effect of the one upon the other, but with scant research on the messy, contingent, and bi-directional relationship between the two. In a world with an increasing number of dual citizens, it is worth thinking more relationally about the intersection of dual citizenship and identification, and what dual citizenship means for identification. Does dual citizenship reflect dual manifestations of identification and loyalty? Does it reflect the disconnection of identification and citizenship, as suggested by literature on transnational migration? This book explores this gap by developing a theoretical framework of the identity-citizenship nexus to examine and explicate the diverse ways that identity and citizenship intersect in kin majorities. While existing literature analyzes kin-state citizenship as policy, its impact on “identification, perceptions and dispositions have not yet been examined” (Pogonyi 2017b, 125). From the top down, we understand the regulatory power of citizenship in defining the limits of inclusion and exclusion, and what this may project in terms of a state’s self-image (Shevel 2009; Džankic´ 2015). But it is also important to understand bottom-up manifestations in terms of the meanings of identity and citizenship practices beyond the “migration context” (Pogonyi 2017b, 125). In kin majority contexts, and more broadly, the relationship between

Kin-State Politics through the Identity-Citizenship Nexus

21

identity and citizenship is messy, interactional, and bi-directional. This messiness needs theoretical elaboration, beyond assuming – as we might in a migration context – that dual citizenship engenders dual identity (Conway, Potter, and St Bernard 2008). In this book, kin majorities in Crimea and Moldova do not emerge as coherent majorities but assemblages of different constituencies with different meanings of identity. But these assemblages of meanings can help us understand and explicate the relationship between identity and engagement with kin-state citizenship. Some studies examine the effect of citizenship on identity, such as the identity-conferring effect of acquiring citizenship. For example, Iglesias, Sata, and Vass (2016) explore how the acquisition of kin-state citizenship affects the “hierarchy of identity structures.” For some, acquiring citizenship might confirm belonging, but most empirical studies are skeptical of citizenship’s effect on identity. For example, in Pogonyi’s (2017b, 156–60) study of acquisition of Hungarian citizenship by Hungarian kin, “this process of becoming a ‘real’ or ‘official’ Hungarian through naturalization rarely involved a shift in personal identification.”10 Others, such as Joppke (2010a), approach the relationship more normatively and argue for the thinning connection of citizenship to identity and, thus, the “lightening” of citizenship as a sacred status. This discussion mirrors another discussion, about eu citizenship and whether it could – but most likely does not – have a “substantive dimension” in terms of fostering belonging to a transnational institution (Delanty 1997, 285).11 Others explore whether identity and belonging are motivational factors for acquiring citizenship, whether as resident immigrant or non-resident kin. Scholars exploring the emotional content of citizenship have mostly argued against the role of emotion and identity as mobilizing forces for citizenship acquisition (Aguilar 2018). Instead, empirical and normative scholars have argued for an “instrumental turn” in citizenship, focusing on materialist and strategic reasons for citizenship while dismissing symbolic and identity-oriented explanations (Harpaz 2019a; Joppke 2019). For example, Harpaz explores cases of individuals who gain citizenship from states with which they “had no real connection and whose languages they could not speak,” such as “strategic learners of Hungarian” in Serbia seeking to gain Hungarian, and thus eu , citizenship (18). Harpaz also identifies how citizenship acquisition can function, materially and strategically, as a “gift and transfer of wealth” (90), as in the case of Israelis acquiring Romanian citizenship – and thus, again, eu citizenship – as a form of insurance against potential future instability.12 The instrumental turn in citizenship exposes the function of this institution in a world of global inequality, wherein acquisition of citizenship

22

Kin Majorities

has an intrinsic material value, especially if citizenship in a particular state can provide access to superior rights (e.g., access to eu citizenship) than what may be accessed in one’s home state. Instrumental arguments assume, quite problematically, that the absence of an identity motivation thereby implies a material logic for acquiring citizenship. But motivations may exist beyond a material-symbolic logic, such as the legitimacy of kin-state citizenship. The notion of legitimacy is certainly how kin-states such as Romania justify facilitating citizenship acquisition (elaborated in Chapter 3). From the top down, André Liebich (2009, 31–2) examines citizenship’s “compensatory” function, whereby states facilitate access to it to “correct history” and perceived injustices, such as territorial losses from war or state disintegration. The question is how far this legitimacy dimension is reflected in bottom-up discourses of citizenship acquisition, and whether legitimacy is a motivating factor for engaging in citizenship. As this book will show, there is a clear difference between cases where legitimacy functions as a motivating factor, reinforcing the normality of kin-state citizenship (as in Moldova, per Chapter 7), and those where it does not (Crimea, per Chapter 5). Thinking relationally, we also need to explore how acquisition of kin-state citizenship intersects with identification and understandings of citizenship in regard to the home-state. Acquiring citizenship from a kin-state does not necessarily imply anything in terms of relations to the home-state, such as a loss of loyalty to the home-state, as if loyalty need be mutually exclusive and competing. These empirical questions need to be grounded in the context in which individuals reside in one state and acquire citizenship from a kin-state. But acquisition of citizenship can tell us something about the relationship of individuals with their home-state. For example, if gaining kin-state citizenship is a form of insurance, it signals something about home-state incapacity and the “useless” nature of the home-state, whether it be Bosnia or Kosovo, as Štiks (2015, 181) discusses, or Moldova, as I discuss later in this book. These motivations, logics, and effects of citizenship acquisition need to be studied in a plural and relational way to understand how citizenship acquisition is driven by and can affect home-state/kin-state relations. This book proposes a way to study the relations between identity and citizenship through the identity-citizenship nexus and focuses on the plurality of this relationship. First, we can conceive identification in plural terms, understanding the relationship between modes of identifying (e.g., to home-state and kin-state) and whether these plural forms of identification are competing, nesting, or cross-cutting, which I elaborate below. Second, following this logic, we can focus on plural practices and understandings

Kin-State Politics through the Identity-Citizenship Nexus

23

of citizenship in contexts of dual citizenship to understand how these forms of citizenship are understood relationally and potentially as nesting, cross-cutting, separated, or competing. Third, we can then focus on how these plural and relational logics of identity and citizenship intersect. Below, I further develop the analytical framework of the identity-citizenship nexus to explore and explicate variation within and across kin majority cases. Before this, I discuss how I conceive and operationalize the notion of meanings of identity and citizenship practices within the identity-citizenship nexus. This operationalization moves beyond conceiving identity and citizenship as singular to consider a relational approach to identity and citizenship that focuses on their plurality and plural intersections. Relational and Multiple Meanings of Identification

This book approaches identification as a constructed, everyday, and relational site of meanings that can be captured. Drawing on the sociological approach of everyday nationalism, the object of analysis is how people articulate, express, and negotiate forms of identification in the context of their everyday lives (Brubaker et al. 2006; Fox and Miller-Idriss 2008; Goode and Stroup 2015). The everyday nationalism approach helps to shift our understanding of identification away from mutually exclusive ethnic categories, such as census categories. It provides ways to capture the discourses that individuals use to explain their identification, even beyond ethnicity. For example, we can explore how, and if, individuals subscribe to census categories or how individuals negotiate or subvert such categories to express and explain how they identify. Specifically, I examine whether and how individuals understand themselves, or not, through the categories of Russian and Ukrainian in Crimea, and Romanian and Moldovan in Moldova (Chapters 4 and 6). Do people imagine these categories as separate and separable, or are there areas of contact and overlap between them? How do ethnic, linguistic, cultural, territorial, historical, and political dimensions of identification overlap and/or blur these categories? This approach helps to build “experience-near” concepts of ethnic identification, to explore how individuals, in the context of their everyday lives, give meaning to their ethnic identification and to the concept of ethnic identification.13 This book also takes the approach of everyday nationalism further by exploring plural and relational meanings of identification across state borders. The object of analysis becomes the multiplicity of identification in these contexts, where kin majorities are an extreme example. We

24

Kin Majorities

all exist in contexts that make multiple forms of identification possible, whether at distinct levels (e.g., gender, sexuality, professional, religious, ethnic, racial, political) or in terms of forms of identification that overlap, cross-cut, nest, or compete (Herrmann and Brewer 2004, 8; see also Medrano and Gutiérrez 2001; Duchesne and Frognier 2008), whether as migrants moving across borders or as kin majorities. Similar to Allan (2016, 22), what is interesting are the “intersubjective beliefs about the national self in relation to others.”14 This book explores how people articulate themselves through self/other narratives, the myths they use to construct these articulations, and how they position themselves in relation to the home-state and kin-state. Aggregating these articulations, we can tackle more theoretically what this means for the relationship between plural forms of identification, in terms of their construction as: 1 Nested, where multiple levels of identification may nest within each other like matryoshka dolls; 2 Cross-cutting, where forms of identification may intersect in part, but not wholly, with other forms of identification; 3 Separated, where forms of identification appear separate and unrelated; or 4 Competing, where forms of identification exist in a zero-sum relationship (see Figure 2.1). This relational approach takes us beyond identity typologies of ethnic versus civic (i.e., cultural/ancestral/exclusive versus territorial/inclusive; see Kiely, Bechhofer, and McCrone 2005; Meeus et al. 2010), and even “organic” versus “voluntarist” (i.e., biological versus choice; see Zimmer 2003). Rather, we can explore the forms of identification that matter to individuals in everyday terms and examine the logics and legitimizing myths behind these forms of identification. Finally, aggregating meanings across individuals, we can observe assemblages of identification, in terms of nesting, cross-cutting, separated, or competing, that might be expressed in different ways: ethnically, linguistically, culturally, historically, politically, and territorially. The point is to explore what these assemblages indicate about the relations of identity (Figure 2.1). Studying identification in everyday, plural, and relational terms can yield broader insights for how we conceptualize and study ethnicity in political science. Political scientists have tended to use ethnicity, ethnic identification, and measures of ethnic diversity as something exogenous to politics that can explain other phenomena, such as public goods,

Kin-State Politics through the Identity-Citizenship Nexus

a) Nesting

25

b) Competing

A A

B

B

c) Cross-cutting

d) Separated

A

A B B

Figure 2.1 | Multiple meanings of identity and practices of citizenship

violence, and democratization (Horowitz 1993; Alesina et al. 2003; Wilkinson 2004; Pop-Eleches 2007; Alvarez et al. 2000), rather than something to be explained in its own right. For example, several scholars reduce the role of identity in kin-state politics to a thin dichotomy of “strong” and “weak” forms of identification (Csergo˝ and Goldgeier 2013; Khrychikov and Miall 2002), wherein weak forms of identification are used, causally, to explain the absence of kin community consolidation or mobilization. Rather than thin understandings of identification, we also need to explore the thicker meanings of identification and boundary construction, which are also important for understanding kin-state politics, especially citizenship acquisition. Beyond kin-state politics, even those who seek to understand the importance of identity in politics (e.g., Davis and Moore 1997) do not begin with the fundamental question of what ethnicity is, and means, in the first

26

Kin Majorities

place. Political scientists agree that ethnicity is constructed and imagined as opposed to primordial or biologically given. But the data used to analyze ethnicity – such as census or survey data – often does not reflect this constructivist consensus as it requires individuals to ascribe themselves to predetermined, pre-theorized, and mutually exclusive categories (Wedeen 2002).15 As Allan (2016, 28) argues, using data of ethno-fractionalization “does not consider the intensity or scale of the cultural identities.” Instead, what can provide more empirical and theoretical leverage is capturing the meaning and content of identification by understanding how individuals construct self/other boundaries and “I–we–they” logics (Bucher and Jasper 2016, 399), as well as the contestation of these logics between different individuals.16 Rather than work through pre-theorized categories, such as census categories that presuppose mutual exclusivity, we can work through data inductively, from the bottom up, to develop categories that group individuals and meanings based on similarity and difference (Allan 2016) and account for meanings that may be multiple and relational. In turn, these categories help us to understand the intersections of identity and citizenship, which I return to below. Practices: Kin Majorities and Citizenship

This book is concerned with how kin majorities practice kin-state policies of citizenship and quasi-citizenship. By practices, I mean what individuals do in relation to these policies, specifically how individuals engage with and acquire citizenship.17 This study of practices examines individuals’ strategies and motivations for engaging with and acquiring citizenship. As Balta and Altan-Olcay (2020, 6) describe, the object of analysis is the “micro politics of belonging and everyday strategizing” in relation to citizenship acquisition. By studying practices, we can disaggregate how and why citizenship and quasi-citizenship are used, foreground individual agency, and study the intersection of meanings of identification and citizenship practices. Significantly, citizenship practices are not singular but potentially multiple, overlapping, or even contradictory, especially with the expansion of dual citizenship. Examining citizenship through practices combines two different approaches, which conceive citizenship as 1) an institution, and 2) an act. As an institution, citizenship is a formal status. This status offers membership in a polity, provides access to rights (e.g., voting, membership, passport), requires duties to the polity (e.g., paying tax, performing military service), and imbues a sense of belonging to the polity (Bloemraad, Korteweg, and Yurdakul 2008).18

Kin-State Politics through the Identity-Citizenship Nexus

27

However, to consider citizenship as an institution overlooks contestations of citizenship.19 Simply being a citizen does not provide everyone equal access to rights and an equal capacity for exercising these rights. Some communities have greater access to citizenship, and to the rights derived from it, than others. Moreover, institutional approaches overlook the so-called partialization of citizenship as a status because states may not always offer full membership. Rather, states have established forms of quasi-citizenship for resident emigrants (denizenship) and non-resident kin communities (ethnizenship), such as Hungary’s Status Law and Russia’s Compatriot policy (Bauböck 2006). These quasi-citizenship policies may signal ties of belonging while offering a status short of full membership, with reduced access to rights and duties to the state (Deets 2008) compared with full members (Table 2.1). Second, in considering citizenship as an act, scholars approach the subject more sociologically. As Isin and Wood (1999, 4) argue, citizenship needs to be conceived both as “a set of practices (cultural, symbolic and economic) and a bundle of rights and duties (civil, political, social) that define an individual’s membership in a polity.” This approach draws attention to how citizenship is experienced and enacted by individuals whereby citizenship as a lived experience encompasses more than passive tasks such as paying taxes and voting (Kallio, Wood, and Häkli 2020). It also considers citizenship struggles by including analysis of persons who are not formal citizens (members) but perform citizenship through their claims to rights (Andrijasevic 2013; Nyers 2017). However, approaching citizenship as an act overlooks citizenship acquisition and the process and choices that underpin it. When individuals acquire citizenship, be they migrants or kin, they exercise agency by choosing to acquire it, investing time and money in the process of acquisition, and navigating the uncertainties of this process. In other words, we need to study practices of citizenship acquisition, especially when they are facilitated by kin-states – which may or may not engender struggles – as much as we need to study citizenship struggles. In studying citizenship practices, this book combines sociological and institutional approaches to citizenship. It analyzes citizenship in the context of what it is possible to practice, what rights are possible to acquire, and what this means for the individual within the framework of citizenship. Individuals do not have free rein to practice any institutions of citizenship they please. While many enjoy a plural menu of citizenship options, the range of such options is still finite (and often narrow) as they are determined by the institutional context of citizenship, such as how states regulate and facilitate acquisition. In some cases, individuals

28

Kin Majorities

are eligible for citizenship and can become equal and full members of kin-states (e.g., Moldovans vis-à-vis Romania). In other cases, individuals are eligible for quasi-citizenship and do not have the opportunity to become equal and full members of kin-states, but choose instead to engage with quasi-citizenship (e.g., Crimeans vis-à-vis Russia before 2014; see Table 2.1). Focusing on citizenship practices, we can explore how individuals engage with citizenship within its institutional constraints. We can examine individuals’ choices to engage with citizenship and/or quasi-citizenship, such as whether individuals take up, negotiate, or refuse rights that they are eligible for, as well as the meanings they ascribe to these practices. Examining citizenship practices through the lens of kin majorities, we can explore concerns surrounding en masse conferral (and what it means), the plurality of citizenship practices, and how, relationally, multiple practices of citizenship intersect with identity. The relational logic of plural meanings of identification aligns with how we can conceive plural citizenship practices (Figure 2.1): 1 Nested, where, as some analysts suggest, multiple citizenship practices can nest within “concentric circles” of loyalty, such as eu citizenship and national citizenship (Risse 2005, 295); 2 Cross-cutting, where citizenship practices (and configurations of loyalty) may intersect in part, but not wholly, with other citizenship practices; 3 Separated, where citizenship practices appear unrelated; or 4 Competing, where citizenship and loyalty exist in a zero-sum relationship (see Jasinskaja-Lahti et al. 2020). Putting together this approach to multiple meanings of identification and citizenship practices, and taking a relational and plural approach, we can examine the identity-citizenship nexus in terms of how these plural relations intersect (Table 2.2). But the identity-citizenship nexus is restricted neither to the study of kin majorities nor kin-state politics, but has broader applications for examining individuals’ narratives regarding citizenship practices and the articulation of citizenship narratives vis-à-vis identity, a dimension often overlooked in studies of both citizenship and identity (Pogonyi 2019; Vasiljevic´ 2018). Not only can we investigate whether there is a relationship between the strength of identification as co-ethnic and of identification with the kin-state, we may also explore, in a more nuanced way, whether those with nesting, competing, separated, or cross-cutting

Kin-State Politics through the Identity-Citizenship Nexus

29

Table 2.2 | Mapping intersections within the identity-citizenship nexus Identity

Citizenship

a) Nesting

Concentric meanings

Practices as if concentric

b) Cross-cutting

Some, but not complete, overlap of meanings

Some, but not complete, overlap of practices

c) Separated

Unrelated and not intersecting meanings

Practices as if unrelated and not intersecting

d) Competing

Zero-sum meanings

Practices as if zero-sum

Identitycitizenship nexus

Alignment or differentiation

understandings of identification conceive of citizenship practices through the same logic (Table 2.2). For example, do those with competing understandings of identity also conceive of citizenship practices as competing? Returning to the comparative lens, by studying these intersections we can explore the variation (or lack thereof) within and across the cases of Crimea and Moldova as kin majorities and show how a bottom-up perspective is important for understanding the (varying) intersection of identity and citizenship. The Identity-Citizenship Nexus in Crimea and Moldova

Through the empirical chapters on Crimea and Moldova, this book reveals the fracturing of identification in both cases. But it also exposes different articulations of this fracturing and different implications for citizenship and kin-state politics. In Crimea, a small, pro-Russian minority conceived of themselves as discriminated against, with a competitive understanding of Ukraine. In turn, this small minority was unable to access citizenship and wanted more from Russia than quasi-citizenship. But most participants in Crimea had a cross-cutting or separated understanding of identification: they did not identify with Russia, although many identified as Russian, and in turn had a separated understanding of citizenship,

30

Kin Majorities

with little to no desire to engage with Russia. In other words, those with cross-cutting understandings of identification, when it came to citizenship, were as disengaged as those with separated understandings of identification; and both had separated understandings of citizenship. In Moldova, by contrast, more participants identified as Romanian, and with Romania, often in a nested way that saw Moldova, culturally and ethnically, as a part of Romania. In turn, many conceived of citizenship through the same nested logic. Even those who had a weaker identification as Romanian, and with Romania, had a more cross-cutting (or in some cases nested) understanding of Romanian citizenship, pivoting on its legitimacy and desirability. In other words, Moldova appears not only as a case of en masse conferral but of acceptance and normalization of en masse acquisition, while Crimea does not. This book maps how and why Romanian citizenship in Moldova was conceived of as legitimate and desirable, and more so than Russian citizenship in Crimea, as well as how the legitimacy of citizenship maps onto identification in meaningful ways. In turn, this book reveals how it is not only what states do that affects kin-state politics, and it is not only by a top-down approach that we may study these politics. Taking a top-down approach, we might consider Russia’s actions in Crimea legitimate because of the context of annexation and assume it to be a case of en masse citizenship conferral pre-dating annexation. We might neglect to consider Romania, as it appears to be a less active, less controversial kin-state, and thereby miss entirely a puzzling case of en masse citizenship acquisition. Overall, why citizenship is legitimate and desirable for kin majorities, and why it is not, and how this corresponds to identification, are integral pieces of the story for understanding kinstate politics. Put simply, we do not yet know the broader, future implications for Moldova of Romania’s policy, but we do need to start thinking about the implications of en masse citizenship for kin majorities.

3 Crimea and Moldova as Kin Majorities “The Ministry of Foreign Affairs believes that Romanians abroad are part of the Romanian people and spirituality.” Department for Relations with Romanians Abroad (dprrp 2013)

“The twenty-five million of our Compatriots in these countries must not be forgotten.” Boris Yeltsin (cited in Smith 1999b, 490)

By land, Moldova’s capital city (Chis¸ina˘u) and Crimea’s administrative capital (Simferopol) are just over four hundred miles apart, equivalent to the distance between Zurich and Paris, Boston and Washington, dc , or Bangkok and Phnom Penh. Rarely, however, are Crimea and Moldova compared or seen as instances of a similar phenomenon. Not only are Crimea and Moldova kin majorities, they also share similar historical contexts that intertwine them from the nineteenth century through the pre-Soviet, Soviet, and post-Soviet periods. In the pre-Soviet period, Crimea and Moldova were annexed to the Russian Empire; later, both were in the Soviet Union (Moldova having been annexed a second time). In the post-Soviet period, each had a different status – Moldova as a sovereign nation-state and Crimea as an autonomous region of Ukraine (before 2014). But both experienced fraught contestations of identity, heightened by kin-state claims and, in the early post-Soviet period, almost-successful irredentist movements. These fraught contestations are visible across their cities and towns. For example, in Chis¸ina˘u, statues commemorating the victims of fascism and communism sit side by side but in discursive opposition, each suggesting they are the liberators and the other the occupiers. Meanwhile, in Simferopol, streets commemorating Communist, Soviet, and tsarist heroes coexist but also

32

Kin Majorities

exist in opposition, with campaigns for renaming (and often returning to pre-Soviet) street names. Before annexation, the pro-Russian movement Russkaia Obshchina Kryma (Russian Community of Crimea, or rok ) and its affiliate political party Russkoe Edinstvo (Russian Unity, or re) campaigned with the Orthodox Church to switch several Soviet-era street names – including Karl Liebknecht (where rok ’s and re ’s offices were located) and Rosa Luxemburg streets – back to the names they had in the time of the Russian Empire (Dolgorukov and Aleksandr Nevskii).1 Initially, there was a transition period where both street names were used. The Communist Party, which preferred the Soviet-era names, campaigned against the renaming, as did the Crimean Tatars, who saw the new names as commemorating occupiers of Crimea (Bolkova 2008); today the names Dolgorukov and Nevskii are used on the Russian website Yandex, while Google Maps retains Karl Liebknecht. There are also crucial differences between Crimea and Moldova as kin majorities, as this chapter elaborates. Some differences, such as sovereignty status, are contextual. In contrast, other differences are more consequential for this bottom-up comparison. The first of these is the different ideological significance of these kin majorities to their respective kin-states. Crimea is the pearl of the Russian national imaginary, while Moldova is more like Romania’s vassal, or a destitute younger brother, than a pearl. Second, there is the different context of kin-state politics. Romania has prioritized Moldova and has a generous, extensive set of kin-state policies vis-à-vis Moldova, centred around Romania’s comprehensive citizenship policy. By contrast, Crimea did not appear to be a kin-state priority for Russia before annexation, given Russia’s more limited kin-state policies vis-à-vis the region, which focused on the meagre Compatriot policy. This differing institutional context does not relate to each case’s sovereign status but to the capacity and willingness of each kin-state to engage with these kin majorities. The third difference is the differing geopolitical context. While scholars conceive of Russia as a geopolitical antagonist, Romania is rarely conceived of in geopolitical terms, as a state engaged – or capable of engaging – in kin-state politics, let alone geopolitics. In other words, we might not expect Romania to be so engaged with Moldova. Instead, we might expect Russia to be more engaged with Crimea, especially in the context of Russia’s aggression toward Georgia in 2008 and annexation of Crimea in 2014. It is this puzzling context that we need to grapple with before moving to the empirical analysis of meanings and practices that follows in the subsequent chapters.

Crimea and Moldova as Kin Majorities

33

cri mea a nd th e ru ssi a n se l f The Crimean peninsula (poluostrov in Russian, literally “semi-island”) is a symbol of Russian imperial and Soviet military prestige, and of loss and tragedy for Russia in the post-Soviet period. The Russian writer Vasily Aksyonov (1983) fictionalizes Crimea as a utopian “island” in the Black Sea, able to break away from the Soviet Union during the Russian Civil War, when it was a stronghold of the White movement against the Red Army. Psychologically and spatially, Crimea’s position as an island or semi-island connects or disconnects it from the states and empires between which it lies. Militarily, Crimea is the “land of Russian glory,” since Russia’s annexation of the peninsula from the Ottoman Empire in 1783 (Plokhy 2000; O’Neill 2017). Politically, Crimea is a manifestation of competing imperial projects (tsarist Russian and Ottoman) in the Black Sea and, since 1991, competing national projects (Russian and Ukrainian). For Russian writers, such as Chekhov, and for many Soviet-era children, Crimea was a lush holiday paradise of mountains and sea (gori i more), a fact that fuelled Crimea’s importance in the Russian national imaginary. Alexandr Solzhenitsyn (1995, 30) wrote that Crimea was Russia’s “natural” southern boundary, reflecting the consciousness of many Russian citizens at the time that a Russia without Crimea was lacking something. For Russia, Crimea is a pearl of the Russian national imaginary and a “litmus test” (Teper 2016, 379) for the nationalist content of Russian identity discourses (and state practices), even if this pearl is contested between Russia and Ukraine.2 As much as Crimea is conceived of as an indigenous territory by Russia and ethnic Russians, this claim is often advanced, implicitly or explicitly, at the expense of the Crimean Tatars, whom it excludes and whose voice it stifles. For the Tatars, Crimea is a “green island” (yeshil ada) and their (only) native homeland, from which 90 per cent of them were deported in cattle trucks by the Soviet regime in 1944, with many dying en route (Williams 2015, 119). During Russia’s annexation in 2014, Crimea became a social media meme, #krymnash (Crimea is ours), a slogan that embodies Russia’s enduring ties to (and claims over) the peninsula (Kholmogorov 2014). Russia saw annexing Crimea as overturning the perceived injustices of the past. For many in Russia, including Vladimir Putin, it was a grave mistake that Crimea became a part of an independent Ukraine. The first dimension of this supposed mistake is attributed to Nikita Khrushchev who, in his early days as Soviet leader, famously transferred Crimea – as a “present” – from the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic (rsfsr ) to the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic in 1954, possibly during a drunken

34

Kin Majorities

stupor (Wilson 2014, 99). This gift was to strengthen the “fraternal link” (bratskaia sviaz’) between the Ukrainian and Russian peoples, and to commemorate the three-hundred-year-old Pereiaslav treaty, which brought the Cossack Hetmanate under the authority of Muscovy (“Meeting of the Presidium” 1954). The second dimension of this supposed mistake, from Russia’s perspective, happened after the collapse of the Soviet Union, when Crimea remained a part of independent Ukraine. Crimea: From a Soviet Oblast to a Post-Soviet Autonomous Republic

Within the highly centralized Soviet Union, it did not matter where territories were located. Soviet territories, and the citizens within them, were primarily governed by Moscow. Crimea’s relocation in 1954 was therefore inconsequential prior to 1991. However, contestation over Crimea magnified in 1991, with Ukraine leading the dismantling of the Soviet Union and seeking independence. Relations between the two states were remodelled by the Soviet dissolution, with Ukraine gaining equivalent status to Russia internationally and the domestic border between them becoming an international one (see Donaldson and Nogee 2009).3 Russia emerged from the embers of Soviet dissolution as a party that had accepted, rather than participated in, Belarus and Ukraine’s desire for disintegration. Russia’s national imaginary envisioned the state as a territorial rump of its former self, separated politically from the twentyfive million ethnic Russians who became “beached” in the former Soviet territories (Laitin 1998, 29). But Crimea meant more to Russia than just a lost, and large, community of ethnic Russians. Crimea was also a symbol of military glory, Sevastopol being the home of the Black Sea Fleet (bsf ). In the early days after the collapse of the Soviet Union, Russia actively contested the notion that Crimea should remain a part of Ukraine due to an illegal and arbitrary accident made by an incompetent Khrushchev.4 In the late Soviet and early post-Soviet periods, Crimea’s residents were also uncertain and unsupportive of remaining in Ukraine, because Crimea was different, ethnically and linguistically, from other Ukrainian regions. Aside from ethnicity and language, however, Crimea was also set apart from Ukrainian “national historiography” and mythology (Sasse 2007, 73). In Crimea, just 54 per cent supported Ukrainian independence from the Soviet Union, compared to 90 per cent elsewhere in Ukraine (and even 84 per cent in Donetsk and Luhansk; see Plokhy 2008, 166). Instead, there was far more support for restoring Crimea

Crimea and Moldova as Kin Majorities

35

to the status of an autonomous republic within the (then dismantling) Soviet Union, in a referendum also held in 1991 (Solchanyk 1994, 51). For these reasons, Crimea emerged from the Soviet collapse as a site of ethnic and geopolitical tensions, with the potential to escalate into a “long-running, acrimonious, possibly bloody, and conceivably nuclear, dispute” (Economist 1993). Crimea’s pro-Russian movement, which sought to secede from Ukraine, seemed an “unstoppable” force in 1994 (Lieven 1998, 256). However, by 1995, concern over Crimea had dissipated, mirroring the waning support for Romania in Moldova during the same period. Within Ukraine, Crimea, and Russia, those who supported Crimean separatism or irredentism found themselves “confined to the political margins” (Sasse 2007, 237). The puzzle is why the risk of violence in Crimea abated so quickly. First, there were weaknesses of the pro-Russian movement in Crimea. As Sasse (2007, 156) argues, Crimea’s pro-Russian movement was weakened by the differing goals of its constituent parties – variably separatist, nationalist, or irredentist – and by the egoism of the movement’s central protagonist, Iurii Meshkov. Meshkov assumed that Crimea’s residents, having voted for him to be Crimea’s president, would support secession from Ukraine. But, amid the chaos of the post-Soviet system, which included rising banditry on Crimea’s streets, Crimea’s residents were more concerned about socioeconomic stability than ethnic or territorial questions (Marples and Duke 1995; Dawson 1997). Second, under Boris Yeltsin, Russia grew increasingly reluctant to sponsor separatist movements in Crimea and elsewhere. Russia was already embroiled in a conflict with Chechnya, so Yeltsin preferred that Ukraine resolve the Crimean question as a domestic dispute (Motyl 1998, 27). This put Yeltsin at odds with factions within Russia, such as Russia’s Supreme Soviet which, in July 1993, declared that Sevastopol was a “Russian [rossiiskii] city” (Marples and Duke 1995, 278). According to Hosking (2006, 395), this disagreement was “one of the main reasons” that Yeltsin dissolved, and later shelled with tanks, the Supreme Soviet in late 1993. Yeltsin also resisted the Duma’s 1996 resolution that the 1954 transfer was “arbitrary,” leaving Russia to take a backseat in supporting Crimean secession (Solchanyk 2001, 177). In other words, by the mid1990s, Russia (or at least Yeltsin) no longer supported Crimean factions pursuing separatism. After 1994, Crimea’s position within Ukraine became more secure. The 1994 Budapest Memorandum enshrined Ukraine’s sovereignty over Crimea and the 1997 Russian-Ukrainian Friendship Treaty fixed

36

Kin Majorities

Ukraine’s borders (ratified by both states in 1999).5 Meanwhile, Crimea’s secessionists fell to the political margins. Over the next twenty years, contestation within and over Crimea slid from consciousness. The 1997 treaty resolved border disputes between Ukraine and Russia and split the bsf equally between both states, leasing the Sevastopol naval base to Russia. But this lease agreement was only for twenty years, effectively pushing final resolution of the bsf issue into the future. During Viktor Yushchenko’s presidency (2005–10), he threatened not to renew the lease. But his successor, Viktor Yanukovych, prioritized extending the lease in the early period of his presidency, with the signing of the Kharkiv Pact in 2010, extending Russia’s lease in Sevastopol to 2042.6 Despite the waning popular support for separatism, Crimea remained different from the rest of Ukraine. In a military anomaly, both Ukraine and Russia used Sevastopol as the base of their separate Black Sea naval fleets until annexation, when Russia ripped up the lease extension and appropriated all of Ukraine’s fleet in Sevastopol.7 Ethnically and linguistically, Crimea also remained different from other Ukrainian regions. For example, in the 2001 census, Crimea was the only Ukrainian region with a Russian ethnic majority (58 per cent) – even compared to Donetsk (38 per cent) and Luhansk (39 per cent), where Russian was spoken by more than two thirds of residents (Table 3.1). Even though all three regions – Crimea, Donetsk, and Luhansk – have experienced Russian-sponsored separatist activity since 2014, it is only in Crimea that ethnic Russians form an ethnic majority (and consider themselves as such). By comparison, Russians are an ethnic minority in the Donetsk and Luhansk oblasts, even if Russian is the language most spoken.8 Politically, Crimea was also different from other regions of Ukraine because of its autonomous status – an anomaly within the otherwise unitary Ukrainian state.9 Crimea’s autonomous status, more than an oblast jurisdiction, allowed and empowered subnational institutions such as Crimea’s Verkhovna Rada (representative body), Council of Ministers, and constitution to advocate for the status of the Russian language, at least de facto, in both official and everyday contexts (Arel 2002, 243). As such, Crimea was also the only Ukrainian region where Russianlanguage education did not decrease after 1991 (Bilaniuk and Melnyk 2008; Bocale 2016). While Russian-language education declined in kindergartens in Ukraine between 1995 and 2013 (from 33 to 14 per cent), and specifically in the Donetsk (from 90 to 26 per cent) and Luhansk (from 86 to 65 per cent) oblasts, such a decline did not occur in Crimea, where more than 95 per cent of kindergartens continued to operate using the Russian language (Figure 3.1). Crimea continued to be a place where

Crimea and Moldova as Kin Majorities

37

Table 3.1 | Comparing Crimea to other Ukrainian regions

Language*

Ethnicity*

Support for Ukrainian independence**

Crimea

Luhansk Oblast

Donetsk Oblast

Ukrainian

10%

30%

24%

Russian

77%

69%

75%

Ukrainian

24%

58%

57%

Russian

58%

39%

38%

54%

84%

84%

* Source: State Statistics Committee of Ukraine (2001) ** Source: Plokhy (2008, 166)

Russian remained the language of schools (89 per cent) in contrast to Donetsk and Luhansk, where just over 50 per cent of schools taught in Russian (Figure 3.2). The same was true for higher education, where 94 per cent of technical school and colleges and 74 per cent of universities taught in Russian, compared to Donetsk (46 and 38 per cent, respectively) and Luhansk (10 and 16 per cent; see Figure 3.3). Before annexation, although all schools taught Ukrainian as a course subject, there were only seven Ukrainian-language schools in Crimea.10 Crimea’s autonomous status raised the position of the Russian language, compared to Luhansk and Donetsk, the result being that debates about whether Russian should be an official language or a regional language were peripheral in Crimea. The status (or lack of it) of the Russian language in Ukraine at the state level made little difference to everyday realities in Crimea.11 Instead, Ukrainian and Crimean Tatar languages were underrepresented, almost foreign, languages in Crimea.12 Crimea and Russia’s Annexation in 2014

Despite differences between Crimea and the rest of Ukraine, Crimea remained a region of relative calm for twenty years. This lack of conflict made Russia’s annexation of Crimea in 2014 both surprising and

100

Percentage

80 60 40 20 0 1995

1998

2001

Ukraine

2004 Year

2007

Crimea

Donetsk

2010

2013

Luhansk

Figure 3.1 | Children in Russian-speaking kindergartens (1995–2013). Source: Statistical Service, Ukraine (2013a, 10); Statistical Service, Ukraine (2012, 10).

Russian language

Ukrainian language

Ukraine

Crimea

Donetsk

Luhansk

Luhansk

Donetsk

Crimea

Ukraine

0

20

40

60

80

100

0

20

40

60

80

100

Percentage

Figure 3.2 | Students in Russian-speaking and Ukrainian-speaking schools (2012–13). Source: Statistical Service, Ukraine (2013c, 60).

Crimea and Moldova as Kin Majorities Russian language

Ukrainian language

Ukraine

Crimea

Luhansk

Donetsk

Donetsk

Luhansk

Crimea

Ukraine

0

20

40

60

80

39

100

0

20

40

60

80

100

Percentage Technical school / college (Level I/II)

Institute, conservatory, or university (Level III/IV)

Figure 3.3 | Students in Ukrainian and Russian in higher education institutions (2012–13). Source: Statistical Service of Ukraine (2013a, 101–2).

ironic. Scholars considered Crimea to be a successful case of conflict resolution and of waning popular support for separatism, especially after the 1997 Friendship Treaty between Ukraine and Russia (Sasse 2001; Dawson 1997). Russian annexation of the peninsula seemed improbable before 2014, or at least highly costly and deadly. Yet, Russia accomplished the annexation with relative ease, removing Ukrainian authorities from the peninsula with little gunfire and only one death.13 Ukrainian authorities, in the wake of the Euromaidan protests and the flight from office of President Yanukovych, were too stunned to resist the seizure. Crimea’s residents, too, seemed to show overwhelming support for joining Russia via the March 2014 referendum.14 While the Russian regime and Western observers alike cite this as evidence of support for annexation, we should be careful of doing so given that Crimea was under armed occupation by Russia during the referendum (see Grant 2015).15 Moreover, even if annexation was straightforward for Russia, we should not overlook the profound effects of Russia’s occupation – and not least for the Crimean Tatars, for whom problems with authoritarianism and human rights

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Kin Majorities

violations have substantially increased under the Russian regime. As the journalist Muzhdabaev (2016) writes, at least for Crimean Tatars residing in Crimea: “There are no barbed-wire fences in this new hybrid ghetto of Vladimir Putin’s – yet. Instead of wire there is hate-filled tv propaganda, total surveillance and constant harassment.” Russia’s annexation of Crimea also tells us something about the contemporary Russian self, at least under the leadership of Putin (Klimeniouk 2017). For a long time, political elites, intellectuals, and scholars debated what Russia was as a nation-state: an ethnic Russian state, a civic state, a multiethnic republic, or heir to the Soviet Union and/or the tsarist empire. These debates have intensified in recent years with increasing authoritarianism in Russia, causing scholars to ask whether imperial or ethnonationalist politics are resurgent (Klimeniouk 2017; Kolstø and Blakkisrud 2016). Through Crimea, and Russia’s annexation, we see a mixture of both: of neoimperial territorial revisionism and ethnocentric rhetoric. The fusion of these discourses helps to boost the ego of the Russian Federation and its citizens. It creates an image of Russia as a strong nation and state, at a time when Russia is experiencing growing inequality, kleptocracy, and endemic corruption, as well as decreasing life expectancy and population size. Crimea, then, might be Russia’s most valuable chip to leverage against these intersecting crises and buy a short-term “collective hit of cocaine,” even if the high must wear off eventually (Whitmore 2014). Rather than explain how or why Russia came to annex Crimea, this book examines the experiences and understandings of those within Crimea on the eve of annexation, whose preferences are often scrutinized under the lens of the 2014 referendum, which showed overwhelming support for annexation. While referenda might be politically useful, they are less empirically rigorous for determining how people in Crimea actually felt, especially in the presence of an armed occupation by Russian soldiers. To explain the annexation would require separate data, which, in the era of annexation, have become harder for researchers to gather because of increased politicization within Crimea and the concomitant danger in asking such questions. Instead, I treat annexation as a contextual and puzzling factor, which occurred shortly after I conducted field research, in 2012 and 2013. I use this data, collected during a period of calm, as a window to explore what we actually know about the varying preferences, understandings, and experiences of Crimea’s citizens concerning identity and citizenship on the eve of an immense reconfiguration of relations between Crimea, Ukraine, and Russia, and the deterioration of rights within Crimea. At the same time, annexation

Crimea and Moldova as Kin Majorities

41

affects how we can view, and even interpret in the first place, the answers to questions of identification and citizenship – which is why I return to annexation as a lens through which we may understand Crimea, via the data that I present in later chapters.

rus si a’s k i n-state po l i c i e s i n c r i m e a So far, I have conceived of Crimea as a pearl in Russia’s (and Ukraine’s) national imaginary – and, until 2014, a lost pearl. Turning to Russia’s kin-state policies, however, there is little evidence that Crimea was a priority before 2014. The Compatriot policy was designed as the centrepiece of Russia’s kin-state policies and a mechanism to engage with Russia’s kin (Compatriots). As a form of quasi-citizenship, the Compatriot policy offers access to rights and benefits – such as scholarships and opportunities for resettlement – to Compatriots beyond Russia’s borders, while purposefully falling short of offering full membership in the form of citizenship. However, few aspects of the Compatriot policy targeted and prioritized Crimea directly. For example, Crimea received less attention in terms of scholarship places for Compatriot students than other states such as Tajikistan, and de facto states like Abkhazia. There were also specific ways in which Crimea was targeted – for example, via pro-Russian organizations that operate within the network of the Compatriot policy, as I explore below. But these organizations were the only mechanism through which Crimea was really plugged into the Compatriot policy and, thus, into Russia. This discrepancy presents a potential paradox. On the one hand, Crimea held a special mythic status for Russia, suggesting it to be a most likely case of Russian kin-state activism. On the other hand, there is little evidence that Russia was actively pursuing kin-state policies through the Compatriot policy in Crimea, at least in the decades before 2014. To consider the absence of Russia, in terms of policies, is rarely how Crimea is analyzed. Instead, we assume that Crimea had long been a priority for Russia and that Russia was extensively involved in Crimea and its residents’ lives, and may even have wished to intervene in Crimea at any stage in the twenty-three years between the Soviet Union’s dismantling and 2014. For example, in the wake of Russia’s incursion into Georgia in 2008, Crimea was framed as “next” on Russia’s roadmap of violent interventions (Hedenskog 2008; Maigre 2008; Kuzio 2010). Similar to Abkhazia and South Ossetia, Crimea was also conceived of as a region of passportization, as though Russia had “generously distributed in Crimea passports to Ukrainian citizens” (Gujer 2009). Passportization

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Kin Majorities

in Abkhazia and South Ossetia was especially contentious, as Russia used the pretext of protecting Russian citizens here – citizens that Russia had willingly created – as a legitimizing device for war with Georgia (President of Russia 2008b). Assuming that Russia was conducting similar policies of passportization in Crimea, many concluded that Crimea was also at risk of Russian interference and intervention. While the issue of Russia issuing passports in Crimea was not new, the issue of Russian citizenship became more politicized within Ukraine following the war with Georgia. For example, President Yushchenko accused Russia of distributing passports in Crimea to “split the country” and advocated for Ukraine to enumerate and criminally punish those with dual citizenship in the peninsula, even if Ukraine had but few resources to do either (Pimenov 2008; Petukhova 2008; bbc Monitoring – Former Soviet Union 2008e). Moreover, Mustafa Dzhemilev, a longstanding Ukrainian parliamentarian (1998– present) and former head of the Mejlis, the Crimean Tatars’ highest representative body, wanted to close Russian consulates in Crimea to prevent them issuing Russian passports, since passports might “create an excuse for the annexation of the republic following the South Ossetian scenario” (Bykov 2008).16 Russian news condemned such actions as a “witch hunt” of dual citizens, as if they were a fifth column within Crimea (Steshin 2008; see also Zozulia and Shevtsov 2008). But Russian news also reported extensively on the “legend of mass distribution of Russian passports in Crimea,” not only because such actions were illegal but because Russia did not have the “physical capacity” to be providing citizenship en masse in the peninsula (Karavaev 2008; Vasin 2008; bbc Monitoring – Former Soviet Union 2008d). In sum, the lens of passportization does not consider whether there had been, in fact, en masse passportization in Crimea prior to annexation, a subject I scrutinize further in Chapter 5. Rather than focus only on Russian citizenship, for an accurate lens on Russia’s kin-state activities in Crimea we need to look at the Compatriot policy, as a concept and a form of kin-state engagement in Crimea. There are also inherent ambiguities and contradictions built into the Compatriot policy that need to be explored, notably the hazy category of whom Russia deemed a Compatriot (and who wished to be deemed one). Even as we may consider Crimea a most likely case to be targeted by Russia and to engage with Russia, the following sections explore how before 2014, Crimea was, in fact, situated and deprioritized within the Compatriot framework.

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The Compatriot Concept

If Crimea is one expression of the Russian self, territorially speaking, then the concept of whom Russia considers a Compatriot is a different, and peculiarly post-Soviet, articulation of the Russian self. In the early 1990s, the Yeltsin government created the Compatriot policy and the Compatriot concept that underpins it. The policy was rapidly expanded under Putin, with the Compatriot concept being increasingly discussed and formalized, and becoming more visible in Crimea after 2011. The most fascinating aspect of the Compatriot policy is that it reproduces many unresolved and contentious questions concerning the boundaries of who is considered as Russian – ethnically, culturally, politically, and territorially. As Kallas (2016, 5) argues, the Compatriot policy demonstrates “Russia’s struggle to define the borders of its nation” and diaspora. Part of the reason is the “very loose” definition of who Compatriots are (Kosmarskaya 2011, 60; Shevel 2011).17 Today, Russia’s definition of Compatriots includes those with a “common language, history, cultural heritage, traditions and customs” as well as those who have made a free choice in “favor of the spiritual, cultural and legal ties with the Russian Federation” (President of Russia 2001; Ministry of Foreign Affairs 2010). This definition combines individuals with varying institutional (e.g., current citizens and descendants of former citizens as far back as the Tsarist Empire) and emotional ties to Russia (Kosmarskaya 2011, 60). But, as Putin argued in 2001, who Russia deems to be a Compatriot is also a voluntary question of “spiritual self-determination” (President of Russia 2001). In other words, Russia is concerned with those who choose to identify as a Compatriot of Russia and uses the Compatriot policy to encourage individuals to make such a choice. But, as I explore further in Chapter 5, this more recent emphasis on choice does not erode the enduring ambiguity between whom Russia recognizes as Compatriots and who desires to be recognized as such by Russia. The Compatriot policy encounters another tension within Russia, between irredentist nationalist tendencies, on the one hand, and its more de-ethnicized, even cosmopolitan, diasporic tendencies, on the other. For example, the Compatriot concept deliberately encompasses two different groups: those “successful, educated and wealthy” emigrants from Russia in Western Europe and North America, and the “wretched, suffering underdogs of the Russophobic regimes [in post-Soviet space] desperately waiting for Russia to take them home” (Suslov 2018, 3). The conceptual

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ambiguity and breadth regarding whom are Compatriots brings these seemingly disparate communities together within a single policy. This combination of distinct groups – emigrants and kin – is conceptually confusing (Chapter 2). Yet, this kind of elision is a common tool used by kin-states like Russia and Romania to disguise their nationalist motivations by emphasizing the ostensibly cosmopolitan goal of engaging with emigrants. In other words, it benefits Russia to have a broad and ambiguous Compatriot concept that can encompass these diverse groups. The Compatriot Policy

Shifting from the concept to the procedures involved in carrying out the Compatriot policy, it is fundamental to ask of what the Compatriot policy is a case (see Lund 2014). Some have conceived of the Compatriot policy as a type of citizenship (see Smith 1999a; Grigas 2012). Instead, I conceive of it as an instance of quasi-citizenship. The Compatriot policy offers some favourable rights and benefits to Compatriots, such as scholarships and resettlement rights. However, it does not grant legal status equal to that of Russian citizens, in the form of membership – nor does it grant equivalent rights to Russian citizens. Indeed, the Compatriot policy evolved deliberately not to be citizenship and thus to avoid restrictions placed by several states, like Ukraine, Estonia, and Latvia, to prevent their citizens from legally acquiring dual citizenship, in particular Russian citizenship (Barrington 1995; Zevelev 2008). As a form of quasi-citizenship, Russia’s central kin-state policy is different from Romania’s policy of citizenship restitution, which is a case of full membership. Instead, the Compatriot policy more resembles Poland’s Karta Polaka or Hungary’s 2004 Status Law (enacted before Hungary moved toward citizenship acquisition in 2010), both of which offer the right to work in the kin-state on the basis of cultural and linguistic ties (see Chapter 2, especially Table 2.1). Russia originally designed the Compatriot policy broadly, to protect Compatriots’ “educational, linguistic, social, labor, humanitarian and other rights and freedoms,” in particular in post-Soviet spaces (President of Russia 2008a). Institutionally, Russia’s engagement with Compatriots is supported by the Russian foreign ministry, which established an agency, Rossotrudnichestvo (Federal Agency for the Commonwealth of Independent States, Compatriots Living Abroad and International Humanitarian Cooperation), by presidential decree in 2008. Rossotrudnichestvo’s mandate is to strengthen “international humanitarian cooperation” and work with Compatriots to strengthen ties through

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local organizations and foster cultural, scientific, and commercial forms of cooperation.18 In practice, Rossotrudnichestvo coordinated Compatriot engagement through Russian embassies and consulates abroad, similarly to Romania’s Department for Relations with Romanians Abroad (see below). Rossotrudnichestvo also established local cultural and research centres outside Russia, which support Russian culture abroad and provide Russian language training. For example, alongside Russian consulates in Simferopol and Sevastopol, a Rossotrudnichestvo centre opened in Simferopol in 2012 and, during the period prior to annexation, held regular cultural and information events such as sessions providing guidance on applying to Russian universities.19 Russian civil society also engages with the Compatriot policy, via the Fond Russkii Mir (Russian World Foundation, or rmf ), a governmentally organized non-governmental organization (gongo ).20 Much like a quango, the rmf , as a gongo , is typical of state-endorsed approaches to civil society organizations in Russia, which often appear to function as ngo s but have strong ties to the government.21 rmf has established more than one hundred centres globally, including centres at several universities in the UK, the Netherlands, Belgium, Spain, and Italy, as well as a few across the US (though none in Canada) (Russkii Mir 2015). Indeed, in 2011, an rmf centre opened in Simferopol’s city library, as a reading hall (offering the library’s only Wi-Fi access) and a centre for Russian literature and culture. The rmf also speaks to Russia’s neoimperialist, post-Soviet discourse of Russkii Mir (Russian world) and converts it into an institutional form. For example, the Russkii Mir discourse conceives of the “Russian world,” and thus of Russia itself, as a supra-ethnic Orthodox civilization and a “virtual Russian supra-state” populated with Compatriots rather than citizens (Conley and Gerber 2011, 12; see also Wawrzonek 2014). The rmf ’s work with the Russian Orthodox Church cements this neoimperialist, civilizational discourse, with the church playing a central role in consolidating the Compatriot community and promoting the idea of Russkii Mir (Bogomolov and Lytvynenko 2012). Beyond top-down, Russia-led initiatives, under the remit of the Compatriot policy there are also grassroots initiatives connected to it. The Compatriot policy supported the coordination of such (alreadyexisting) initiatives at the local level. For example, the Compatriot policy fostered a network, across post-Soviet space, of affiliated Compatriot organizations. These local organizations were connected together, and to Russia, through local, regional, and transnational Compatriot councils, with regular conferences in Moscow, especially after the 2004 Orange

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Revolution in Ukraine (Saari 2014, 56n12). Within Crimea, this network included pro-Russian organizations such as Russkaia Obshchina Kryma (Russian Community of Crimea, or rok ) and its affiliate political party, Russkoe Edinstvo (Russian Unity, or re ).22 These organizations were marginal in Crimea’s political space, with re winning just 4 per cent of votes in the 2010 Crimean elections (Parties and Elections in Europe 2021). Nonetheless, these organizations played a crucial role in the function of the Compatriot policy within Crimea (examined further in Chapter 5). Beyond Compatriot-affiliated organizations, two provisions form the core of the Compatriot policy rights and benefits offered to those whom Russia considers Compatriots: first, programs for facilitated resettlement in Russia; and, second, educational scholarships. compatriot resettlement The Compatriot resettlement program, established in 2006, was designed to facilitate the migration of Compatriots to their “historic homeland” (President Putin, cited in Federal Migration Service 2012a). In large part, encouraging resettlement provides a solution to Russia’s deep demographic and regional crises, including a decline in population by four million (almost 3 per cent) since 1991, and the contraction (almost by half) of its economically active population (World Bank 2019; Arkhangelsky et al. 2015). Specifically, the resettlement program was designed to “lure” Compatriots to certain regions in Siberia that are experiencing demographic and economic struggles even more acutely (Kosmarskaya 2011, 65). Compatriots were, and remain, attractive migrants to Russia because of their identification with Russian language and culture (Federal Migration Service 2012b). This policy of luring Compatriots contrasts with Russia’s more typical migrant population from the northern Caucasus and the Central Asian states, who face increased Islamophobia and even violence (Arnold 2014). However, these tensions concerning who is a desirable Compatriot or a desirable migrant play out in how the resettlement program has been received in Russia. For example, writing in Rossiiskaia Gazeta, one Russian journalist underscores the potential contradictions between Compatriots, a category including those who are less economically productive and more desirable, namely elderly or middle-aged ethnic Russians; and those who are more economically productive but undesirable (Gontmakher 2006). This “undesirable” category includes “able-bodied people and children” from Azerbaijan, Tajikistan, and Uzbekistan, who might be “fluent in Russian, reading Dostoevsky and Bulgakov, but visiting a mosque.”

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Gontmakher asks: “Is our society ready to receive such a number of compatriots with a different appearance, a different religion, a different mentality? Will we not receive massive outbreaks of xenophobia and ethnic clashes in exchange for additional workers?” In other words, the precise ambiguity (and the deliberately de-ethnicized notion) as to who can be a Compatriot has remained a point of contention around the idea that such a Compatriot resettlement program entails either (more tolerable) economic costs or (less tolerable) ethnic costs. Furthermore, there is little evidence that the resettlement program has been successful in convincing many Compatriots to resettle, because, for Compatriots, it is an unattractive policy (a subject elaborated in greater detail in Chapter 5). For example, the policy does not facilitate resettlement to more economically attractive locations, such as Moscow, the wider Moscow region, or St Petersburg (Schenk 2016, 497). The resettlement policy also does not offer much in the way of compensation, whether in terms of economic incentives or citizenship (Kosmarskaya 2011, 65). Schenk (2016, 496) suggests that annually, between 2011 and 2013, only thirty to fifty-seven thousand participated in the program across the post-Soviet space. Only after 2014 did the numbers migrating to Russia appear to increase, when Russia channelled refugees escaping the conflict in Donbas into the already established Compatriot resettlement program and then fast-tracked them for citizenship acquisition.23 Overall, the resettlement program models the broader tensions and contradictions that are built into the Compatriot concept and policy. These play out from the bottom up within Crimea, as a program unattractive to the minority who consider themselves Compatriots, as well as to the broader community of those who might be conceived of as Compatriots but do not consider themselves as such (see Chapter 5). compatriot scholarships Finally, like Romania in Moldova, Russia has provided scholarships, corresponding to quotas for “citizens of the near abroad and Compatriots,” for undergraduate and PhD places in Russian universities (Ministry of Education and Science for Foreign Citizens 2010). Here, the quota for Crimea was separate from the one for Ukraine, just as the quotas for certain de facto states (Transnistria, Abkhazia, and South Ossetia) were separate from those for their parent states (Moldova and Georgia). However, Crimea was not a priority in terms of receiving scholarship places. Instead, Crimea had the smallest provision of quota student places for Compatriots (thirty for Compatriot undergraduates, five for PhD Compatriot students, and no additional places; see Figure 3.4).

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Kin Majorities Crimea

Estonia Latvia Lithuania Belarus Transnistria Georgia Ukraine Kazakhstan Uzbekistan Abkhazia South Ossetia Azerbaijan Armenia Kyrgyzstan

Compatriot PhD students

Turkmenistan Moldova Tajikistan

Compatriot undergraduates Titular nationality PhD students Titular nationality undergraduates 0

100

200

300

400

Number of places

Figure 3.4 | Annual quotas for post-Soviet citizens and compatriots abroad to study in Russian institutions. Source: Ministry of Education and Science for Foreign Citizens, Russia (2010).

These low numbers imply that in terms of education, Russia did not consider Crimea (or Ukraine) a priority compared to Central Asian states like Tajikistan, which received more places both for Compatriots (two hundred for undergraduates and ten for PhD students) and titular nationals,24 and de facto states such as Transnistria (150 places for Compatriot undergraduates and fifteen for Compatriot PhD students; see Figure 3.4). Resources assigned to Transnistria – a de facto state in Russia’s geopolitical sphere – might make sense. But the attention on Tajikistan – a state from which Russia seeks to decrease immigration (in contrast to Crimea) – remains puzzling, given the ethnic tensions existing in Russia toward Tajiks as titular nationals or Compatriots. Beyond the Compatriot policy, activity and investment by subnational authorities, such as the city of Moscow, is also interesting. For example, certain Russian universities have opened branches across the Commonwealth of Independent States (cis ), with several based in Crimea, including Moscow State University (mgu ) in Sevastopol, which is affiliated with the Black Sea Fleet.25 The Sevastopol mgu branch, an

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initiative of Moscow’s infamous former mayor, Iurii Luzhkov, opened in 2008. Luzhkov’s initiatives reflected his broader frustration at the lack of willingness on the part of Russia’s federal authorities to support and invest in Crimea, and he consistently lobbied for more federal resources to be allocated toward Compatriot activities there (Voronov and Popovich 2008). However, this did not make Luzhkov popular in Ukraine, and he was declared persona non grata by Yushchenko (until Yanukoych took office) for his contention that Sevastopol had never been part of Ukraine.26 The Compatriot Policy: Soft Power and Geopolitics

Overall, in the wake of its annexation of Crimea, how do we interpret Russia’s Compatriot policy? Differentiating between Russia’s coercive and more banal activities is a difficult challenge. This challenge is heightened, at least for Western observers, by the seductive Cold War, or neo-Cold War, lens which pits the West and Russia in a perpetual – if not primordial – geopolitical struggle, which has only deepened with Russia’s aggression in 2008 and since 2014. Before annexation, many scholars and observers viewed the Compatriot policy as a strategy to expand Russia’s influence via soft but coercive forms of power, especially in the post-Soviet space (Nozhenko 2006; Kivirähk et al. 2010, 321). Grigas (2012, 2) argues that Russia has been deepening its hold on Compatriots, culturally and financially, to develop “Kremlin-friendly networks of influence.” Grigas (9) emphasizes how Russia has increased its funding for local parties, such as the Centre Party in Estonia, and others across the post-Soviet world, to ensure the loyalty of these actors and networks to the Kremlin by opening up access to valuable “connections and contracts” (see also Conley and Gerber 2011). Grigas’s (2016) more recent work, published following Russia’s annexation of Crimea, goes further to consider the Compatriot policy not only as something coercive but as an interventionist, imperial strategy to expand Russia’s influence abroad. Similarly, Conley and Gerber (2011, 12) emphasize the policy’s “soft propaganda” dimension and describe its aims as promoting Russia’s interpretation of history and politics among Compatriots and intervening in Compatriots’ sense of loyalty by launching a “fierce competition for people’s hearts and minds” (Kudors 2010, 4; Byford 2012). In contrast, Zevelev (2008) argues that, for all the “tough rhetoric” pursued by Russia toward Compatriots, the Compatriot policy has been “modest” in terms of what Russia has offered them. Rutland (2010)

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agrees that Russia was relatively passive vis-à-vis Compatriots and was more concerned about pursuing its military and economic interests than supporting or protecting Compatriots abroad. In other words, we need to be cautious – to disentangle rhetoric from action – when it comes to analyzing the Compatriot policy. However, Russia used annexation as a context within which to securitize Compatriots, mobilizing the potential threat to which Compatriots might be exposed in Crimea as a pretext for annexation, much as it had used the need to protect citizens in Abkhazia and South Ossetia as a pretext for conflict with Georgia in 2008. But many questions are left open by these perspectives, not least what the Compatriot policy meant in the hearts and minds of Compatriots, including those in Crimea, and who even conceived of Compatriots as such in the first place. Of particular importance is explicating how, and if, meanings of identification – such as identification as Russian or with Russia – intersect with understandings of, and engagement with Compatriot practices (see Chapter 5). And, returning to the question of Russian citizenship, it is also crucial to understand how meanings of identification intersect with citizenship practices. Further, as I discuss later in this book, the puzzling absence of identification with Russia in Crimea before 2014, and the general undesirability of Russian citizenship, should make us question whether, and if so to what degree, Crimea may have been a case of en masse passportization before annexation.

mo ld ova and th e ro m a n i a n se l f Although Crimea is a pearl of the Russian national imaginary, and a symbol both of greatness and tragedy, Moldova holds no such mythic status for Romania. Before 1944, Moldova was Bessarabia: a “contested periphery” and an “object of symbolic competition” between the Russian empire and Romanian nation-state (Cus¸co 2017, 1–5). In 1812, the Russian Empire annexed half of the Principality of Moldova, which had existed since the fourteenth century, to create Bessarabia.27 Bessarabia was subsequently annexed by Greater Romania in 1918 and re-annexed by the Soviet Union in 1941 (and again in 1944), when it was transformed into the Moldovan ssr (mssr ).28 The creation of the mssr combined Bessarabia with territory from an already-existing Soviet Moldovan project, the Moldovan Autonomous ssr (massr ), previously located within the Ukrainian ssr . Under the auspices of the massr , the creation of a Moldovan language – as different to and separate from Romanian – was already underway.

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This section maps the territorial, cultural, and imperial forms of competition between Russia and Romania over Moldova. This competition is not merely historical; it did not end in 1918, 1944, or 1991, but continues to the present day in meaningful ways, not least in terms of how this competition is portrayed as legitimately asymmetrical. And although there has been a great deal of concern regarding Russia’s activities in Moldova and Transnistria, there is little analysis that considers Romania through a similar lens, as a geopolitical actor or even a kin-state, or that criticizes Romania’s activities and aspirations vis-à-vis Moldova (Cus¸co 2017). Moldova: From Soviet Republic to Independent State

Within the Soviet Union, Moldova was unique as the only Soviet republic where co-ethnic claims extended between majorities and beyond Soviet borders (toward Romania) (Eyal and Smith 1996).29 The Soviet Union actively resisted these co-ethnic claims and the ties between Romania and the mssr . This resistance focused on differentiating and distancing the mssr from Romania as far as possible – ethnically, historically, and linguistically – by underlining the separate and unique nature of the Moldovan nation and language. The Soviet Union sought to separate the Moldovan language not only from Romanian but from its Latin origins, as though it were not only different from Romanian but not a Romance language at all. Instead, Soviet elites stressed the commonalities between the Moldovan language and Slavic languages, and between Moldovan and Slavic cultural practices – for example, by writing Moldovan in Cyrillic script. As Wim van Meurs (1998, 39) suggests, this Soviet project sought to “carve” a Moldovan identity “out of history” as an extreme example of the Soviet nationalities policy.30 The extreme measures provided by this policy included prison or exile to Siberia for those who actively demonstrated Romanian identity – for instance, by laying a wreath at the memorial of the Romanian poet Mihai Eminescu (Cas¸u 2012, 287).31 The Soviet approach to Moldova also profoundly affected Romania’s relationship with the Soviet Union. While Romania felt the Soviet Union had wrongly annexed Bessarabia (and northern Bukovina, which became part of the Ukrainian ssr ), Romania was cautious in actively voicing these convictions and its claims to Bessarabia. An exception was the release of Karl Marx’s papers, endorsed by the Romanian Communist Party, which condemned Russia’s 1812 annexation of Bessarabia. However, as Deletant (2007) argues, this was in response to the Valev plan, which, under Khrushchev, proposed creating an economic region

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within the Soviet Union that encompassed the mssr and half of Romania and Bulgaria (the plan being to annex these parts of Romania and Bulgaria and incorporate them within the ussr ). The plan panicked Romania and encouraged them to test the boundaries by seeking greater autonomy from the Soviet Union, expelling kgb officers in 1964 and changing certain street names in Bucharest from Russian to Romanian names.32 While the Soviet Union constrained the relationship between Romania and the mssr , perestroika signalled a new era for questions of identity in Moldova and relations between Romania and the mssr . Across the Soviet Union, perestroika paved the way for national movements to mobilize and, eventually, to bring about the disintegration of the Soviet Union (Beissinger 2002). Compared to other Soviet republics, however, the kind of nationalism that flourished in the mssr was not titular (i.e., Moldovan) but pan-Romanian. This pan-Romanian nationalism sought stronger cultural links, if not political ones, across Soviet borders and a reversal of the Soviet nationalities policy. The composition of the mssr ’s elite also shifted during perestroika. For the first time, key positions could be, and were, filled by Romanians/Moldovans from the former territory of Bessarabia, as opposed to elites from Transnistria or ethnic Russians and Ukrainians.33 Perestroika marked a turning point in identity politics, or at least the expression of identity, in the mssr . No longer did individuals risk everything by identifying as Romanian. Instead, pan-Romanian movements flourished, such as the Popular Front (pf ), which began as a cultural movement within the mssr ’s Writer’s Union. pf could now function as a movement promoting pan-Romanian nationalism and, in turn, challenge Soviet rule from within the mssr . By the 1980s, pf was mobilizing up to 10 per cent of the mssr ’s population at its rallies. Initially, the party’s prime goal was linguistic: to introduce a language law that would recognize the language spoken in the mssr as Romanian (not Moldovan) and for it to be written in Latin script. The language law was passed well before Moldova’s independence, on 31 August 1989. Similar language laws were passed in other Soviet republics, notably the Baltic Soviet republics, which were also agitating for cultural and political independence. As Ciscel (2006, 576) remarks, the mssr ’s language law was the “first symbolic move toward independence from Moscow,” which occurred two years later. While perestroika enabled pf to challenge Soviet authority, politically its options were more limited. pf members could not stand in elections as rivals against Communist Party candidates, but independent

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candidates could stand in the 1990 parliamentary elections in most of the mssr ’s raions (administrative subdivisions). In the 1990 elections, 27 per cent of deputies elected were openly affiliated to pf and gained further support from moderate deputies within the Communist Party. However, pf ’s ascendancy and the shift to the Romanian language caused tensions within the mssr , in particular in Gagauzia and Transnistria, which did not speak Romanian. Both had been sites of violent secessionist movements in the early 1990s, with some degree of Russian support, especially in Transnistria, which seceded de facto from Moldova.34 On 27 August 1991, three days after Ukraine, the mssr ’s parliament declared independence from the Soviet Union and became the Republic of Moldova (hereafter Moldova). Like many post-Soviet states, Moldova was born into a system that positioned it “in between” Europe and a Russia-led Eurasia (Roper 2005, 502). What made Moldova different was that, politically, it was the only post-Soviet state to have developed “in between” two states – Russia and Romania – redolent of Bessarabia’s struggles in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries (Prina 2014, 3; see also King 2003). On the one hand, Romania was quick to establish relations and was the first to recognize Moldova’s independence (Serebrian 2004). On the other, Romania returned to exerting irredentist claims toward Moldova. For Romania, post-Soviet Moldova represented its “Kosovo complex,” as the territory Romania had lost to the Soviet Union, as well as a source of guilt, for not having prevented its annexation by Russia – not unlike Russia’s own attitude toward Crimea (King 1994, 363). But if Moldova is significant for Romania, it is as a destitute backwater rather than a revered, flourishing cultural powerhouse. For example, the Moldovan journalist Alina Turcanu (2013) notes how little exposure Romanians have to Moldova and news about Moldova, except for news about scandals, “easy women,” illegal acquisition of citizenship, or “noisy protests of ‘Romanianism’ and ‘Unionism’ [with Romania].” Dichotomies of Identity after 1991: Moldovanism and Pan-Romanianism

Since Moldova’s independence, questions of identity have remained contested. Two intellectual discourses – Moldovanism and pan-Romanianism – have constructed a mutually exclusive idea of Moldova that is either wholly, or not at all, Romanian. These discourses also structure how Moldova’s historiography has been interpreted and articulated in mutually exclusive

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ways (Suveica 2017).35 For example, each discourse presents itself not as an interpretation of historical events, but as a search for a singular “historical truth” to resolve the territorial, ethnic, and institutional relationships between Moldova and Romania (Zabarah 2014, 6–7). Moldovanist discourses frame Moldova as a nation deserving of its own state and having a language, ethnicity, culture, and history that are entirely separate from Romania (Protsyk and Osoian 2010, 15). Moldovanism was the official Soviet position on the Moldovan nation, with Soviet intellectuals emphasizing the Slavic influences on Moldovan language and culture by requiring that Moldovan be written in Cyrillic script, while downplaying the Latin influences (Lazarev 1974). Moldovanism remains the favoured interpretation of so-called leftist neo-Soviet movements in Moldova, including the state’s Communist Party (pcrm ), which governed Moldova between 2001 and 2009, and, more recently, its Socialist Party (psrm ) which has become the largest parliamentary party (2014–21).36 pcrm conceives of Moldovan and Romanian identities as “competitive” (March 2007, 602), to legitimate the existence of the Moldovan state and accuse Romania of threatening Moldova’s sovereignty and independence (Danero Iglesias 2013). Moldovanism also contains an intellectual wing of affiliated historians, such as Vasile Stati, who published a Moldovan-Romanian dictionary in 2003 (Stati 2003), as if these are distinct languages rather than mutually intelligible dialects.37 By contrast, pan-Romanianism regards most inhabitants in Moldova as necessarily Romanian. According to the pan-Romanian discourse, to be Moldovan is to be Romanian. Pan-Romanianism exists at the highest levels in Romania. Indeed, it is official Romanian policy to consider the majority of Moldova’s population to be ethnically Romanian, without regard for how Moldovans themselves identify. Pan-Romanianism also relates to interpretations of history. For example, pan-Romanianists argue that the notions of a separate Moldovan nation and a language distinct from Romanian are “artificial” (Deletant 1978, 189). Instead, they consider Moldova to be an ancient Romanian region integral to the Romanian nation (Beks and Graur 2006), and regard Moldovanism as a neo-Soviet and pro-Russian ideology (Ihrig 2008). Pan-Romanianism, banned for most of the Soviet period, gained more acceptance and support within Moldova in the late 1980s and early 1990s. Indeed, with Moldova gaining independence in 1991, many observers expressed doubts regarding Moldova’s “future as a sovereign state” in the early 1990s, and predicted, instead, that Moldova would

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be likely to join Romania (Eyal and Smith 1996, 242; Löwenhardt, Hill, and Light 2001). However, similar to Russian irredentism in Crimea, the movement for unification with Romania – as well as pan-Romanian sentiments – failed to gain mass support within Moldova and, by 1994, had dwindled. Politically, Moldova moved to more moderate ground during the latter half of Mircea Snegur’s presidency (1990–97). Snegur’s presidency centred on a form of Moldovan nationalism which, distinct from Moldovanism, upheld Moldova’s right to sovereignty and independence. While previously the pf and Snegur had been somewhat allied, Snegur’s approach to questions of nationalism led to a split between his presidency and pf , who themselves faced dwindling parliamentary and public support. Thus, pan-Romanian and pro-unification forces shifted to the political margins, as pro-Russian separatists would later do in Crimea. Following the 1994 parliamentary elections, in which Snegur’s party (the Democratic Agrarian Party) gained the most seats, the government sponsored a quasi-referendum, called “La Sfat cu Poporul” (consultation with the people), on the question of independence. This poll was, according to King (1994, 357), “scientifically and legally suspect” due to the unclear question that made it hard to determine what the respondent might be answering. At the same time, with a reasonable turnout (75 per cent), an overwhelming majority of Moldova’s voters (95 per cent) supported upholding independence, quashing claims that Moldovans would support unification with Romania.38 After 1994, pan-Romanianism became a marginal discourse within Moldova. Moldovan voters turned away from supporting pan-Romanian parties (such as pf in the early 1990s) and have not returned to them. Today, pan-Romanian parties, such as Moldova’s Liberal Party (pl ), never receive more than 15 per cent of the vote (July 2009). But pan-Romanianism does remain, with greater support for unification in Romania than in Moldova. For example, in 2018, to mark the one-hundred-year anniversary of the unification of Bessarabia with its “Mother Country, Romania” (T¸ara Mama˘, România), the Romanian parliament and senate declared that the door for unification remained open.39 Opinion polls in Romania also indicate that a majority in that state supports unification, compared to a minority in Moldova.40 Even with declining support for pan-Romanianism in Moldova, identity has remained the salient cleavage in Moldovan party politics (Danero Iglesias 2015). The content of identity and the interpretation of history also remain highly politicized. For example, how to title Moldova’s

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Table 3.2 | Unpacking the “occupation versus liberation cliché” Historical period

Moldovanism

Pan-Romanianism

Tsarist Empire

Liberator

Occupier

Greater Romania

Occupier

Liberator

Soviet Union

Liberator

Occupier

Independent Moldova

Opportunity for Moldovanist nation-state

Opportunity for panRomanian Moldovan nation-state or unification with Romania

nb : Developed from Suveica (2017, 396).

history textbooks (History of Moldova versus History of Romania) and the name of “our language” (Romanian versus Moldovan) continue to be polarized debates (Suveica 2017). One reason for the continued and intense debates over identity and history is what Suveica (396) terms the “‘occupation vs liberation’ cliché” (see Table 3.2). This cliché explains how the same events, such as the Soviet annexations of Bessarabia in 1941 and 1944, are conceived of through a dichotomous lens – for some, one of occupation (pan-Romanianism) and for others, one of liberation (Moldovanism). Thus, pan-Romanianists conceive of the Soviet and tsarist regimes as occupiers of Moldova, who forcibly and brutally Russified and Sovietized Moldova by separating it – culturally, linguistically, historically, politically, territorially, and artificially – from Romania. Instead, panRomanianists promote nostalgia for an interwar Romanian golden age, when Bessarabia was part of the state of Greater Romania (1918–40), even though Greater Romania was an authoritarian, fascist state. This view, however, ignores the contemporaneous conception of Bessarabia as a “sleepy backwater” within Greater Romania, wherein Romanian national consciousness was perceived as weak and Bessarabians were viewed with suspicion, as a population who needed to be Romanianized (Schrad 2004, 470). As Petrescu (2001, 157) argues, residents of interwar Bessarabia felt more as though they were “occupied by their alleged

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brothers [Romania] than united with them.” In other words, the celebration of Greater Romania by pan-Romanianists simply overlooks the reality of life in Bessarabia during this period. Moldovanists, consistent with Soviet ideology, frame Greater Romania as a foreign occupier. Instead, Moldovanists celebrate the tsarist and Soviet periods in Moldova’s history, during which Moldova was perceived as being free from Romania, politically and culturally (Lazarev 1974; Ihrig 2008). The Moldovanist celebration of tsarism overlooks the extent to which Bessarabia was an underdeveloped periphery of the Russian Empire, a “Siberia of the West” where personae non gratae such as Pushkin were exiled in anguish (King 1994, 648; see also Felcher 2019). While this liberator/occupier lens is applied to the past, it also structures the present – in particular, the geography of Moldova’s capital, Chis¸ina˘u. For example, in Chis¸ina˘u in 2010, I witnessed the unveiling of a temporary Monument to the Victims of the Soviet Occupation (which has not yet been replaced with a permanent monument).41 This monument, unveiled on 28 June 2010 to commemorate the Soviet occupation of 28 June 1941, stands on the same street as a Soviet-era monument to commemorate the victims of fascism (both Nazi and Romanian) and those who liberated Moldova from fascism. These monuments stand side by side, in a city and state in which opposite interpretations endure and coexist. Crucially, these narratives of pan-Romanianism and Moldovanism – nested within the liberator/occupier lens – collapse the space for nuance by presenting a view of Moldova as a nation that is mutually exclusive, celebrating either (but not both) Moldova’s Romanian or tsarist/Soviet past. Their proponents simply overlook the parts of Moldova’s history that do not align with their chosen narrative. In turn, understandings of history or articulations of identification that fall within the grey zone between these dichotomies remain obscured. Chapter 6 picks up on this dichotomy and potential grey zone by mapping articulations of identification in Moldova that might negotiate, subvert, or compete with these two oppositional perspectives of Moldovanism and pan-Romanianism which, to date, have delineated our understanding of identification debates in Moldova.

ro mani a n k i n-state pol i c i e s i n m o l d ova In sum, Moldova is framed as a destitute periphery of the Romanian national imaginary and a space to be Romanianized, in contrast to Crimea, which is perceived as a pearl of Russia’s national imaginary.

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Turning to Romania’s policies, however, Moldova remains Romania’s main priority in terms of kin-state and bilateral engagement, compared to other states in which Romania is engaged (e.g., Serbia, Ukraine); and compared to Crimea, which, before 2014, did not appear to be Russia’s kin-state priority. Russia has ties with kin in numerous states, but Moldova is Romania’s main, and largest, kin population. For example, from Romania’s (and the pan-Romanianists’) perspective, Moldova contains the largest community of Romanians abroad. Indeed, as Udrea (2015) argues, Romania “views itself as a kin-state to another state [Moldova].” At the same time, it is worth remembering how Romania is viewed by scholars and observers, both as a “low-profile” kin-state and a state incapable of wielding coercive power geopolitically (Csergo˝ and Goldgeier 2013, 118), despite the potential scope of its policies vis-à-vis Moldova, including en masse citizenship acquisition. Through Romania’s kin-state policies, we can observe how Moldova is Romania’s major priority, and in ways that exceed Russia’s engagement with Crimea. Moldova: A Romanian Foreign Policy Priority

As well as being a kin-state priority, Moldova is one of Romania’s central foreign policy priorities – particularly assisting Moldova with eu integration (dprrp 2013). Diplomatically, Romania’s embassy in Chis¸ina˘u is its second-largest, after its representation to the eu . And bilaterally, Romania transfers more foreign aid to Moldova for infrastructural and development projects than to any other state.42 Just because Moldova is Romania’s priority does not mean the emphasis is reciprocated. Moldova’s relations with Romania were especially sour under Moldova’s Communist government (2001–09) (Chirila 2010a; Milevschi 2012). Relations between Romania and Moldovan then improved after a pro-European government took office in 2009, with regular meetings held between the two states to advance bilateral engagement. This cooperation included a small border-traffic agreement, facilitating visa-free travel for Moldovans living within fifty kilometres of the Romanian border, and a forty-three-kilometre pipeline to supply Moldova with natural gas from Romania and thereby reduce its energy dependency on Russia and Gazprom.43 In other words, what has changed between Romania and Moldova is not so much the stance of Romania but the position of Moldova’s authorities toward Romania (2009–14) or away from it (2001–09, 2014–20). The point is that Romania focuses not only on Moldova’s citizens, as I discuss below, but on the Moldovan state more broadly.

Crimea and Moldova as Kin Majorities

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Moldova: A Romanian Kin-State Priority

Of all the Romanian communities outside of Romania, Moldova receives the bulk of Romania’s kin-state support. This support is far more than Russia had offered to Crimea (before 2014) and far more than Romania offers to other communities. Culturally, Romania interacts with Romanians abroad through its Department for Relations with Romanians Abroad (dprrp ),44 an agency that resembles other kin-state regimes such as Hungary, with the inauguration of its State Secretariat for Hungarian Communities Abroad, and Russia, with Rossotrudnichestvo.45 Within Moldova, dprrp has supported Romanian-language mass media, such as Radio Chis¸ina˘u (2011), cultural projects, and support to the Bessarabian Orthodox Church (by funding salaries and building two churches).46 However, the two most impactful kin-state policies are Romania’s policy of citizenship reacquisition and the educational scholarship program. Eligibility for and the potential to engage with these policies is far greater in Moldova than in other communities that Romania claims as Romanians abroad – in Ukraine or Serbia, for example. romanian citizenship Citizenship is Romania’s flagship kin-state policy (Udrea 2015). After 1991, Romania introduced the right to hold dual citizenship and opened up the possibility of acquiring, or reacquiring (redobândirea ceta˘t¸eniei) Romanian citizenship for descendants of former citizens.47 While Romania went back and forth in terms of liberalizing and curbing rights of restitution (2001–09) – responding to pressure from the eu to curb and pressure within Romania and Moldova to liberalize (Iordachi 2013) – amendments to Romania’s citizenship legislation in 2009 saw the introduction of Article 11. While restitution had been possible before Article 11, the new measure specified a distinct category of eligible individuals who had either lost their Romanian citizenship unwillingly or were descended from former Romanian citizens who had lost it, owing to the Soviet annexation of northern Bukovina and Bessarabia in 1940 (Official Gazette of Romania 2010; Iordachi 2013). Those acquiring citizenship under Article 11 are the largest group (730,169) to apply for and acquire Romanian citizenship (2010–18; see Figure 3.5). Today, the descendants, up to the third generation (i.e., great-grandchildren), of Romanian citizens in the former territories of Greater Romania are able to apply under Article 11. This number is distinct from and far larger than those who naturalize following four years’ residence in Romania (4,509 applicants,

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Terms of eligibility

Table 3.3 | Ways to acquire Romanian citizenship through application Article 8

Article 10

Article 11

Type

Naturalization

Reacquisition

Reacquisition

Residency period

Yes

No

No

Loyalty to Romania and no threat to national security

Yes

Yes

Yes

Over 18 years old

Yes

Yes

Yes

Good conduct

Yes

Yes

Yes

Sufficient economic means

Yes

Yes

No

Proficiency in Romanian language and knowledge of Romanian culture

Yes

No

No

Knowledge of constitution and national anthem

Yes

No

No

Proof of former citizenship (or from descendants)

No

Yes, up to second generation

Yes, up to third generation

nb : Adapted from Barbulescu (2013, 4).

under Article 8, 2010–18) and those who reacquire Romanian citizenship as non-resident descendants, up to the second generation, of former citizens now living outside Romania’s former territories (12,859, under Article 10, 2010–18) – for example, Jewish citizens who lost citizenship during the interwar period, and their children and grandchildren (see Table 3.3 and Figure 3.5).48

Article 8

Article 10

4,509

Applicant requests for citizenship

Article 11

12,859

730,169

Applications processed by ANC

Applications approved by ANC

Applications refused by ANC

Citizenship certificates granted

0

00 ,000 ,000 ,000 ,000 2 3 5 4

1,0

0

00

5,0

0

,00

10

0 00 00 00 00 0,0 00,0 00,0 00,0 20 4 6 8

0

,00

15

Total number (2010–18)

Figure 3.5 | Citizenship applications requested, processed, accepted, and refused. Source: Correspondence from National Citizenship Authority to author (2019).

Article 8

Article 10 Israeli Other American

Russian

German

Israeli

Serbian

00

00

,0 16

0

0

1,

00

0

80

0

60

40

0

0

20

0

0

0 20

15

10

50

0

Other

Brazilian

Moldovan

,0

Lebanese

12

Iranian

0

Iraqi

0

Ukrainian

8, 00

Syrian

0

Turkish

15,879

Moldovan

4, 00

Other

Article 11

Number of requests (2014)

Figure 3.6 | Acquisition and reacquisition of Romanian citizenship by article and most prevalent state of origin (2014). Source: National Citizenship Authority (2014). Data with breakdown by state is not available after 2014.

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While offering the same rights as naturalization, reacquisition of citizenship under Article 11 (per Table 3.3) is a different route to becoming a Romanian citizen because it concerns restoring, rather than gaining, rights which had been lost – a distinction of importance to Romania. Reacquisition also requires different criteria be met, as compared to naturalization. For example, reacquiring Romanian citizenship requires neither residency in Romania, proof of Romanian ethnicity, nor proficiency in the Romanian language; also, reacquiring under Article 11 does not demand a demonstration of economic means, as Article 10 does. Reacquisition requires proof of descendancy from citizens of the interwar Greater Romania, which is why Romania claims that reacquisition of citizenship is a territorial, rather than an ethnic, right. However, we should not take Romania’s claim that citizenship reacquisition is a territorial right at face value. If Romania’s motivation is to recreate the citizenry of Greater Romania, which was a nationalist and fascist state, then the result – an ethnicized kin-state policy – is the same (Dumbrava 2013, 2438). And there is reasonable evidence, in the citizenship acquisition numbers alone, that Romania is efficiently recreating that Greater Romanian citizenry. This study focuses on reacquisition under Article 11 because this is where we see Romania as a kin-state actor, engaged with kin residing in Romania’s former territories of Bessarabia (Moldova) and northern Bukovina (Ukraine). There is also evidence that the majority – by orders of magnitude – of those requesting, being processed, and approved to become Romanian citizens do so through Article 11 (see Figure 3.6), and that the vast majority of those who became Romanian citizens in 2014 (15,879) were Moldovans likewise applying under Article 11 (Figure 3.6).49 By contrast, the number requesting citizenship from Ukraine under Article 11 was under four thousand; from Israel via Article 10, under one thousand; and from Turkey under Article 8, under one hundred. What is fascinating about Romania’s policy of citizenship reacquisition is the uncertainty surrounding how many in Moldova have become Romanian citizens. Romania gives its citizenship data to Eurostat only sporadically; when it does, it is unclear whether Romania only includes naturalization data (Article 8) or all data on citizenship (re)acquisition (Articles 10 and 11). This ambiguity over numbers has permitted some analysts within Romania to argue that there is an unwarranted “hysteria” over Romania’s policy, especially when other states – such as France and Germany – grant national, and thus eu , citizenship to non-eu citizens at far higher rates than Romania does (Ghinea 2010; Ghinea, Dinu, and Ivan 2010). And, as the Moldovan analyst Leonid Litra (2010, 1–2)

Crimea and Moldova as Kin Majorities

63

argues, this does not mean Romania is a “special case” regarding the expansion of eu citizenship, as many “other states” – such as those granting citizenship to immigrants or selling citizenship, as in the case of Malta – “are sinning with similar practices.” However, it is worth looking more closely at the prevalence of Romanian citizenship in Moldova as a case of en masse acquisition visà-vis a kin majority. For example, in 2018, news reports in Romania and Moldova estimated that one million persons had, in the last decade, become Romanian citizens within Moldova (Stiriletv 2018). If this estimate is to be believed, it would indicate that around a third of all Moldovans, within a short period, became Romanian citizens. In this study, I use data from Romania’s National Authority for Citizenship (anc ), which recently has become more transparent with regard to its citizenship data.50 The anc data, spanning the years 2010–18, suggest that a high number have applied (anywhere between twenty thousand and more than one hundred thousand annually) and had their applications approved (between forty thousand and more than eighty thousand annually) for Romanian citizenship under Article 11, with very few refused (Figure 3.7). Moreover, the numbers of requests and approvals under Article 11 are considerably higher than those under Article 8 (naturalization) and Article 10 (reacquisition outside of former territories), with numbers under five hundred annually for Article 8 approvals and under two thousand annually for Article 10 approvals. Moldova is, therefore, a potential case of en masse citizenship acquisition (or reacquisition) within a kin majority, from which we may learn a great deal about en masse acquisition of kin-state citizenship – especially relevant if this were to occur elsewhere. But we need to know more about how Romanian citizenship is being acquired and used in Moldova, and how citizenship practices intersect with identification (see Chapter 7). romania’s scholarship policies Romania’s second expansive policy for Moldova is its investment in educational scholarships for “Romanians abroad,” at the university, pre-university, and advanced/graduate levels.51 Unlike Russia’s scholarships for Crimean residents, Romania reserves the bulk of these scholarship places for Moldovans, compared to students from elsewhere such as Serbia and Ukraine (Figure 3.8). For example, based on data for 2012–14, Moldovan students received approximately 1,500 places, with and without bursaries, some three times what students from other states (i.e., Serbia and Ukraine) received.

(a) Citizenship requests registered (2010–18)

Article 11

40 60 80 100 120 , , , , , 00 000 000 000 000 000

00 3, 0

18

16

20

20

14

12

20

20

20

10

18

16

20

14

20

12

20

20

10

0

20

,0

50 20

18

16

20

20

14

12

20

20

20

10

0

0

20

0

1,

40

00

0

0

1,

60

50

0

0

2,

80

00

0

0

1,

2,

00

50

0

0

1,

20

0

Article 10

0

Article 8

Year Registered requests (b) Applications processed by outcome (2010–18) 0 0, 10

00

,0 80 00

0

00 ,0

Year Applications approved

Applications refused

Figure 3.7 | Citizenship requests made and processed by article over time. Source: Personal correspondence from National Citizenship Authority to author (2019).

18

20

16

20

14

12

20

20

20

10

0 18

16

20

14

20

20

12

20

10 20

18

20

16

20

14

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12

20

20

10

0

0

20

20

40

0

0

40

,0

80

00

0

60

1,

,0

20

0 60 0 40

Article 11

00

00 2, 1,

80

60

0

0

1,

00

0

Article 10

0

Article 8

Crimea and Moldova as Kin Majorities Without bursaries

0 00 2,

0

2014

00

0

2013

2,

0 50 1,

0 00 1,

50

0

2014

2011 2012

50

2013

2014

1,

Advanced

2011 2012

2013

0

2014

2011 2012

00

2013

2014

1,

2011 2012

2013

0

Preuniversity

2014

50

2013

2011 2012

0

University

2011 2012

0

Advanced

Preuniversity

University

With bursaries

65

Number of places Moldova

Other countries

Figure 3.8 | Romanian kin-state scholarships. Source: Ministry of Education, Romania (2011); Ministry of Education, Romania (2012); Ministry of Education, Romania (2013).

Since the early post-Communist period, Romania has been a popular, more affordable, and more accessible place for Moldovan students to be educated than further afield in Europe. With the scholarship program first formalized in 2002, today Romania educates about fourteen thousand students from Moldova (with scholarships and without), or about 18 per cent of Moldova’s undergraduate population.52 Romania has boasted of its generosity to Moldovan students, but the program is not necessarily as generous as it claims. While offering a more affordable education for Moldovans than other eu states, Romania does not subsidize Moldovans’ studies completely, as the scholarships alone, whether partial or full, do not provide enough for a student to survive in Romania (Ghinea, Dinu, and Ivan 2010).53 Moreover, while Romania claims that it offers five to six thousand free places for Moldovan students each year, this is an exaggeration, intended to promote a positive image of Romania in Moldova. Much of the increase in the number of these places – up from just

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Kin Majorities

one thousand places several years ago – has come from creating links between Romanian and Moldovan universities, and then sponsoring places at these same Moldovan universities rather than creating places within Romanian universities.54 Moreover, Romania’s education program is not without costs to Moldova. It is likely that Romania also contributes to Moldova’s brain drain by providing a means of exit for Moldovan students, many of whom are unlikely to return to Moldova following their studies (Silaghi 2012). Romania as a Kin-State: Passive, Beneficent, or Coercive?

Inflated scholarship numbers and ambiguous citizenship numbers do not undercut the broader point that Romania’s kin-state policies pivot on its investment in, and focus on, Moldova and its citizens. Romania’s focus on Moldova is of a different order of magnitude compared to Romania’s kin-state policies toward other communities, such as ethnic Romanians in Serbia or Ukraine, or to Russia’s kin-state policies toward ethnic Russians abroad, especially in Crimea. However, Romania’s activities as a kin-state are rarely scrutinized, let alone critiqued, as compared to those of Hungary, Serbia, Croatia, or Russia. Even Romania’s citizenship policy, as a potential form of en masse acquisition in Moldova, is rarely dissected. Few would ever consider Romania through a lens under which it might be seen as nefarious or coercive. Instead, Romania is seen, at most, as a regionally significant player within the Black Sea region. Nonetheless, this provides a puzzle, because Romania cannot be both a “low-profile” kin-state and one that has, “in effect ‘annexed’ a large segment of Moldova’s population” – not territorially but extra-territorially, via citizenship (Csergo˝ and Goldgeier 2013, 118). By contrast, as a kin-state actor, Russia is necessarily framed through a lens of malfeasance, as a nefarious geopolitical actor and a coercive kinstate. Take Moldova, for example: Russia is often framed as exercising a stranglehold over Moldova in terms of energy politics, Transnistria, and migrant labour in Moscow (Orenstein and Mizsei 2014). The point is not to understate Russia’s role in Transnistria, or in Moldova more generally, but to interrogate why Romania escapes our gaze as a relevant actor within Moldova, let alone as a possibly coercive kin-state. As Cusco (2017) argues, this framing of Romania and Russia goes back at least to the nineteenth century, when Russia came to be viewed as nefarious, and Romania as unthreatening and beneficent, regarding Bessarabia/Moldova. In other words, these discourses which critique

Crimea and Moldova as Kin Majorities

67

Russia and ignore Romania are historical narratives that have not been adapted to new political or geopolitical contexts. Instead, many justify Romania’s engagement with Moldova and Romanians abroad, especially from within Romania and Moldova. Scholars and observers alike argue, for example, that Romania has a “historical obligation” to help Moldova, whose citizens were wronged by Soviet annexation (Ghinea, Dinu, and Ivan 2010; Panainte, Nedelciuc, and Voicu 2013). There is nothing improper, per se, about this discourse, which legitimizes Romania’s present behaviour via the past; after all, Moldova was a site of major trauma and violence, caused by the Soviet regime and its abandonment by Romania. But this discourse also often forecloses criticism of Romania’s kin-state policies under the too-easy assumption that Romania’s citizenship policy is simply a “process of restoration” of the citizen population it once enjoyed as Greater Romania (Iordachi 2013, 11). Few take the implications of this restoration seriously to consider the policy within the framework of nationalism, let alone geopolitics.55 After all, if another state, such as Russia, pursued a policy on a scale such as Romania’s, it might well be viewed as nationalist, irredentist, imperialist, or all three – or, at a minimum, a policy of passportization.

c o nclus i o n Overall, Crimea and Moldova share many similarities, which ease comparison of these two kin majorities. Both were exposed to territorial flux at the hands of competing imperial and nation-state projects, which continued from the early post-Soviet period to the present. Both were exposed to the brutalities of the Soviet system of governance, including the Soviet nationalities policy, which regulated acceptable forms of nationalism and, in its extremes, punished dissenters with exile. However, Crimea and Moldova are also different in several respects, which are critical to understanding the context of each as a kin majority. While Crimea is a pearl of Russia’s national imaginary, in terms of policies, Crimea did not appear as a Russia’s kin-state priority (at least before 2014). By contrast, while Moldova is peripheral to Romania’s national imaginary, it is nonetheless the focus of Romania’s kin-state policies and bilateral assistance. Finally, while Russia is conceived of as a coercive kin-state and geopolitical actor, Romania is perceived as unthreatening, even in the context of possible en masse citizenship acquisition and the potential for this to become an extra-territorial form of annexation. The point is not to downplay Russia’s coerciveness, or

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Kin Majorities

its ability to be coercive; but Romania is never framed as Russia is, in terms of its potential as a kin-state, let alone one willing to wield coercive power. Meanwhile, Romania’s policies have a huge impact because of the large cohort within Moldova eligible for Romanian citizenship (as becomes evident in Chapter 7). In sum, this context, and the puzzling differences between the cases of Moldova and Crimea, provides an essential backdrop for the following four empirical chapters as well as for situating how we should understand the meanings of identification and practices pertaining to citizenship.

4 To Be Discriminated Against, or Not, in Crimea “All of us, Russians, Ukrainians, Tatars, Jews, are Russians.” Anatol Los (cited in Drohobycky 1995, 42)

Ethnic Russians are a majority in Crimea, unlike other Ukrainian regions like Donetsk and Luhansk. But they are also often presented – by Maigre (2008), for example – as a singular actor or ethnic monolith, that automatically equates being ethnically Russian with being pro-Russia(n). In contrast, this chapter maps how Russian identification in Crimea was more fractured and plural than anticipated prior to annexation. For some, Russian identification was politicized – a marker of discrimination if not a political project. But many others in Crimea also ridiculed the notion that to be Russian was to be discriminated against. Others rejected ethnic forms of identification entirely, prioritizing Ukraine’s civic and political structures or identifying between Ukraine and Russia. All of this points to the fracturing of meanings of identification in Crimea in the period before annexation. However, identification was fractured not only in terms of meanings but also intergenerationally. Specifically, meanings were in flux across generations, namely the Soviet and post-Soviet generations, concerning political changes and socialization experiences of the Soviet and post-Soviet regimes. Recognizing these fractures may help us understand the saliency of ethnic debates before Crimea’s reality changed entirely with the 2014 Russian annexation. For example, focusing on meanings helps to disentangle what is typically elided: identifying as Russian, co-ethnically, and identifying with Russia, as a kin-state. Empirically and politically, it is problematic to assume that identifying as Russian in Crimea is the same as identifying with Russia. The first can be a local form of identification, while the second has political consequences for one’s affiliation to a

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Kin Majorities

kin-state and, potentially, to one’s home-state. In this chapter, identifying with Russia aligns more precisely with the sentiment and political project of discrimination, while aligning as Russian does not. However, Crimea is rarely understood through a lens of fracturing, contestation, and hybridity of meanings. Since annexation, scholars have used the existence of a Russian majority, if not a pro-Russian majority, to explain how Russia’s annexation could occur and be accepted (Yekelchyk 2015, 21; see also Hughes and Sasse 2016). While scholars note the fluidity of cultural identity in Crimea, this dynamism and multiplicity remain underexplored and undertheorized; the data analyzed in this chapter provide a unique window for examining such fluidity and multiplicity, in the era of calm on the eve of annexation. While scholars recognize the diversity of forms of identification in Ukraine, of which Crimea is a particular example, they rarely seek to capture this diversity in the data used to analyze identification. Pirie (1996, 1080) argued that scholars had assumed that identification “may be neatly compartmentalized” and that “one is either a Russian or a Ukrainian.” However, Pirie’s analysis did not provoke much of an empirical and theoretical reconfiguration of how we understand identification in Ukraine. Instead, identification is operationalized via mutually exclusive, specifically ethnic categories that over-essentialize ethnic identification, smooth away in-group contestations, and amplify outgroup differences. For example, Malyarenko and Galbreath (2013, 917) argue that in Crimea, Russians and Ukrainians identify as Crimean and “consistently behave as one actor” (see also Razumkov Centre 2009). But it is more common to fall back on mutually exclusive categories, such as homeland, to measure sources of identification.1 Thus, researchers remain stuck in a mutually exclusive mindset, using surveys in which innovation is modest and meanings are explored less systematically and in less depth than they would be if examined via interviews.2 This chapter seeks to address this mismatch by delving more deeply and systematically into the meanings of identification, and opening up the black box of uncertain, hybrid, and plural meanings of Russian identification in Crimea. Even anecdotally, drawing on existing accounts from Crimea and Russia, we see how plurality, hybridity, contestation, and generational flux shape the meanings of identification. For example, the Crimean scholar Constantine Pleshakov (2017, 7) describes how, in Crimea, “ethnicity is an empty word” and a depressing concept because his, like many Crimean families, “was a family of mutts.”

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71

Similarly, during their terrorism trial in April 2014, both Oleg Sentsov, the Crimean filmmaker, and Aleksandr Kolchenko were asked their nationality and whether they needed a translator.3 Sentsov replied, “I am a Ukrainian citizen, Russian by ethnicity [po natsional’nosti], and from Crimea.” Kolchenko replied that he was “Russian, Ukrainian, I don’t know” (The Trial 2017). Born in 1976 and 1989, respectively, their statements demonstrate the perspective of a post-Soviet generation – of differing and contested configurations of hybridized identities, that are often obscured. This chapter brings to the fore such experiences of identity hybridity and contestation in Crimea. Finally, from Russia’s perspective, Crimea was a region in which ethnic Russians and Russian speakers were discriminated against. As President Vladimir Putin argued in the wake of the annexation, Ukraine had “subject[ed]” Russians to “forced assimilation” (President of Russia 2014a). According to Allison (2014, 1255), this discrimination discourse created a narrative of a “‘deniable’ intervention” to legitimize Russia’s actions in Crimea. This chapter addresses the voices of a minority who experienced and articulated discrimination as ethnic Russians and Russian speakers. Drawing on data from fifty-two interviews, conducted in Simferopol in 2012 and 2013, I inductively develop identification categories by focusing on how participants articulated themselves in terms of meanings. In particular, I explore the similarities and differences between these articulations by examining common “I–we–they” narratives and the themes that underpin them (see Bucher and Jasper 2016, 399).4 I also observe how such narratives shift across participants depending on how they positioned and legitimized themselves vis-à-vis Russia, Ukraine, and Crimea. I focus primarily on interview data as the source of these meanings, to probe more deeply than survey data generally permits by concentrating on everyday meanings, and bringing a bottom-up approach to understanding identity in Crimea (a subject treated, more often than not, as state-centric). To show the broader resonance of these meanings, I also draw on secondary evidence from media and policy, where available. The data discussed here provide a snapshot of participants’ individual lives and forms of identification. This snapshot is likely to be in flux over time, in relation to changing contexts and to my position as a researcher (see Appendix). For example, participants’ articulations of themselves may be reproduced in different ways depending on whether the researcher is an outsider (as I was), a native Russian or Ukrainian speaker, or someone who identifies as ethnically Russian, ethnically Ukrainian, or from Crimea.5 Recognizing this potential for deviation is not a weakness in

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Kin Majorities

Table 4.1 | Inductive categories of identification in Crimea Inductive category

Number of participants

Rationale of identification

Relational implication

Politicized Russians

10

Ukraine and Ukrainization as competitive threats; identify as ethnically Russian and with Russia

Competing with Ukrainian state and Ukrainian identity

Ethnic Russians

16

As ethnically Russian and as Ukrainian citizens (but do not identify with Russia)

Russian and Ukrainian identity as cross-cutting

Political Ukrainians

15

Only as citizens of Ukraine; deethnicized and disconnected from Russianness (even of parents)

Separated from Russian identity

Crimeans

5

Regionally between Russia and Ukraine, signalling hybridity across Russian and Ukrainian ethnic, cultural, and territorial forms of identification

Russian and Ukrainian identity as cross-cutting

Ethnic Ukrainians

6

As Ukrainian, culturally, linguistically, and ethnically, not from Crimea

Competing with Russian state and Russian identity

nb : Adapted from Barbulescu (2013, 4).

To Be Discriminated Against, or Not, in Crimea

73

the method but an essential aspect of positionality and co-generation of knowledge (see Fujii 2017). To overcome this problem of flux, inductive identification categories focus less on participants as individuals and more on the diversity of meanings existing and being communicated in a given context at a particular moment. Individuals within this context might be in flux, but the menu of meanings is more likely to stay somewhat constant, even if these become more or less salient over time. These identification categories do not assume that forms of identification are fixed (i.e., unchangeable) or form visibly identifiable groups (i.e., mutually exclusive meanings; see Chandra 2016). Instead, these categories focus on how meanings are articulated, including the blurriness or fuzziness of such meanings, that exist beyond what mutually exclusive approaches to census and survey questions can capture. This chapter inductively constructs five identification categories – Politicized Russians, Ethnic Russians, Political Ukrainians, Crimeans, and Ethnic Ukrainians. Each exposes the fractured meanings and intergenerational contestation of identification in Crimea (see Table 4.1).6 Theoretically, I map what these inductive categories mean for understanding plural and relational forms of identification within Crimea. Specifically, I examine whether participants imagined Russia and Ukraine, and Russian and Ukrainian forms of identification, as nested, competing, disconnected, or cross-cutting (building on Chapter 2). In the following chapter, I use these categories to explore the alignment or differentiation between categories of meaning and practices of Russian citizenship and quasi-citizenship in Crimea, to investigate the intersection of identity and citizenship to understand who, how, and why individuals might engage (or not) with Russia. When discussing the participants and quoting from their responses throughout the following chapters, I use pseudonyms drawn from local names common within the relevant context, and which reflect the participant’s gender and protect their anonymity fully.7

po li ti ci zed ru ssi a n s “Here, it is impossible to be anything short of Russian.” Artiom (Politicized Russian participant)

The first category of Politicized Russians (ten participants) combines a strong ethnic Russian identification and pro-Russian orientation. More importantly, all participants in this category saw ethnic Russians in Crimea (and elsewhere in Ukraine) as discriminated against,

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marginalized, threatened by, and in competition with the Ukrainian state and its Ukrainization policies. Specifically, they were the only participants to identify as victims of discrimination in Crimea and in opposition to the Ukrainian state. Describing Politicized Russians as discriminated against is not to claim that ethnic Russians were discriminated against. Instead, I examine their discourses of discrimination and understand how and why these individuals – a minority of the participants – described themselves as discriminated against while participants in other categories did not, such as Ethnic Russians, whom I discuss next. In particular, I conceive of this discourse of discrimination as part of a political project, one that resonates with Russian state discourses and local, though marginal, pro-Russian parties and organizations in Crimea, namely Russkaia Obshchina Kryma (rok ) and Russkoe Edinstvo (re ), mentioned earlier.8 I return to these pro-Russian organizations in Chapter 5 to discuss their role as Compatriot organizations, because all of the Politicized Russians in this study, except Yurii and Vitalii, were explicitly involved in pro-Russian organizations. For example, Olga and Mikhail worked in paid and voluntary positions within the rok and re , and Artiom and Dmitrii worked in the youth wings of these organizations. Others, like Aleksandr, Aleksei, and Evgenii, participated in other peripheral pro-Russian organizations. Others, like Svetlana, had been involved within rok and re for some time, and later with the Russian government’s Rossotrudnichestvo centre, which opened in Simferopol in 2012. Finally, Vitalii, an actor, was also involved in Simferopol’s Communist Party, which was more a neo-Soviet party than explicitly pro-Russian. Politicized Russians were a mix of ages, spanning post-Soviet (Artiom, Dmitrii, Vitalii) and Soviet-era generations (Olga, Aleksandr, Aleksei, Evgenii). But this discourse of discrimination had particular salience with Crimea’s older generations – a group for whom Politicized Russians held sympathy, being concerned that they were less able to adapt to Crimea’s post-Soviet reality and catch up with its reforms. Politicized Russians imagined these reforms were now privileging Ukrainian language, culture, and interpretations of history in Crimea, and especially elsewhere in Ukraine. Pro-Russian organizations, of which most Politicized Russians were members, served as hubs, which reproduced and disseminated these discourses of discrimination and threat within Crimea – discourses designed specifically to appeal to older generations. This discriminated configuration of Russian identification is relevant because this was the same image of Crimea that Russia sought to project as justification for its intervention and annexation of Crimea

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(President of Russia 2014a; see also Ministry of Foreign Affairs 2014). Therefore, exploring this discourse of discrimination as a political project before annexation was useful for identifying those for whom it held salience prior to 2014: a small group of pro-Russian individuals connected to pro-Russian organizations, whom I categorize here as Politicized Russians. We Are All Russian Like Them

Politicized Russians felt themselves to be part of the Russian self – not only the “same” as Russians in Russia (Yurii) but as “part of the Russian mentality” (Artiom). For them, Crimea was also a part of the Russian self, as “a Russian cultural enclave” with ethnic Russians being the legitimate and native inhabitants of Crimea (Yurii, Artiom). In nativizing their connection to Crimea, Politicized Russians sought to debunk the characterization of ethnic Russians as Soviet-era migrants to the peninsula. As Olga claimed, the majority of ethnic Russians in Crimea “were born here … they did not come, they are not immigrants” – in contrast with many participants in later categories, who described how their parents and grandparents had migrated to Crimea from Russia and Ukraine (see also Bremmer 1994; Lieven 1999). Indeed, a common discourse among ethnic Russians, especially in Crimea, is to deny an “immigrant status” in Ukraine and, instead, identify as “indigenes with a long history of continuous settlement” to project a superior and more legitimate status (Wilson 1997, 154). Also, Politicized Russians defended Crimea as a Russian space and a refuge from more severe Ukrainization, as might be experienced elsewhere in Ukraine (Mikhail, Artiom, Dmitrii). Critically, for Politicized Russians, the idea of Russianness existed over and above the post-Soviet territorial realities that separated them from Russia. They imagined themselves as connected across borders, like family, as part of a transnational Russian “brotherhood” that was “more than the Russian Federation” (Olga). Many did not conceive of Russia and Crimea as conceptually distinct entities. As Aleksandr explained, they had “never left” Russia and felt “outraged” when “guests visiting from Moscow” would describe coming “from Russia to Crimea.” In other words, while territorially disconnected from Russia, they remained connected to their homeland – culturally, socially, and emotionally. This idea of the transnationally connected Russian self is essential for offering a notion of homeland different from those who conceive of kinstates as external homelands (e.g., Brubaker 1996). Instead, Politicized Russians conceived of Crimea and Russia as coterminous homelands,

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even if political circumstances meant that these homelands were now split between two different states. For Politicized Russians, Russia was their motherland, to which they had a secure emotional connection. As Artiom explained, they felt “love for the motherland, for Russia is the motherland.” At the same time, Crimea was also “our motherland,” as a homeland for ethnic Russians who “do not intend to leave their motherland [Crimea]” (Olga). Politicized Russians versus Ukrainization

Shifting from conceptions of self to those of other, Politicized Russians described the “difficulty of being Russian in Crimea” and felt themselves to be in competition with Ukraine and its marginalizing policy of “forced Ukrainization,” or Ukrainizatsiia (Olga). Ukrainization, they felt, treated ethnic Russians as an unwanted “stepchild because of the constant infringement of rights” of Russians (Artiom, Olga, Yurii, Mikhail). While Politicized Russians identified both Crimea and Russia as their homeland, they did not extend the same affection or affiliation to Ukraine. Instead, they identified as “patriots” of Russia because they saw Ukraine as being “against me as a citizen” (Aleksei, Evgenii, Olga). But, as Artiom remarked, their dislike toward Ukraine was grounded in their perceived lack of rights, because “if Russian and Ukrainian would be made the official language[s], then I, a Russian who lives in Ukraine, will love the state of Ukraine.” This discourse of discrimination, distinct to Politicized Russians, pivots on two dimensions. First, they perceived their rights, as ethnic Russians and as Russian speakers, as being infringed upon. This community of discrimination, they argued, extended beyond themselves as ethnic Russians. Second, they perceived a loss of status as ethnic Russians, with Ukraine neither investing in nor recognizing Russian culture and language. Instead, they argued that Ukraine sought to replace Russian ideas and interpretations of history with an opposing, Ukrainian version. Politicized Russians felt that “priority was given to Ukrainian programs,” such as promotion of the Ukrainian language, disregarding the Russian-speaking majority in Crimea (Mikhail). For example, since Ukrainian independence, Politicized Russians had perceived an “annual increase” in the use of Ukrainian and Crimean Tatar languages in Crimean schools, and “an annual reduction in the number of schools, classes, and students with instruction in Russian” (Olga). But Crimea was distinct in Ukraine as a region in which Ukrainian language had failed to flourish and where Russian language education had decreased

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only marginally (Besters-Dilger 2007), in contrast to other regions with far greater decreases (see Chapter 3). Politicized Russians imagined any increase in Ukrainian-language provision within Crimea as a threat to Ukrainize and assimilate them – while themselves ignoring the minority of Ukrainian speakers in Crimea. Language rights, and discrimination against them, were also issues that the pro-Russian party (re ) had campaigned on for many years prior to annexation (Portal of the Russian People of Crimea 2013) and, as such, speak to broader discourses reproduced by Russian media. For example, several Russian journalists claimed that “Ukrainian authorities brazenly trample on the interests of the Russian-speaking population of Crimea” by pursuing “a policy of Ukrainization” (Barabanov 2008). Others argued that Ukraine wanted to achieve a “rapid assimilation” and to “Ukrainianize, the Russian population of the country as a whole and the Russian-speaking regions in particular” (Vorob’eva 2003). Iurii Luzhkov, Moscow’s infamous former mayor, also argued that Ukraine’s policy was to “to squeeze out the Russian language when the entire left bank and Crimea think and speak Russian” (Voronov and Popovich 2008).9 (Luzhkov was ultimately banned from Ukraine for such statements.) As I describe below, while these discourses of discrimination were important for Politicized Russians and present in Russian media and political discourses, they were mostly absent among the other identification categories. Their antipathy toward Ukrainization policies indicated the general opposition of Politicized Russians to Ukrainian state and nation-building policies. As Dmitrii argued, “if you write a thesis in Russian, you cannot defend it in Russian, because you cannot, you are forbidden.” Other examples of growing anti-Russian prejudice, as a consequence of Ukrainization, included the translation of road signs into Ukrainian, forcible dubbing of films and television shows in Ukrainian, being forced to hire a translator for court proceedings, and being unable to request medical prescriptions in Russian (Mikhail, Aleksei, Evgenii, Vitalii). Ukrainization policies also appeared hypocritical for them, and out of step with Ukraine’s political realities. For example, Evgenii mocked Viktor Yanukovych and Mykola Azarov, Ukraine’s president and prime minister (2010–14) as “symbol[s] of laughs, of jokes,” because, legally speaking, they “should” have spoken Ukrainian but only knew a few words of it. For them, this was the double hypocrisy of Kyiv’s politicians: these politicians could not speak Ukrainian, yet, as populists, they promoted Russian-language rights during elections to win votes but, having won office, failed to show any willingness to implement such rights

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(Yurii, Aleksei, Evgenii; see also Kuzio 2005). As Sergei Shuvaynikov, one of Crimea’s most infamous pro-Russian figures,10 reported to Black Sea tv in 2007: Politicians remember the needs of these Russians only during election time. Politicians promise to establish friendly relations with Russia and making Russian language official. Our people believe these promises. And then, as time passes, they see that they were fooled once again. (bbc Monitoring – Former Soviet Union 2007) In other words, Politicized Russians – like the wider trope of discrimination to which they adhere – portrayed the engagement of their rights by politicians as a card to be played at politically opportune moments but ignored when in power. Politicized Russians saw policies of Ukrainization as discriminatory but also dangerous, especially for older people left behind by post-Soviet policies. The younger generation in Crimea, they suggest, might have better competency in Ukrainian, but the older generation “cannot understand the technical terms in the Ukrainian language” – and, with reference to the prescription issue, “medicines can kill” (Artiom, Dmitrii, Mikhail, Yurii). As Yurii explained: Well, for example, let’s say for retirees. Pensioners in pharmacies buy drugs, and the instructions for drugs are all in Ukrainian. Yes, we – the youth, the young generation – quite often understand, yeah, Ukrainian language, we can speak to some extent, though not freely, 100 per cent. We watch tv ... But for older people, it causes a problem. Vladimir Andreev, Russia’s consul for Crimea (2010–13), also participated in this discourse of danger, arguing that elderly Russians’ inability to read Ukrainian on medicine packages “could be a threat to their life” (Ivzhenko 2011).11 Finally, many Politicized Russians explained that it was not only themselves who were victims of Ukrainization but other ethnic groups in Ukraine, because the “vast majority” of them were Russian speakers (Olga, Artiom). As Olga argued, the policy of Ukrainization was “doubly wrong” because it ignored Crimea as a multicultural space with Russian as a language that connected, rather than separated, different ethnic groups. Politicized Russians thus co-opted a familiar trope within Crimea, of a peninsula of ethnic diversity and multiculturalism, and portrayed themselves as protectors of such multiculturalism against Ukraine.

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Politicized Russians versus Crimean Tatars

However, alongside the supposed concern of Politicized Russians for other ethnic groups, and their support for multiculturalism, they strongly othered Crimean Tatars as an ethnic group and did not position them within their positive image of Crimean multiculturalism. Rather, Politicized Russians situated themselves as being in competition with Crimean Tatars, as if to wrestle ownership of Crimea from them (Aleksei, Evgenii, Olga). For example, Politicized Russians believed that Crimean Tatar nationalism “leaves no room for Russians in Crimea” (Olga). In particular, they felt threatened by claims that Crimea was “only the birthplace of Crimean Tatars” and no other group (Olga). Politicized Russians framed their claims symbolically as the supposed rightful and native pioneers of Crimea. Russian media, too, commented that Ukraine was responsible for “irresponsible incitement of Crimean Tatar extremism,” which “trampled” on any semblance of Crimea’s autonomy from Kyiv (Barabanov 2008). Portraying Crimean Tatars as the extremist group in Crimea is unfair given their overall commitment to pacifism and secularism (Williams 2015) and seems more redolent of human rights abuses by Russian and Crimean authorities toward Crimean Tatars following annexation. Framing Crimean Tatars as a competitive other has been a useful discursive and political tool for portraying Politicized Russians as the more trustworthy group. For example, Politicized Russians othered Crimean Tatars by characterizing them as a separatist risk while framing Russian separatism in Crimea as “impossible to do without bloodshed, without a cataclysm” (Dmitrii). They “wanted to live peacefully,” as a part of Ukraine, even if they felt Ukraine marginalized them (Dmitrii, Olga).12 Politicized Russians, thus, felt themselves to be the victims of discrimination by Crimean Tatars and Ukraine. Meanwhile, the discourse of Crimean Tatar extremism and separatism has become politically more potent since Russia’s annexation, placing in power those from pro-Russian parties who had earlier conceived of themselves as a group that had been discriminated against. Prior to annexation, this two-pronged face of discrimination reinforced the perception as threatening by Politicized Russians of every institution and group that did not support Russian language and culture, and Crimea as a space of Russianness. Since the 1990s, scholars have remarked on the disempowerment and disenfranchisement experienced by ethnic Russians in post-Soviet space (Chinn and Kaiser 1996, 7), a discourse appropriated by Putin to

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legitimize Russia’s annexation of Crimea. But, as I explore below, only a politicized minority in Crimea coarticulated Russian identification with this sense of discrimination.

eth ni c russ i a n s “When Crimea will go to Russia, for example, how is it there and who ate our salo?13 I say, you know, I do not know who ate your salo, and when Crimea will join Russia, probably it will never happen.” Vadim (Ethnic Russian participant)

Alongside Politicized Russians, a larger category of sixteen participants – who I label Ethnic Russians – emphasized their ethnic identification as Russian but also navigated and negotiated this identity with an acceptance of being part of Ukraine. Like Politicized Russians, they conceived of Russia as their homeland, but were also more critical of the Russian regime and were not pro-Russian; none identified as discriminated against or saw Ukrainization as a threat. Rather than articulating competition with Ukraine, Ethnic Russians had a more cross-cutting form of identification, connecting themselves to Crimea, politically to Ukraine, and culturally to Russia. Ethnic Russians were a mix of ages, but most were under forty and spoke Russian. In turn, Ethnic Russians noted political and ideological differences among themselves, as a post-Soviet cohort, and their parents, whom Ethnic Russians perceived as more pro-Russian than themselves. For example, Konstantin’s father ran a local pro-Russian organization and Ekaterina was the daughter of a former Soviet soldier. Some Ethnic Russians had been born in the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic (rsfsr ) and migrated to Crimea during Soviet times (Vladislav, Leonid). Many had parents that had migrated to Crimea from the rsfsr , as well as relatives in Russia (Konstantin), and some were born and grew up in Sevastopol but were living in Simferopol (Anna, Denis, Ekaterina). Unlike Politicized Russians, Ethnic Russians were not involved in pro-Russian organizations, except for Sergei, a PhD student involved with rok . Most were not politically involved in general except for Roman, who worked in the youth wing at the local office of the Party of Regions, Ukraine’s main political party at the time. Instead, most had regular jobs outside of politics: Irina was a television journalist, Anastasia was involved in Crimea’s Youth Council, Vadim worked for a local tourism organization, Denis worked for a health ngo , Nadezhda was a philosophy teacher, and several others were students (Ekaterina, Konstantin, Anna).

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Complexities and Contestations of Cross-Cutting Identities

Many Ethnic Russians described a tension (which Politicized Russians did not) between how they wished to identify and how they thought they ought to identify. This tension and uncertainty were especially evident in the “Soviet generation,” as Denis described, as the Soviet legacy of ethnicity policies meant that “we have all been so very confused on this now.” In Denis’s case, he believed he had Ukrainian ancestry and a Ukrainian surname, but felt in the dark about what this meant and who his ancestors were. Similarly, Anatolii described himself as both Russian and “Russian-Ukrainian,” a mix he inherited from his parents, who were also a mix (of Ukrainian, Russian, and Jewish). Despite this multiplicity, Anatolii’s Russianness dominated because he identified with Russian culture. Finally, Vadim described the tension between how he himself identified and his “official” ethnicity, which, in his Soviet-era passport, was recorded as Polish.14 However, this official identification conflicted with Vadim’s own: In my mind, I’m culturally Russian – “Russian-speaking,” as it is now fashionable to express. I do not consider myself Russian because I’m not Russian by ethnicity. But my native language is Russian, I think in Russian, I speak in Russian … As a feeling, I will say it again: I am, in essence, I am a Russian-speaking person: culturally Russian, Russian-speaking, but not Russian by ethnicity. I categorize Vadim, and all these different perspectives, as Ethnic Russian even if Vadim felt restricted – in an official sense – from identifying ethnically as Russian. I do not argue for a false consciousness, since Vadim described ways in which he identified as Russian. Instead, Vadim’s and Denis’s perspectives illustrate the conflict within participants, explained by the Soviet legacy and its approach to ethnicity, which left participants constrained by official categories and confused as to how to identify. Although ethnic categories have not been represented on Ukrainian passports since 1991, younger Ethnic Russians experienced a similar tension. As they put it, “according to our passport,” “we are all Ukrainians.” But they did not “feel Ukrainian” (Anastasia, Irina). As Anastasia explained, “I [would] like to feel like a Ukrainian” because it is a “pretty good country” – but she felt more Russian because that was “from birth [how] we were brought up.” These uncertainties and pluralities provide useful insight into meanings that cannot be captured using mutually exclusive census and survey

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categories. Instead, we have to understand how the meanings of the categories themselves are contested and confusing – in flux across generations and existing in relation to political regimes – and point toward more cross-cutting forms of identification. We’re All Russian Brothers, but Russia Isn’t Home

For Ethnic Russians, their “native culture” and “native language” was Russian (Sergei, Konstantin, Tatiana, Dinara). They did not conceive of being Russian as a choice; it was something natural and biological: “who is your mother, who is your father, and you are the one afterward” (Nadezhda). As Roman explained: “Every culture is transmitted through blood and mother’s milk. And, of course, I love national cuisine, and I am much closer to Russian culture, and it’s much dearer.” In other words, we see how, at least for Ethnic Russians, pan-ethnic discourses are constructed as biological and primordial myths, rather than as voluntary choices that connect individuals, their families, and strangers together, even across state boundaries. Relatedly, these biological discourses translated to how Ethnic Russians conceived of themselves as all part of the same family of “greater Russians” (Anatolii, Dinara, Vadim, Leonid). Echoing the Politicized Russians, the Ethnic Russians saw narod (nation, people) “like a family” (Anatolii, Dinara, Vadim, Leonid). But participants also reflected on their pan-Slavic hybridity in describing cultural and food practices. For example, Vadim could not say that, as an ethnic Russian, “I should not eat borshch (a Ukrainian soup), but eat shchi (a Russian soup),” because both soups – as is likely the case for many across Ukraine and Russia – were part of his cultural repertoire. Like Politicized Russians, Russia was the cultural homeland for Ethnic Russians. Maksim, for example, described how they were still connected to Russia through their “love” for their “older brother [Russia].” Russia was their “big” and “historical” motherland, while Crimea was their “small motherland” (Maksim, Sergei, Dinara, Irina). These were not competing, or external, notions of homeland, but simply disconnected homelands (cf. Brubaker 1996).15 As Irina explained: Well, my homeland is Crimea, and the big homeland is Moscow, Russia. I mean, maybe I’ll never be there live, but for my part, Crimea is partly such an enclave, it’s part of the Russian world. That is, for me, Russia is homeland. Kyiv is also home to me. That’s it.

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Symbolically and culturally, Crimea remained in the imaginations of Ethnic Russians as a place interconnected with Russia as a homeland, regardless of contemporary political boundaries (or their political affiliations to Ukraine). Nevertheless, their symbolic attachment was qualified by a substantial critique of the current Russian regime. Konstantin described Russia as lacking freedoms in comparison to Ukraine and characterized Ukraine as a better state to live in. This criticism was primarily directed toward Putin, challenging an implicit logic that often elides Putin and Russia. As Denis explained: I repeat, I do not want to be with Putin. I do not want to be. If it would have been someone else, someone that I would have liked, the one who would have embodied Russia. I do not know – Yurii Gagarin, well, for example, [or Valerii] Kharlamov, the hockey player. But Putin is not Russia. It’s the kgb , that’s what it is. The methods are the same, only in a Brioni suit, and not by a Bolshevik factory, and expensive watches. Ethnic Russians thus felt connected to Russia as a cultural idea. However, this connection was challenged by the really existing political entity of Russia and the material vulgarity and corruption of its current leader. Indeed, for the Ethnic Russians, Russia’s actions worked against their sense of cultural connectedness. It made them “not want to be Russian [russkii]” (Denis) and lack a sense of loyalty to Russia (Irina, Vladislav, Roman, Nadezhda, Denis). This antipathy of Ethnic Russians toward Russia as a political entity extended to their critique of separatism. Most Ethnic Russians maligned separatism and framed it as analogous to “conflict,” which was why they perceived it as an unpopular, unsuccessful political project (Anatolii, Irina). For example, Maksim described the proponents of separatism in the 1990s as having become “political losers” in the 2000s. Ethnic Russians framed separatism as a personal moneymaking exercise, the supporters of which were motivated by self-interest to reap “some kind of political, economic, and financial benefits” from the project (Maksim, Roman). The exception – among all the participants, not merely the Ethnic Russians – was Dinara, who revered Russia, supported Crimea’s (re)unification with Russia, and believed it to be a “historical error” that Crimea was part of Ukraine and not Russia. But for most Ethnic Russians,

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their connection to Russia as their native culture did not translate into a connection to the state as a political entity, a national project, or a state in which they wished to live. What most Ethnic Russians wanted was good relations with Russia – as “two states,” like Germany and Austria, rather than a territorial reconfiguration. Such a model provided a way to maintain a spiritual closeness to Russia and yet be a “patriot” of Ukraine (Irina, Vladislav, Roman, Nadezhda, Denis). Implicitly, their responses demonstrate the difference between identifying as Russian, as Ethnic Russians did, and identifying with Russia, which they did not (unlike Politicized Russians). Ukraine as Home, Not a Source of Threat

While Politicized Russians disliked and distrusted Ukraine, Ethnic Russians thought of it more favourably. In particular, they did not problematize navigating the dualities of being ethnically Russian in Crimea and Ukraine. For example, as Roman explained: I am a Russian man – I always was, and always will remain. I have nothing against Ukraine as a state. This is my state, which has its own national language. I can speak easily [spokoino], with Ukrainians, with both Westerners and Easterners. Moreover, Ethnic Russians did not describe Ukraine as a place where they felt threatened or a state by which they felt marginalized:

denis: Ellie, I’ll tell you again, I do not see that Russian [language] is being gagged, honestly. Cinemas play films in Ukrainian – it’s just idiotic. This is not a strangulation of Russian culture. It’s just a bad law. That’s it. ek: Does it mean that it’s not important?16 denis: It is not important. Of course, it’s not important. I do not know, I hope that Kyiv will realize that if people see films in Russian, he will not be a patriot of Putin. In fact, at the local level, Ethnic Russians recognized that “our [Crimean] government” was successful in advocating for “Russian language, Russian culture” (Vadim). Indeed, Ethnic Russians were more concerned by socioeconomic issues than questions of language and identity, echoing the sentiments of most of Crimea’s residents in 1994 during

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the political peak of separatism, when pro-Russian elites failed to mobilize mass support for secession from Ukraine (Dawson 1997). As Roman explained, “what is the difference in what language we’re going to talk if you’re thinking about how to feed children?” In general, Ethnic Russians were happy to consider Ukraine as their home-state and to be bound by Ukraine’s norms, rather than denigrating Ukraine as Politicized Russians did. Even with Russian as their first language, Ethnic Russians were more willing than Politicized Russians to speak Ukrainian because “you need to talk to people in their own language” (Denis, Vadim). Most had few problems identifying themselves as Ukrainian citizens (Konstantin, Irina) or as a “patriot” of Ukraine (Vladislav); and they saw Crimea as a legitimate and “integral part of Ukraine according to the situation today” (Vadim, Konstantin). Yet, affiliation with Ukraine was not always straightforward for Ethnic Russians. For example, they felt confused as to what it meant to reside in and be a citizen of Ukraine. For them, Ukraine was a “young” state (Dinara). They had not “chosen” Ukraine as a home following the collapse of the Soviet Union, but “the Soviet Union collapsed, and we are in Ukraine,” where the “idea is to feel yourself as Ukrainian” (Denis).17 Thus, Ethnic Russians navigated, rather than problematized, how their identities cut across cultural Russianness and political affiliation with Ukraine, and did not see these attributes as being in competition, as Politicized Russians did. At the same time, Ethnic Russians saw Crimea as a periphery, lacking agency. On the one hand, Irina commented that Crimea was experiencing “intellectual impoverishment” from outward migration to Kyiv and Moscow. On the other hand, some participants commented on how Crimean autonomy existed only “in the semantic sense, it’s just a bubble” (Vadim). Lacking legislative initiative, Crimea’s autonomy lacked “real content” making it, and them, “a subject of Ukrainian domestic politics” rather than “actors” in their political sphere (Irina). Crimea’s autonomy was not only a question of legislative politics, but of how Yanukovych ran Ukraine in such a way as to confer autonomy “only on paper” (Denis). Denis continued: I have a relationship with health services now. In half a year, there were three health ministers. They’re all from Donetsk. Do Crimeans decide who will be the ministers, or Crimean doctors? No, this is not even decided by Kyiv [but by Donetsk]. So now there is no autonomy.

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In other words, the sense of cross-cutting identities – which positioned Ethnic Russians culturally as Russian and politically as Ukrainian – intersected with their critique of Russia and Ukraine. For them, Russia was a space of less freedom while Ukraine was a space dominated by clan-based politics that overrode any autonomy or local agency that Crimea was supposed to have.

po li ti cal uk r a i n i a n s “I feel more like a Ukrainian citizen.” Gennadii (Political Ukrainian participant)

So far, I have discussed meanings of identification in Crimea primarily from an ethnic, or at least cultural, perspective. However, fifteen participants – Political Ukrainians – were Russian speakers from the post-Soviet generation who resisted ethnic labels of identification and instead chose to identify as Ukrainian and as citizens of Ukraine, i.e., citizenship was central to how they articulated their identification. In particular, Political Ukrainians opposed inherited forms of identification and noted that they identified differently from their ethnic Russian parents. Distancing themselves from Russia and Russian forms of identification, and positioning themselves within Crimea and Ukraine as Ukrainian citizens, this category was the only one to demonstrate a separated understanding of identification. They did not wish to have, or to navigate, a plurality of forms of identification – as Russian and Ukrainian – but instead exemplified a new generation that identified as Russian-speaking Ukrainian citizens. Political Ukrainians were younger than other categories, as a predominantly post-Soviet cohort – mostly under thirty years old – who were born, or had grown up, in independent Ukraine. While some had studied or continued to study in Crimea (Aliona), many studied at universities outside of Crimea, in Kyiv (Alla, Inna, Gennadii’s children), Lviv (Timur), or abroad (Daria). For example, Daria, who was born in Voronezh, in Russia, and moved to Crimea as a small child, had studied in the United States as a Fulbright scholar. Meanwhile, Tamara was studying in Russia on a Compatriot scholarship, at Kuban State University in Krasnodar (I return to the significance of this scholarship in the discussion of the Compatriot policy in the next chapter). In terms of employment, many were active in Crimean civil society and local ngo s (Inna, Gennadii, Daniil, Timur) or worked in small businesses (Alla). The only more politically involved participant was Vita, who worked in the Simferopol branch of the Ukrainian political party Batkivshchyna (Fatherland).18

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This section focuses solely on accounts from participants, as the Political Ukrainian perspective is generally absent in media and scholarly discourse on Crimea. To all intents and purposes, this category should not exist. This cohort’s perspective does not make the headlines and would not be identifiable in a census focusing on ethnic categories – in which heads of household, for example, might identify differently from their children. In fact, during fieldwork, I almost overlooked this category entirely: I did not understand that such de-ethnicized and depoliticized discourses might exist in Crimea. However, their significance as dissenters from an ethnic idea became something I could not ignore, because it signalled an important generational shift regarding identification. Thus, Political Ukrainians were an emergent category, from a post-Soviet generation who had known Crimea only under a Ukrainian system. Today, we can glean only small glimpses of this post-Soviet perspective, such as the words of Oleg Sentsov above. Similarly, Nataliia Gumeniuk’s journalistic account of Crimea, as a “lost island” since annexation, also reveals examples of the Political Ukrainian discourse. For example, talking to “Svetlana” in the months after annexation, Gumeniuk (2020, 34) relates how her soul is breaking. We live here [in Crimea] as hostages. We don’t know what to do: speak or be silent. Some have already changed colours [switched sides], some escaped, some hid, and some fell silent. In this section, I bring to life a post-Soviet perspective – one that is often obscured – of a separate and citizenship-based identity, which participates in a Ukrainian idea and rejects Russian ethnicity. To Be Ukrainian, not Russian: Citizenship Rather than Ethnicity

Because of their family backgrounds, Political Ukrainians identified as “slightly Russian” and having “partly Russian blood,” but ultimately as “more Ukrainian” because of their citizenship (Daria, Nadia). Many also disliked talking about ethnicity because it “does not matter” (Daniil, Vita). Frequently, it was hard to ask these participants how they personally identified because they rejected the premise of the question. For example, when I asked Vita how she identified, she replied that she was “a person first and foremost. The main thing is to be a good person; for me, nationality does not matter.” Similarly, Daniil described how he tried to “feel myself as a citizen, regardless of ethnicity.” For Daniil,

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talking about ethnicity or nationality (the Russian term for ethnicity) was an almost vulgar obsession of politicians; in his view, this question did not matter to ordinary people: To talk about your nationality – which means it is to put it in the first place, I think, is when you have nothing more to say, unfortunately. This issue is particularly common by the manipulation of politicians. We even have some political power and direction that aims to protect the interests of a certain group, like Russians. Thus, Political Ukrainians refused to participate in discourses of discrimination that were salient for Politicized Russians. But they also refused to identify in ethnic terms, equating this to discourses of discrimination or at least an unnecessary politicization of identity. Significantly, Political Ukrainians did not conceive of ethnicity as the reason that people “live badly” in Crimea and Ukraine because the most pressing problems, such as poverty, were “independent from nationality” (Daniil). They did not identify the Russian language as threatened in Crimea, and dismissed such claims by Politicized Russians because “there are enough schools in Russian language” (Gennadii). Daniil agreed: Most people in Crimea speak Russian. Most mass media is in Russian. Education in schools and universities, in the majority, are in Russian. Do you think it’s bad here for Russian? No, it’s not bad. Thus, Political Ukrainians wished to shift the focus of identity discussions beyond discrimination and ethnicity, and toward the political entity of Ukraine, of which they were a part. Identifying as “patriots,” Political Ukrainians supported Ukraine’s independence, separation from Russia, and resistance to Russification (russifikatsiia) (Artur, Aliona, Inna, Vera, Oksana, Gennadii, Daniil). Inna had even participated in anti-Russian protests. Similarly, Timur was explicit that he was “not Russian” because he was not “born in Russia” (Aliona too). Gennadii, who was older, being part of the Soviet generation, explained: I studied in Russian culture, in Ukrainian culture, and Ukrainian literature, and I don’t see, I don’t feel myself strongly Russian, as a mixture, and I feel more as Ukrainian citizen. And I like Ukrainian culture. And we like, in our family, Ukrainian culture. As I told you, our daughters live in Kyiv, and they don’t want to return to Crimea.

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In other words, Political Ukrainians expressed a clear preference for Ukrainian cultural practices over Russia and Russian practices. Even those with more experience of Russia articulated this experience within a Ukrainian narrative. For example, Daria, born in Voronezh, in the rsfsr , toward the end of the Soviet era, Ukrainianized her experience of Russia. She spoke of how, in Voronezh, they spoke surzhyk (a Ukrainian-Russian hybrid dialect) and how there were Ukrainian schools and cuisine. She also related how residents in Voronezh called themselves khokhly (a diminutive term sometimes used by Ukrainians to describe themselves) and outsiders moskali (Russians).19 We’re Ukrainian, Crimea Is Ukrainian, but There Are Some Political Problems

For many Political Ukrainians, Ukraine was “my home” – their place of birth and the place in which they had been socialized, as Ukraine had been an “independent state” for the majority, or entirety, of their lives (Aliona). Political Ukrainians underscored the importance of Ukrainian independence and of participating fully in Ukrainian citizenship by knowing the Ukrainian language and history (Oksana). For Viktor, they lacked a vocabulary to express this political attachment, as there was no Ukrainian “equivalent” of rossiian (resident of Russia) to allow them to express themselves politically and territorially, rather than ethnically (Ukrainian). Political Ukrainians shared a normative notion of the relationship between Ukraine and Crimea: that Crimea was, and should be, part of Ukraine and that this meant that “I am Ukrainian” (Timur). As Viacheslav explained, you just need to “study the map” for a demonstration that Crimea was part of Ukraine (also Daria). They were pleased that separatism and annexation were “impossible” outcomes (Gennadii). And to many Political Ukrainians, Crimea appeared as “stable” and “very loyal, calm,” because there was “no desire” for separatism anymore (Tamara, Nadia). Indeed, Political Ukrainians wished to narrow the psychological distance between Crimea and the rest of Ukraine. Specifically, they wanted Ukraine to “do more” to integrate Crimea within Ukraine, and to resist Russification. For example, they wanted more people in Crimea – from the elites to ordinary people – to know Ukraine’s language and history (Oksana, Viktor, Artur). Such an idea was deliberate and strategic: they wanted Crimea’s residents to feel more Ukrainian via the Ukrainian language, thereby building upon the fact that residents had already “got used to it [speaking Ukrainian]” (Daria).

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Figure 4.1 | Graffiti in Simferopol, Crimea: “Crimea is not Makiivsky, Simferopol is not …” Photo by the author, 23 March 2012,

For Political Ukrainians, however, their enjoyment of being Ukrainian did not preclude critique of Ukraine. First, they were critical of how Crimea was not a part of “people’s mind” in the rest of Ukraine (Timur). Second, Political Ukrainians were “ashamed” and “sorry” about how Ukraine was governed by highly corrupt Donetsk-based clans (Vita). They forgave Ukraine for being a “new state,” which enjoyed neither the “time” nor the “experience” for “how to build” a state (Gennadii), a sentiment echoed by Ethnic Russians and also by some in Moldova, as I discuss in later chapters. In particular, their dislike of bad government in Ukraine translated to the local level in Crimea, which Political Ukrainians described as governed by politicians installed by the Party of Regions, from Donetsk. In turn, they saw such operatives as lacking personal attachment to, and knowledge of, the peninsula. For example, the former chairman of the Council of Ministers in Crimea, Vasilii Dzharti, and certain other leaders

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were known pejoratively within Crimea as Makiivksa (someone from Makiivka, in Donetsk oblast), a reference both to their affiliation with the Donetsk regional clan that had installed them and to their otherness vis-à-vis Crimea (Strizh 2011).20 This discourse was expressed in graffiti scrawled across Simferopol’s streets (Figure 4.1). Political Ukrainians saw these Donetsk politicians, like Dzharti, as using Crimea instrumentally, “like a hook,” for personal gain, and making Crimea autonomous “just in name” (Timur, Tamara). Finally, Political Ukrainians were pessimistic both regarding Ukraine’s future and about opportunities for them and their families. Some, like Gennadii’s children, were already in Kyiv. Others wanted their children to “leave here” and “have a good future,” rather than face unemployment (Tamara, Vita). Despite their appreciation of Ukrainian citizenship, they entertained no rose-tinted impressions as to how Ukraine was being governed, or how Crimea was being governed by Ukraine (and specifically its Donetsk political clans). We’re Ukrainian, but Our Parents Still Identify as Russian

Most significantly, Political Ukrainians articulated a generational shift in identification, both in Crimea and within their own families. Daria and Aliona described Crimea’s older residents as living “in the past” and more likely to identify as Russian. For example, they noted the nostalgia of those born in the Soviet Union, who often believed that life in the Soviet Union was “better than now” and considered Crimea to be still a “part of Russia” (Aliona, Timur, Daria). As Gennadii explained, it was difficult for older generations to “adjust to these new Ukrainian realities, during last twenty years already,” while for the younger, post-Soviet generation, “it’s easier to feel themselves Ukrainians.” Significantly, Political Ukrainians could articulate how generational dynamics were consequential for shifting identification in Crimea. As Inna suggested, among the older generation, individuals would only feel Ukrainian if they identified as “ethnically Ukrainian” and, typically, were born outside Crimea (conditions also often experience by Ethnic Ukrainians; see below). By contrast, rather than feel Russian, the younger generation could feel Ukrainian in a political sense, if they had been born or grown up in post-Soviet Ukraine, as they did not “know the Soviet Union” (Inna). Within their own families, many Political Ukrainians identified their parents as ethnically Russian (Vera, Oksana, Inna, Nadia). Identification

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was not continuous within families or across generations. For them, being Ukrainian was “no problem,” even if their parents identified as Russian (Inna). Instead, identification was mediated and disrupted by political dynamics. For example, Political Ukrainians told stories that alluded to differences and disputes with parents, and could articulate explicitly their sense of a generational shift. Inna explained that her mother usually celebrated New Year twice, according to local Crimean time and Moscow time (at that time two hours ahead).21 Inna preferred to celebrate only according to local time because she was “from Ukraine.” She ridiculed her mother for continuing to celebrate New Year twice, according to earlier Soviet, and now Russian, cultural practices. Thus, banal cultural practices were practised differently across generations due to different life experiences, illustrating the significance of different socialization experiences between Political Ukrainians and their parents. As a result, Political Ukrainians did not wish to associate with Russian (and Soviet) cultural practices and Russian forms of identification, while their parents did. Finally, Political Ukrainians were able to articulate their own identity flux, often related to experiences outside of Crimea, such as studying elsewhere in Ukraine and then returning to Crimea. For example, Inna and Aliona explained how they explicitly “understood” their identity as Ukrainian while studying in Kyiv, even if they had implicitly “thought” that way before leaving Crimea to pursue their studies – i.e., these experiences did not alter but affirmed their prior perceptions. For Alla, her experiences while studying in Kyiv were even more consequential. Before leaving for Kyiv she had felt Russian, being a Russian speaker. While Alla had learned Ukrainian at school, she had little interest in speaking it because she never needed to use Ukrainian in Crimea. Studying in Kyiv, she met others from western Ukraine, expanded her social network to include a wider circle of friends beyond Crimea, and became more interested in Ukrainian culture, literature, and music. As a result, Alla, like Inna, Aliona, and Timur, explained that she now felt nearer to the idea of a Ukrainian state, because of her experiences outside of Crimea. This articulation of flux on the part of Political Ukrainians demonstrates something that is often overlooked in current theoretical understandings of identification, in post-Soviet space and beyond: namely flux in meanings of ethnic identification across generations. While scholars recognize that post-Soviet generations have learned and internalized values and “rights, privileges and responsibilities” different from those raised during the Soviet era (Glasberg and Shannon 2010, 247; see also Lemke 1988), we have overlooked the impact of these shifts on identification.

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Instead, conceptions of ethnicity remain fixed on the idea that ethnicity is the imagination of common ancestry, which would suggest consistency of meanings across generations and certainly within family units (for examples, see Horowitz 1985; Smith 1998; Chandra 2006). However, Political Ukrainians demonstrated the opposite by signalling the contingency of ethnic identification across generations, including within their own families and lives. This articulation reinforces how identifying as a Political Ukrainian in Crimea is entirely separate from Russian ideas and cultural practices, and entails embedding in Ukrainian political and even cultural ideas in ways that were less possible for older Soviet generations. In turn, these dynamics differentiated this category from participants who denigrated this shift as Ukrainization (Politicized Russians) and those who felt less able, or willing, to participate in a Ukrainian idea (Ethnic Russians). Overall, Political Ukrainians demonstrated agency in divorcing themselves from their parents’ biological narratives and choosing to participate in a Ukrainian political and cultural project.

cri mean s “Well, Krymchan [Crimean], it’s partly Russian. Ukrainian, partly.” Ruslan (Crimean participant)

The fourth category, Crimeans, was the most hybrid and inter-ethnic category. In identifying as Crimean, this category of five participants aligned themselves regionally with Crimea, both inter-ethnically (between Ukrainian and Russian) and inter-territorially (between Russia and Ukraine). For Crimeans, the territory of Crimea itself encapsulated a hybridity to which their family histories were tied. As a cross-cutting articulation of identity, participants in this category did not identify with a de-ethnicized nonethnic category, as Political Ukrainians did. Instead, Crimeans identified with a cross-cutting inter-ethnic category, precisely because to be Crimean meant to be between Ukrainian and Russian, and Ukraine and Russia. Demographically, Crimeans were split in terms of gender and were predominantly in their twenties (Nina, Larisa, Stanislav, Tatiana), with one older participant (Ruslan). All were born in Crimea. They were employed in a mix of occupations that included students, like Nina, a PhD student, Larisa, completing a distance-learning course in Mykolaiv, and Stanislav, who worked in Crimea’s Youth Council. Ruslan worked in the Rossotrudnichestvo office, established by the Russian foreign ministry in Simferopol in 2012 under the auspices of the Compatriot policy (discussed further in Chapter 5).

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Neither the category nor the meaning of Crimean, as described in this study, could have been discerned using censuses or surveys focused around mutually exclusive ethnic categories. While other participants identified partially as Crimean (Krymchan), what was different about the Crimean cohort was that it was their primary identification. For example, Nina described how she identified “firstly” as Crimean. Rather than chart its emergence, this section aims to elucidate the salience of Crimean as a form of identification. The designation Crimean (Krymchan/ka) is not a new category. Its usage in this section, however, points toward a different articulation of Crimean identification, which emphasizes a more hybrid identification between Russia/Russian and Ukraine/Ukrainian than is implied in earlier uses of the term. Most often, the term is used simply to refer to Crimea’s residents, rather than as a salient and specific identity in its own right.22 Other interpretations ridicule the idea of a Crimean ethnicity or identity. For example, following the 2010 census, a news article from the Vladimir oblast (Levitskaia 2011), not far from Moscow, reported: Some residents of our region called themselves Eskimos [sic]. One citizen identified herself as a non-existent ethnicity – Crimean. But the prize for originality, of course, is for our fellow countryman who called himself a “Scythian.”23 In Crimea, finally, pro-Russian organizations have co-opted the term “Crimean” to elide Russian identification and Crimean attachment. For example, Sergei Tsekov, the head of rok before annexation, referred in 2004 to “Russian Crimeans,” nesting the idea of a Crimean identity within a Russian orbit, as if “they have always associated themselves primarily with Russia” (cited in Krasnaia Zvezda 2004).24 However, in what follows, I show how Crimeans articulated a different idea, which included an ambivalence toward Russia, from the interpretations of Crimean identity outlined above. Instead, I analyze the articulation, by the Crimean cohort, of an existing, salient identity between Russia and Ukraine, and which cut across both rather than orienting only toward Russia. The Crimean Hybrid Self

Identifying as Crimean signalled these participants’ hybridity – culturally, ethnically, and territorially – as well as their attachment to Crimea, because this hybridity also characterized Crimea itself. Indeed, several delineated long generational ties to the peninsula through their parents

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and grandparents, who were born in Crimea, to justify their identification as Crimean (Tatiana, Ruslan, Nina). Ruslan, in particular, described himself as “Krymchan for four or five generations” and “as a person living in Crimea a very long time that has relatives in Crimea, fathers, grandfathers, even in the nineteenth century.” In other words, hybridity was intergenerational: they shared and inherited the same ethnic, cultural, and territorial hybridity as their parents, which added legitimacy and salience to their identification as Crimean. Crucially, Crimeans expressed explicitly that they did not feel Ukrainian (Stanislav) or Russian (Tatiana, Ruslan) but Crimean. As Ruslan reasoned:

ek: And how do you feel yourself in terms of ethnicity? ruslan: Me? I feel like a Krymchan. ek: And what does Krymchan mean? ruslan: Well, Krymchan – it’s partly Russian, Ukrainian, partly … well … Crimea. This is Crimea. Crimea is … well … I feel like that’s how Krymchan. ek: Different from? ruslan: Well, I can feel more like a Russian … but I would not say that I’m Russian. I’m more Crimean … well, you know, as you say that, for example, the Catalans – are they Spanish or Catalan? I mean, yes, we are Spaniards, but we ourselves feel Catalans. From Ruslan’s response, we can observe how Crimeans identified as such – as Krymchan/ka – as well as with the region of Crimea, as it encapsulated their sense of betweenness and ethnic, cultural, and territorial hybridity. As Stanislav similarly explained:

stanislav: We aren’t Ukrainian. We’re Crimean. ek: Crimean? And what makes you feel as you say? stanislav: The Peninsula – we are separate. Perhaps it’s because we began belonging to one country, then to another country, I will not say that this view is – this is just my opinion, personally, why I think so. Because Crimea, it is separate. I would like it to be separate – to no one, neither Ukraine nor Russia. That is, I think we can be perfectly self-reliant. Relatedly, several Crimeans expressed nostalgia for what they conceived as Crimea’s higher status in the past – in particular, during the Soviet period. And generational dynamics were important, with older

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participants and their parents seeming to revere Crimea’s Soviet past (Ruslan, Larisa’s parents). As Larisa explained, her parents “didn’t love Ukraine” and wanted Crimea to return to Russia, and to the Soviet Union. But Larisa did “like Ukraine” and was not nostalgic for the Soviet past, believing that Crimea’s present situation within Ukraine was preferable and that Ukraine itself was better and more democratic than Russia. Nostalgia was especially acute for Ruslan, as the only Crimean of the Soviet generation. Throughout the interview, he explained and repeated how, When Crimea was in the Soviet Union, it was one of the best regions in the Soviet Union … Because of the climate, the level of life. Crimea was the standard of living. So, I spent my whole life in Crimea – well, I studied in Moscow. Well, for example, I lived in Sevastopol. For me, it was that Sevastopol, that Moscow, they were the same. In Sevastopol, even people dressed and lived at a better standard than in Moscow. Now, of course, it’s worse. Now, Crimea is some backyard, who was killed. So Crimea is in Ukraine. In other words, this mythology of Crimea’s former greatness and lost status held enduring importance for those from older generations, like Ruslan, but meant less for the post-Soviet generation – even those who identified as Crimean. Crimea Is Close to Russia, but Not Russian

Crimeans described the almost timeless relationship between Crimea and Russia – culturally, at least. As Nina explained, it would be hard to imagine Crimea without Russian influence. Russian traditions appeared timeless, “like Christmas,” because you did not question their meaning or legitimacy (Nina). Therefore, Crimea’s connection to Russia was also seen as almost eternal, dating to Soviet and tsarist times. Equally, unlike Ethnic Russians and Politicized Russians, Crimeans felt neither spiritually nor culturally close to Russia. For example, Larisa identified as partially Russian, through her parents, but did not feel close to Russia. She explained that she had “nothing against Russia” but had lived in Ukraine, as an independent state, her whole life and never been to Russia. Even those with ties and relations in Russia described negative experiences of Russia – and of Russians coming from Russia – which

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had created distance between them and Russia, and their relatives in Russia. For example, Stanislav described the condescending attitudes of his relatives from “Piter” (St Petersburg) using the example of vareniki (dumplings), a common dish in both places:

stanislav: That’s the difference in Crimea. I say, this is different – Russians and Ukrainians are very different. I have relatives that now came from Piter. I spoke with them. They are completely different. They’re right, oh, southerners. Southerners – they arrive with such an accent. We even, we eat differently. ek: Why? stanislav: Well, we cook vareniki. The usual dish is vareniki. They take vareniki, dip in sour cream, and eat. There is no vodka. Sour cream – it’s okay! It is necessary to douse vareniki in sour cream, not dunk! There is a difference. They are looking at me, leave me alone, as we want. And we eat. They are already angry. Through these examples, Crimeans emphasized the differences between themselves and those residing in Russia, differences compounded by a sense of hierarchy, whereby they perceived that Russians in Russia felt unfairly superior to them in Crimea. The exception was Ruslan, who, as an older participant, expressed his sense of a pan-ethnic Slavic commonality with contemporary Russia. Ruslan explained how “we live here, side by side, across the border,” and added: “Just twenty years ago, we were all one country. We are one nation; we should be one people.” Even for Ruslan, however, these cultural similarities were mediated by important political factors that distanced Crimeans from Russia’s political realities. For example, Crimeans identified as politically nearer to Ukraine, as Russia was “totalitarian” and “uncomfortable” (Tatiana, Ruslan, Nina, Larisa). As Ruslan explained, similarly to the Ethnic Russians, in Ukraine, “freedom of speech is much better than in Russia,” meaning, in turn, that “in Ukraine, it would be much more comfortable to live.” Thus, on the one hand, Crimeans emphasized the ways in which Russians coming from Russia might be condescending toward them, and some felt nostalgic for Crimea’s perceived higher status in the past. On the other hand, Crimeans also expressed a sense of superiority, grounded in the greater freedoms they felt they enjoyed in Ukraine as compared to the situation in Russia.

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We’re Not Close to Ukraine Either

Crimeans demonstrated little negativity toward Ukraine. However, they also did not identify closely with Ukraine either. As Stanislav explained, they were Ukrainian officially, but this did not necessarily translate to feeling Ukrainian: Do we feel ourselves, or are we [Ukrainian]? We are all Ukrainians. According to our passport, right? Feeling – again, it depends on the meaning. I like the country. It’s a pretty good country. I like to feel like a Ukrainian, if so. But the fact that there is political instability, yes. The ambivalence of Crimeans – similar to that expressed by Ethnic Russians – toward feeling Ukrainian was connected to Ukraine’s potential for political insecurity and instability as a “young” state, as though Ukraine was an apprehensive teenager growing into its new body and sovereignty (Ruslan, Stanislav). Crimeans took this further by focusing on Ukraine’s unwillingness to accept its ethnic and linguistic diversity. Specifically, Ruslan criticized how Ukraine felt that it could not “afford to take two official languages” – Ukrainian and Russian – because of the “fear that Ukraine would collapse.” Ruslan felt that such a claim was ridiculous and that Ukraine could survive perfectly well if its institutions reflected social diversity. Crimeans also felt separate from the rest of Ukraine. Like Ethnic Russians, Crimeans felt that Ukraine did not understand Crimea. For example, Tatiana explained how she thought that Ukraine treats the peninsula “like a single town,” rather than appreciating Crimea’s diversity and peculiarity. Tatiana spoke of going to Ukraine from Crimea, as though they were separate psychological entities. In other words, and similarly to Ethnic Russians and Politicized Russians, the prepositions that refer to travel – to and from – signified for Crimeans which regions were considered part of the self (Crimea) and the other (Ukraine – even if not a strongly criticized other). For Crimeans, however, this feeling of psychological separateness did not detract from their support for the political status quo. Indeed, many were critical of separatism and often framed it as a historical movement whose time had passed, and which had been supported “only in the 1990s” (Ruslan). Ruslan praised the decline of separatism, which he argued was responsible for sparing Crimea the “great nationalist clashes” that other post-Soviet regions had experienced. In turn, Ruslan perceived that Russia itself no longer supported Crimea’s separation

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from Ukraine, and was not “ready,” or willing, to absorb “two and a half million people,” many of them pensioners. Rather, most Crimeans framed Crimea as a “stable” and “normal” part of Ukraine (Larisa, Ruslan). The exception was Stanislav, who, of all the participants, including Politicized Russians, was the most supportive of a Russia-focused solution. Separatism was not something Stanislav thought he would “speak loudly about” or campaign for, because he was happy for Crimea to remain part of Ukraine. However, he believed that Crimea was already cognitively “separate,” and could be “perfectly self-reliant” if not even do “better in Russia” (although he admitted he had “never been there”). Overall, Crimeans identified as more than and different from distinct ethnic categories, signalling their cross-cutting identification as both Ukrainian and Russian, and their ties to Russia and Ukraine. At the same time, they also expressed the realities and tensions of their betweenness and of regional peculiarity, were critical of Russia, and felt not entirely part of Ukraine.

eth ni c uk r a i n i a n s “Today, compared with 1993, I go back. Back then, it was a pro-Russian nightmare. Now the situation is changing.” Petro (Ethnic Ukrainian participant)

The final category – Ethnic Ukrainians (six participants) – returns to an ethnically defined, mutually exclusive, and competitive idea of identification, theoretically similar but empirically opposite to Politicized Russians. Ethnic Ukrainians identified most strongly, and least ambivalently, with Ukraine. They explained themselves singularly through a mutually reinforcing and exclusive idea of being from Ukraine, speaking Ukrainian, and participating in a Ukrainian culture, in contrast to cohorts such as Crimeans and Ethnic Russians, who articulated themselves in terms of pluralities. Specifically, for Ethnic Ukrainians, identification constructed the sense of an implicit (though sometimes a very explicit) self, in opposition to an other which comprised the majority of Crimean residents, who spoke Russian as a native language and identified as ethnically Russian. For example, Ethnic Ukrainians distinguished themselves as those possessing “love for Ukraine” (Bohdan) against a competitive Russian other, who lacked loyalty to Ukraine.25 It is useful to contrast the more competitive Ethnic Ukrainian style of identification to that of

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Political Ukrainians – who identified as more separated from, rather than competitive with, Russia and Russianness – as it demonstrates that not all formulations of Ukrainian identity in Crimea were competitive. Similarly, Politicized Russians also framed their identification competitively, except with Ukraine, and the formulations of identification expressed by Ethnic Ukrainians, serving as the competitive other. For Ethnic Ukrainians, the competitive referent was reversed, their object of competition being Russia and ethnic Russians in Crimea. Demographically, Ethnic Ukrainians were a mixture of ages and genders. Among the Soviet generation, Viacheslav was a journalist and Taras worked in a local think tank. Among the post-Soviet generation, Iulia and Hanna were both students, and Petro worked in the youth wing of a new Ukrainian political party. All Ethnic Ukrainians had been born outside Crimea and came from across Ukraine: Iulia from Dnipropetrovsk, Petro from Lviv, and Hanna from Kherson, the closest city to Crimea in mainland Ukraine. Many had come as children, both during the Soviet period (Bohdan) and the post-Soviet period (Petro, Taras, Hanna, Iulia). Significantly, Ethnic Ukrainians used this external relationship to Crimea to explain their identification as Ukrainian; by contrast, Political Ukrainians identified as Ukrainian despite being from Crimea. This category, Ethnic Ukrainians, is pertinent to broader current debates about Ukrainian identification outside of Crimea (for examples, see Shulman 2004; Shulman 1998; Wilson 1997), which is why this section draws less upon external media or policy sources to embed this category’s articulation of identity within a broader discourse. We might not expect to encounter such discourses in Crimea, as a peninsula often perceived homogeneously as ethnically Russian and pro-Russia. In the sections that follow, I reflect upon how Ethnic Ukrainians framed themselves organically as Ukrainian, over against a Russian other, and while living in a Crimea that was becoming more Ukrainian. We Were Born Ukrainian and Born Speaking Ukrainian

Ethnic Ukrainians felt an intense sense of having been born Ukrainian, signifying a lack of agency or choice over their identification. Instead, they conceived of themselves as organically and biologically Ukrainian. In particular, Ethnic Ukrainians used speaking Ukrainian as a marker of their Ukrainian self-identification, whereby they were born “Ukrainian-speaking” (Taras). Echoing Taras, Bohdan described himself as ethnically Ukrainian, because “I know the language, I love Ukraine,

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in this sense.” Ethnic Ukrainians imagined themselves as inheriting a Ukrainian lineage, exemplified by speaking Ukrainian from birth. This perceived lineage was in stark contrast to the outlook of Political Ukrainians, whose Ukrainian identification was (often in contrast to their parents) a matter of choice, despite having been born in Crimea, or even in Russia, and speaking Russian. Being born Ukrainian-speaking was an important identification marker, and many Ethnic Ukrainians spoke Ukrainian at home with their families. But in everyday life, they felt comfortable speaking a mixture of Russian and Ukrainian, reflecting Crimea’s realities. As Taras explained, “but since all speak Russian, I speak Russian” (also Iulia, Bohdan). But by being Ukrainian-speaking, they differentiated themselves from Crimea’s Russian-speaking majority. Russians and Russia as Other

Similar to Ethnic Russians and Political Ukrainians, Ethnic Ukrainians dismissed suggestions of discrimination toward ethnic Russians, countering claims made by Politicized Russians and broader discourses of discrimination emanating from Russia. For example, without prompting, Taras complained for several minutes about how he could not comprehend such claims of discrimination, or the groups and individuals who made such claims: I do not quite understand Russians who fight for the Russian culture and Russian language in Crimea. I do not see that someone would infringe on the Russian language and culture in Crimea … I worked for a long time in the municipal administration. I do not see where there is prejudice. Why do they defend Russian language? What about it? … I do not see who would prohibit Russian culture, Russian songs, Russian artists, performances, so I do not see it simply; probably, it [discrimination] does not happen. But against this background is a brand that protects the Russian language and Russian culture; some politicians are constantly trying to support themselves. For Taras, and for Hanna, Russians’ claims of discrimination were part of a political project, magnifying or inventing problems at the everyday level. These problems, they argued, neither reflected everyday concerns nor divided society. Instead, people in Crimea were concerned, as Ethnic Russians also asserted, more with socioeconomic questions such as jobs and economic security than culture and language.

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Where Ethnic Ukrainians departed from previous categories was in a more robust construction of an ethnic and malign Russian other, implicit and explicit, with which they saw themselves in competition. For example, Petro explained how “everything is in Russian, Russian dominates completely. So, it is hard for Ukrainians to break through these blockades. Therefore, we are always in a fight.” In other words, some positioned themselves in a struggle in which they were the victims rather than the perpetrators (as Politicized Russians would suggest). Instrumental to this discourse of competition was the suggestion, on the part of Ethnic Ukrainians, that many ethnic Russians in Crimea were in a state of false consciousness. For example, Petro claimed that Crimean residents had been “made Russian-speaking” during the Soviet period and, as a result, these Russified Ukrainians retained a false sense of Russianness.26 Ethnic Ukrainians disconnected these ethnic Russians from Russia as a homeland by claiming they were simply ignorant about the state to which they longed to belong. As Viacheslav reasoned, “the vast majority have never been to Russia.” In particular, they blamed the Soviet “burden” for creating this false Russian consciousness and enduring legacy, as a “mark of illness, that today many Ukrainians are against Ukraine” (Petro, Viacheslav). Thus, Ethnic Ukrainians perceived identification as Russian as being based on misguided idealizations of Russia and a lack of experience of what Russia was really like. Ethnic Ukrainians also suggested that there were fewer differences between them and ethnic Russians in Crimea, at least in regard to the Soviet generation, than now existed between them and Russians in Russia. As Viacheslav explained: Well, to some extent, I also feel [like] a Soviet person. I also feel that this Soviet burden crushes on me. So, I do not see any difference between me and Russians, between me and the Russians … I see some differences between me and Crimean Tatars. But I do not see significant differences between the … I can see the difference between me and you … between me and Russians, ethnic Russian Crimeans, I see no difference. But I see now more difference between Russians living in Russia. On the one hand, Ethnic Ukrainians identified commonalities between themselves and the ethnic Russian other, related to common Soviet experiences and the projection by Ethnic Russians of a false consciousness of ethnic Russianness. On the other hand, they believed that cer-

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tain factors differentiated them from, and positioned them in competition with Russia, which they perceived as a greater other than ethnic Russians in Crimea. This discourse of competition connects Ethnic Ukrainians theoretically, though not empirically, to Politicized Russians. Both cohorts constructed overly simplistic narratives about ethnic Russians in Crimea, as native to Crimea (Politicized Russians) or as Russified Ukrainians (Ethnic Ukrainians). Each narrative reinforced its own, mutually exclusive form of self-identification. In turn, these narratives erased the legitimacy of the other by overlooking the complexity of Crimea as a region that many had migrated to from elsewhere in Russia and Ukraine, as exemplified in the life histories of Ethnic Russians and Political Ukrainians. We’re Ukrainian and Crimea Is Ukrainian

Ethnic Ukrainians framed Crimea as anchored to the rest of Ukraine. As one participant explained, “Ukraine, for me, is a single whole, and that Crimea is a single whole with Ukraine is very important to me” (Petro, Bohdan also).27 Some had some interesting reflections on their experiences of coming to Crimea for the first time. Petro, who relocated in the early 1990s, framed Crimea as lagging behind Ukraine’s other regions in terms of de-Sovietization: When I arrived, I could not come to terms with what is happening here. Crimea, in comparison to other areas, is very behind. Then, when I came, the Communists were still in power, although in Lviv already, the democrats were fully in this direction. [There were still] collective farms [Kolzhozi]. There was a war for the land … I mean, I went through this whole process. Ethnic Ukrainians also mirrored other categories by professing their belonging to Crimea. For example, Viacheslav commented that “I consider myself Crimean,” even though “I was not born in Crimea.” Ethnic Ukrainians thus celebrated their status within a tolerant, multicultural Crimea – an ordinary part of Ukraine, regardless of its regional peculiarities. Ethnic Ukrainians were pleased that “Russia’s attractiveness” had weakened for Crimean society. As they saw it, Ukraine was “developing quite peacefully” with “no bloody conflict” since independence (Taras, Viacheslav, Petro), and they were optimistic about Crimea’s direction within Ukraine. Reflecting on the past, Taras identified how

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the situation “used to be much worse” in the early 1990s, when “a lot of people with a Ukrainian passport did not consider themselves” to be Ukrainian. Now, as Bohdan suggested, the idea was that a “single political nation … was not so far away” and would happen in “ten to fifteen years.” Ethnic Ukrainians saw that even if Crimea was currently anchored to a Soviet legacy, “Crimea is changing. Slowly, badly, but it is changing” (Viacheslav). Taras explained: The vast majority of Crimean residents, regardless of nationality, consider themselves citizens of Ukraine … I live here – it means that I need to be a citizen. And then to participate in the political life of the country, in the elections and so on. However, unlike previous categories, Ethnic Ukrainians saw the potential for more “insecurity” in Crimea. For example, Petro reasoned that even if support for Russia was “decreasing every year,” nonetheless “tomorrow” there could be a referendum and “63 to 70 per cent can vote” in favour of separatism. Ethnic Ukrainians, therefore, unfalteringly supported Crimea as an essential part of Ukraine. However, they expressed fear that this was not a sentiment shared by most of Crimea’s residents – jarringly prophetic, given what would occur a few months later with the referendum (albeit a coercive one) in support of annexation by Russia. Despite their ethnic identification with Ukraine, Ethnic Ukrainians were critical of ethnic Ukrainian nationalism that they saw as unhelpful in the Crimean context. Bohdan explained: I am not a supporter of the idea that Crimea in the future expects to go to Russia, for example … I believe that Crimea is a part of Ukraine, but at the same time, I, of course, do not accept Ukrainian nationalism. I live in Crimea. I certainly understand that there is still a majority of ethnic Russians, that the Russian language is dominant here. But I can safely speak Ukrainian with Ukrainians. But I am, at the same time, I understand that the language of inter-ethnic communication in Crimea is still Russian. And it will be so. In particular, their criticism of the “artificial Ukrainization of Crimea” was similar, ironically, to what Politicized Russians disliked and denigrated, even if Ethnic Ukrainians imagined themselves as directly in competition with the discourses advanced by Politicized Russians (and vice versa). Importantly, Ethnic Ukrainians perceived

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Ukrainization policies as “forcing” and “speeding up” the integration of Crimea into Ukraine through the deliberate creation of a Ukrainian consciousness that “will bring nothing but harm” (Bohdan). Instead, Bohdan believed that the Ukrainian language should be “taking root” as a “natural” process and not a deliberate one imposed by Kyiv. Regarding de-Sovietization, Bohdan identified the engine of change as the younger, post-Soviet generation. Thus, while Ethnic Ukrainians sought to malign Russia and undermine the consciousness of ethnic Russians in Crimea, they were becoming more confident that Crimean residents were becoming increasingly loyal to a Ukrainian political idea, in a process of de-Sovietization.

a frac tur ed a nd separat e d , c ro ss-c u t t i n g , o r co mpeti ng k i n m ajo r i t y Previous accounts of Crimea have assumed a stable and homogeneous ethnic Russian and pro-Russian majority to explain (away) annexation, as though Russian nationalism was a dog waiting to bark since the mid-1990s (for example, see Hughes and Sasse 2016).28 In contrast, this chapter demonstrates the fracturing of the Russian kin majority in terms of meanings of identification (Table 4.1). Referring to the case of Serbia, Caspersen (2008, 369–70; 2010) has argued for moving beyond seeing kin communities as ethnic monoliths. Caspersen’s perspective, however, focuses more on elite competition than on bottom-up contestations of meaning (the approach in this chapter). As such, we need to adopt a similar approach to explore and explicate how kin communities – and kin majorities, in particular – may contest meaning in non-uniform ways. By systematizing these fracturings, we can examine these constellations of plural identifications to understand whether, and for whom, identification as Crimean, Ukrainian, and Russian relate to each other in competing, cross-cutting, separated, or nested ways. For some, Ukrainization state policies were competing against legitimate forms of Russian identification (Politicized Russians), while for others, Russian nationalism was in competition with Ukrainian identification (Ethnic Ukrainians). Others identified primarily and separately as Ukrainian, but did not invoke this identification through a lens of competition (Political Ukrainians). Many expressed and negotiated plural and cross-cutting forms of identification, demonstrating other ways (i.e., minus competition with Ukraine) to be ethnically Russian (Ethnic Russians), or as signifying Crimea’s territorial and ethnic hybridity (Crimeans).

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These fracturings in Crimea also point to flux in meanings of identification across generations, where identification is affected by socialization via political regimes, ideas, and experiences, and how these intersect with family norms and experiences (especially for Political Ukrainians). These processes, and how they affect the meanings of identification, challenge how ethnicity has been conceived of in terms of family descent, or at least as a “myth” of common ancestry that appears “sticky” and unchangeable (for examples, see Smith 1998; Chandra 2006). In Crimea, we see how myths of common ancestry, and meanings of ethnic identification, are dynamic across generations. Even within the same family, how participants identified and gave meaning to that identification could differ and be contested. This idea of fracturing in Crimea is also relevant politically. First, we can be more critical of the idea that to be Russian in Crimea before annexation was to be, or to identify as, discriminated against; in fact, only a politicized minority articulated such a discourse. Second, we can also question the homogenizing constructions of Russianness projected by the Russian state. Under Putin, Suslov (2018, 15) argues, Russia has advanced an idea of “Russianness” and the Russian world (russkii mir), “not as many shades of hybridity but as a single chain of sameness … as a monolithic body of the Russian people, Russian state, Russian lands, Russian culture, and Russian values.” This chapter illuminates these “many shades of hybridity” and shows how meanings of Russian identification intersect with Ukrainian and Crimean forms of identification. In particular, the generational shift toward Ukrainian political forms of identification in Crimea was striking, especially as these discourses are often invisible or silenced, particularly since Russia’s annexation in 2014 (Mishchenko 2020, 9–10). These divided meanings do not mean that Crimea was inherently divided and thus politically unstable, even if it appeared so a few months later with annexation. Rather, such divisions in Crimea suggested how negotiation in a situation of multiculturalism was possible. Moreover, participants articulated consciously how things had improved since the more politically unstable and ethnically contentious 1990s and early 2000s. Despite these divisions, across all categories, participants agreed that Crimea’s main problems were neither ethnicity, identity, nor language, but socioeconomic issues and poor governance by Donetsk-based clans. In the next chapter, I use the identification categories formulated in this chapter to map participants’ engagement with Russian kin-state practices in Crimea. Specifically, I examine the intersection between meanings of being Russian and engagement with kin-state practices of citizenship and quasi-citizenship.

5 Neither Russian Citizens nor Compatriots “One of the main differences between a civilized state and an uncivilized state is that it exists for people, and not vice versa. People can be anywhere – even abroad. They may have a passport of the Russian Federation, or it may not be, but if they speak Russian and feel their kinship with our country, they are compatriots.” Sergei Minaev (2002)

Shifting from identity to citizenship, this chapter explores engagement – or, more precisely, the lack of engagement – with Russian citizenship and the Compatriot policy, an example of quasi-citizenship. Given previous research, we might expect many in Crimea to have been, or to have desired to become, Russian citizens; and to have considered themselves Compatriots of Russia. But this chapter shows how Russian citizenship was inaccessible to a smaller constituency and undesirable to a larger one, such that few thought of themselves as Compatriots during the period of calm before annexation in 2014. As a most likely case of engagement with the Compatriot policy and Russian passportization, we might expect a wider constituency in Crimea to have been engaging with Russia via citizenship and quasi-citizenship than the findings in this chapter suggest. After all, the lens of passportization suggests that many in Crimea were Russian citizens, and had wanted to become Russian citizens prior to Russia’s annexation. For example, many observers described passportization as Crimea’s Achilles heel and a “post-factum” justification for annexation (Stjepanovic´ 2018, 100; see also Grigas 2016). In the wake of annexation, Charles King (2014) described Crimea as a “tinderbox” due to passportization, which, in turn, suggested pro-Russian allegiances on the part of residents. Yet, the lens of passportization fails to account for uncertainty over how many Crimean residents became Russian citizens before 2014, with reports ranging from six thousand to a hundred thousand (or 0.25 to 4

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per cent of Crimea’s population).1 Indeed, as Wrighton (2018) argues, Crimea was passportized after annexation, not before.2 After annexation, Crimea’s residents faced a stark choice, in a “climate of fear and repression,” to become Russian citizens automatically and retain property rights, or register as a foreigner within three months and obtain a residency permit (Human Rights Watch 2016). With Russia in breach of the Geneva Convention, news reports showed large crowds queueing at the few Russian Federal Migration Service offices to register and gain documentation, such as passports, in the weeks following annexation (Barabanov 2014; bbc Monitoring – Former Soviet Union 2014).3 Dissenting Russian politicians suggested that the coercive policy would not make for “a republic inside Russia, but a concentration camp inside Russia” (Forsberg and Mäkinen 2019). The lens of passportization also assumes individuals to have been passportized by Russia, without accounting for individuals’ agency, preferences, and actions. We need to revisit the assumptions surrounding the presence and practice of Russian citizenship in Crimea before annexation, and to understand how these practices intersect with meanings of identification. By tracing the intersection of practices and meanings of identification using the identification categories from Chapter 4, this chapter explores how far identification as Russian was driving engagement with citizenship practices. We might expect those with a stronger pro-Russian identification to have been the most likely to engage with Russia – namely Politicized Russians, who identified as discriminated against, as noted in the previous chapter. Certainly, Politicized Russians were the most interested in Russian citizenship, desiring to further their nesting and integration with Russia. All the other categories, however, saw Russian citizenship as an irrelevant, separate practice, or a competitive threat. In fact, the absence of discussions of Russian citizenship in Crimea was notable; such discussions did not spontaneously emerge in conversation, as those regarding Romanian citizenship did in Moldova, except among the small, pro-Russian minority of Politicized Russians. We may also imagine Crimea as a most likely case of engagement with the Compatriot policy. In 2008, in South Ossetia and Abkhazia, Russia argued that it had an obligation to protect Russian citizens in these territories (which Russia had passportized) from purported violence. But in Crimea, Russia used the Compatriot policy – not only citizenship – as justification for annexation. On 1 March 2014, Putin appealed to the Federation Council, Russia’s parliamentary upper house, to allow Russia to use armed force in Ukraine because of “the threat to citizens of the Russian Federation, our compatriots, the personnel of the

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military contingent of the Russian Federation Armed Forces [stationed in Sevastopol]” (President of Russia 2014d).4 By alleging that the peninsula’s residents needed protection from a potential massacre at the hands of a discriminatory Ukrainian government, Russia invoked the “Kosovo precedent” to securitize Compatriots in Crimea (President of Russia 2014a). However, as Wanner argues, this securitizing logic implied that Compatriots in Crimea were “easily identifiable” as a community at risk (Wanner 2014, 428–30; see also Allison 2014). This chapter examines whether engagement with Russia via quasi-citizenship necessarily demonstrates such a Compatriot consciousness. I note how only a small number of participants (Politicized Russians) deemed it legitimate that Russia conceive of them – Crimean residents – as Compatriots. In other words, the Compatriot policy failed to appeal to the hearts and minds of most participants in the period preceding annexation. The few who did identify as Compatriots (Politicized Russians) were dissatisfied with the Compatriot policy and its meagre offerings of resettlement and scholar places. They did not wish to leave Crimea but desired what was out of reach: citizenship, to achieve nesting with Russia. In other words, identification provides some leverage to explicate the surprising disinterest in quasi-citizenship, as well as insight into which types of participants saw quasi-citizenship as a poor substitute for citizenship. Beyond identification, this chapter reveals an important organizational component to the Compatriot policy, with Politicized Russians being the most involved with the Compatriot policy. Konstantin Kosachev argued in 2012, while head of Rossotrudnichestvo, that Russia needed to “step up its resource support” for Compatriots because they had “no funds for any serious efforts, except pure ‘club work’” (Kosachev 2012).5 This idea of “club work” reflects how the Compatriot policy functioned on the ground in Crimea before annexation, with Politicized Russians (or “professional Russians”) – the gatekeepers to the Compatriot policy club and its resources – mobilizing claims of identification to line their pockets. The presence of organizational ties helps to explicate engagement with what the Compatriot policy offered and dissatisfaction with what it failed to provide (citizenship). Meanwhile, the absence of organizational ties speaks to a majority disinterested in identifying with Russia and too apathetic to engage with Russia via kin-state policies. Overall, identification gets us some way to understanding practices of citizenship and quasi-citizenship. For example, specific articulations of identification help to elucidate the presence and desirability of practices, since it was only those identifying with Russia (Politicized Russians)

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who wished to be nested with Russia. Meanwhile, for those identifying fully or partially as Russian (Ethnic Russians and Crimeans), their cross-cutting forms of identification did not translate to cross-cutting citizenship practices or preferences. In turn, identification also provides leverage for understanding the presence and absence of organizational ties. Here, Compatriot networks aligned with those who desired Russian citizenship and demonstrated a general interest in, but also dissatisfaction with, the Compatriot policy.

absent pr acti c es o f rus si a n c i t i z e n sh i p While existing literature suggests that engagement with Russian citizenship should be prevalent in Crimea, citizenship was an absent discourse and practice in the peninsula, at least before 2014 – especially compared to the strong presence of Romanian citizenship in Moldova. This chapter does not intend to survey potential Russian citizens in Crimea. Indeed, we know there were pockets of Russian citizens in Sevastopol – among Russian state employees of the Black Sea Fleet military bases around Sevastopol (Gundarov 2007), military pensioners, and those who acquired citizenship in the 1990s when the legal situation was fuzzier (bbc Monitoring – Former Soviet Union 2008c). But I argue that Russian citizenship was neither an en masse practice for ordinary Crimean residents nor a desirable practice for most participants on the eve of annexation. More broadly, Ukraine viewed Russian citizenship competitively and as a security threat. Many accused the Russian Consulate in Simferopol of distributing passports, especially after Russia’s 2008 invasion of Georgia.6 But local Crimean authorities and the Russian consulate denied this, calling it the “myth” of Russian passport mass distribution (Pimenov 2008; bbc Monitoring – Former Soviet Union 2008c; Karavaev 2008; Vasin 2008; ria Novosti 2008). In part, Russia’s consulate claimed it had limited capacity to provide such assistance or for processing applications on the scale that passportization would require (bbc Monitoring – Former Soviet Union 2008d). Instead, news reports described how the “law-abiding masses” would only seek out Russian citizenship if Ukrainian law changed to make it legal to be a dual citizen (Karavaev 2008), something that seemed unlikely at the time and even more so since annexation (bbc Monitoring – Former Soviet Union 1999). In this contentious context, we need to understand more about practices of Russian citizenship. Specifically, we need to explore how Russian citizenship was conceived of and used by participants – or, more to the

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Table 5.1 | Practices of Russian citizenship in Crimea Identification implication (from Chapter 3)

Engaged with Russian citizenship

Politicized Russians

Competing with Ukrainian state and Ukrainian identity

No

Ethnic Russians

Russian and Ukrainian identity as cross-cutting

No

Political Ukrainians

Separated from Russian identity

No

Crimeans

Russian and Ukrainian identity as cross-cutting

No

Ethnic Ukrainians

Competing with Russian state and Russian identity

No

Desire Russian citizenship

Yes

Mostly no

No

Mostly no

No

Citizenship implication

Nested with Russia

Competing with Russia

Competing with Russia Separated from Russia

Competing with Russia

point, why Russian citizenship was not desired. We also need to examine whether identification may help to explicate this absence of engagement for most participants. We might expect, for example, Politicized Russians to be the most engaged with citizenship, and Ethnic Ukrainians the least. While this is broadly true, no participants were holders of Russian citizenship (Table 5.1). Only Politicized Russians were interested in engaging with Russian citizenship should it become legal, which it was not prior to 2014. Aside from Politicized Russians, participants expressed loyalty to the Ukrainian state and the norm of single citizenship. They rejected Russian citizenship, and framed it as illegitimate and as separate from (Crimeans) or competitive with (Ethnic Russians, Political Ukrainians, Ethnic Ukrainians) Ukrainian citizenship.

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Politicized Russians: Wanting to be Russian Citizens

Given their strong identification as Russian and pro-Russian, and their antipathy toward Ukraine, we might expect Politicized Russians to be the most likely to be Russian citizens. Indeed, Politicized Russians wanted to be Russian citizens and desired that Russia lobby for them to acquire dual citizenship, and thereby enable them to become better nested, via citizenship, within the Russian state. However, they had neither become, nor were able to become, Russian citizens. Politicized Russians wanted Russian citizenship to increase their leverage vis-à-vis Ukraine, which they perceived as discriminating against them. Thus, their perceptions of discrimination aligned with their motivations for citizenship, and were pivotal to determining who was (and was not) motivated to acquire Russian citizenship. With this alignment, the politically intersecting nature both of discrimination narratives and of the desire for Russian citizenship becomes evident, spurred on by pro-Russian organizations such as Russkaia Obshchina Kryma (rok ) and its political party, Russkoe Edinstvo (re ), in which Politicized Russians were often involved. disappointed by broken promises For many years, the promises of dual citizenship rights and Russian as a state language had been used as electoral issues – by pro-Russia Ukrainian politicians from Leonid Kuchma, in 1994, to Victor Yanukovych, in 2004 – to win votes. However, after winning office, they quickly forgot these promises and, in fact, did nothing to alter Ukraine’s status as a unitary state with a single state language and single citizenship (Shevel 2013). In turn, according to re ’s leader Sergei Aksenov, many grew tired with giving “their votes to irresponsible politicians from year to year who promise dual citizenship, language and do nothing at the same time” (Portal of the Russian People of Crimea 2010b). Within Crimea, desire for Russian citizenship prompted small-scale but consistent protests, led by pro-Russian groups in particular, and attended mostly by elderly women. They would gather outside Simferopol’s Russian consulate and Crimea’s parliament holding placards: “We demand second Russian citizenship for Ukraine’s Russians!” and “Russia, protect rights of Ukraine’s Russians!” (bbc Monitoring – Former Soviet Union 2004; bbc Monitoring – Former Soviet Union 2007; bbc Monitoring – Former Soviet Union 2008f). For pro-Russian organizations and their supporters, dual citizenship was the solution to the problem of discrimination in and by Ukraine as well as a path toward more humanizing

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treatment in Russia by obviating the need for “humiliating registrations and the shameful nickname ‘guest worker’” (Portal of the Russian People of Crimea 2010a). Such themes were explicitly confirmed by Politicized Russians. When I asked members of this identification category what they wanted from Russia, it was simple: Russian citizenship. Meanwhile other categories sought nothing from Russia or wished to be left alone. For example, Artiom, who was associated with the youth wing of re , responded immediately that what he wanted from Russia was precisely dual citizenship:

ek: What benefits and rights would you like to receive? artiom: For example, you probably read about dual citizenship, about the federalization of Ukraine? The majority of the population of Ukraine appear to … well, half of the citizens of Ukraine are for dual citizenship, just because we’re next to the Russian Federation. And if, on the negotiation process, simply like the possibility in the gas conflict, Russia says, “we will give you twenty dollars to become a dual citizen.” We understand that this will not happen, but if Russia insisted that Ukraine is a small partner, Ukraine would agree. More than Russian citizenship, Artiom desired more action from Russia on lobbying, if not coercing, Ukraine to enable its citizens to become dual citizens. Svetlana, too, described how they were lobbying Russia to provide more rights – as Compatriots in pro-Russian organizations – to citizenship (something I discuss further, below). They were asking that Russia offer them citizenship and press Ukraine to make dual citizenship legal and normal, so that they could live as fully functioning dual citizens.7 Maybe Politicized Russians were deflecting from their real citizenship status, fearful of telling a foreign researcher that they held dual citizenship with Russia, which was illegal in Ukraine. This is possible. But, the logic of wanting Russian citizenship, of failed campaigns of asking Russia and advocating for Russian citizenship to be available and legal, suggests that Crimea was a far cry away from the passportization claims advanced in previous accounts. Public statements by pro-Russian politicians in Crimea likewise confirm both the absence of Russian citizenship and the desire for it, as well as their campaigns for legal changes to permit and normalize dual citizenship. For example, in 2009, rok leader Sergei Tsekov echoed the same narrative of desiring Russian citizenship and being unable to access it (Portal of the Russian People of Crimea 2009):

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I do not have a passport of a citizen of the Russian Federation. I will not hide. I would like to receive it. But the Ukrainian authorities put us in such conditions that people who want to get Russian passports are forced to renounce Ukrainian citizenship. And this is a rejection of political rights. There is a vicious circle. To open it, you need dual citizenship between Ukraine and Russia, spelled out simultaneously in the laws of two states, or in an interstate agreement. Their calls unanswered, Politicized Russians were left feeling that Russia was “timid” and preferred a “pragmatic approach” toward ethnic Russians in Crimea (Artiom, Dmitrii, Yurii, Aleksandr, Olga, Evgenii). The perception, on the part of Politicized Russians, of a passive Russia presents a different view on the passportization scenario, one that ignores those who were campaigning for rights to Russian citizenship in Crimea. For example, Yurii wanted more from support Russia, in the form of citizenship, and an end to Russia’s passivity:

yurii: Well, help – we are a nation, we cannot get enough … I want to see more help. ek: How more? What do you want from Russia? yurii: Well, I think many Crimeans would like, well, I do not know. So, there would be that dual citizenship … ek: You want dual citizenship? yurii: Well, first of all, in Sevastopol – as it were, behind the scenes – there it is easy to get two passports. It’s illegal, but … ek: Yes, yes, yes. Do you want it to be possible? yurii: Well, of course, because there are many Crimeans with relatives in Russia. ek: Well, why do you want it to be possible? Only because of relatives? yurii: Well, relatives … so grandchildren feel themselves still, let’s just say related. Because Russia is considered their homeland. Politicized Russians were thus critical of Russia’s stance. They wanted Russia to be more involved in their affairs, to enable their nesting within the framework of the Russian state, even if this was conceived of as being competition within and by Ukraine. wanting citizenship to increase rights against ukraine Politicized Russians wanted Russian citizenship for reasons both material and symbolic: to be closer to Russia and thus to share the rights and benefits that Russian citizens enjoyed, such as higher pensions (Yurii,

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Vitalii). Some, such as Vitalii, conceived of Russian citizenship as more “convenient,” believing that it would enhance their rights and improve their situation across the border within Russia: And this dual citizenship, from that point of view, would be convenient. Because now I come to Russia, I have to go to the police to put a stamp that I only live there for a fixed time, yes. Then I must leave, even for a day, and come back again to put a stamp. Equally, this coarticulation of Russian citizenship and emigration made the prospect of Russian citizenship seem less desirable. Politicized Russians did not want to leave Crimea but wished to remain in situ, only with more rights and leverage. For others, mistreatment of ethnic Russians and the concomitant desire for dual citizenship spoke to the weakness of the Ukrainian state. Mikhail, for example, wanted dual citizenship to be rendered pointless by virtue of the Ukrainian state becoming less discriminatory and marginalizing: I think that there is no need for it [Russian citizenship] today. After all, with a Ukrainian passport, you can calmly cross the Russian border. We [the Russkoe Edinstvo political party] say that, so citizens are not tempted to want dual citizenship. That is, their native state should not create an environment in which people will need it there to get a second citizenship. They will be adequately protected. They will have social benefits, conditions, opportunities in the country so they will not need it [citizenship]. Often people seek dual citizenship as an element of defence or something. That is, all of a sudden, here we come down, and there will be at least some options and prospects elsewhere. But I believe that it is necessary to build a perspective where you live, on this. In other words, Mikhail conceived as problematic the need to campaign for Russian citizenship, a need rooted in the perception of discrimination. If Politicized Russians felt less discriminated against, they would not need, or wish, to be Russian citizens. Given the antipathy of Politicized Russians toward Ukraine, their respect for the Ukrainian norm of singular citizenship was especially surprising. Several stated that they did not wish to “break any law of Ukraine in any way” (Olga, Yurii). They desired that Russia’s policy and Ukraine’s law change, so that holding dual citizenship was not illegal. Or they wanted

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dual citizenship to be made irrelevant by improving Russian-language rights and relations with Russia (Mikhail). As Mikhail explained: Today, Russians in Crimea – they are citizens of Ukraine. Today, everyone is thinking about how it is necessary and how to expand our cooperation with Russia, and certainly not to lose a cultural, so to speak, communication, neither humanitarian nor economic … That is, the vast majority of the citizens of Ukraine, in any case – that is, given that today [it] is still most of the population – supports the independence of Ukraine … For that reason, we believe that today Russians should normally adapt, so to speak, in the Ukrainian state, and here live by the laws of this state … You see, for us [in Russkoe Edinstvo], it really is a project which enables today Russians that are really in Ukraine to feel like full citizens because of the skewed Ukrainization population over the past nineteen years – that is, twenty – Ukraine’s independence is clearly outlined. Thus, Mikhail emphasized his view that the desire for Russian citizenship represented a failure, on Ukraine’s part, to offer full citizenship to ethnic Russians, circumscribed by discrimination and an absence of full rights. Overall, despite their competitive Russian identity vis-à-vis Ukraine, Politicized Russians nonetheless demonstrated a nested understanding of citizenship. They wished to become more integrated within the Russian state and national framework, but in legal ways that respected Ukrainian norms and ameliorated what they perceived as their lesser status and discrimination within Ukraine. Ethnic Russians: To Neither Want nor Need Russian Citizenship

Ethnic Russians shared a cross-cutting form of identification that situated them between Ukraine and Russia, while feeling a “kinship” to Russia via relatives who lived there (Vadim, Nadezhda, Vladislav). But for Ethnic Russians, cross-cutting identification did not correspond to cross-cutting understandings of citizenship. Instead, they had a more mutually exclusive and competing understanding of citizenship. For example, most Ethnic Russians not only saw Russian citizenship as undesirable and unnecessary, but were also against rights to dual citizenship, believing that individuals should choose between Russia and Ukraine.

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russian citizenship as unnecessary Ethnic Russians explicitly rebuked the notion of needing Russian citizenship, as this exchange with Vadim demonstrates:

ek: And what do you think about the issue of dual citizenship in Crimea? vadim: I think that’s nonsense. This is nonsense. ek: Why? vadim: But it’s not necessary for anyone. That is, is it possible to get? To me, it’s nothing. You understand … Therefore, it is nonsense – dual citizenship. It is necessary for nobody. This is nonsense. Sharing this idea that Russian citizenship and dual citizenship were “nonsense,” Anatolii saw Russian citizenship as unimportant and “just a passport”: his state was Ukraine and he did not need citizenship from another. Unlike Politicized Russians, who desired the rights they perceived as attached to Russian citizenship, several Ethnic Russians commented that becoming a Russian citizen had no relevant material benefits, as they already enjoyed work and travel rights in Russia as non-citizens (Anatolii, Vadim, Anastasia). Not only did most Ethnic Russians not want Russian citizenship, but they associated it with specific groups of people: those who resided in Sevastopol and those who wanted to leave for Russia. For example, Anastasia had known dual citizens, but only in Sevastopol, not elsewhere in Crimea:

ek: What do you think about the question of dual citizenship? anastasia: In Ukraine, it is banned, but some of my classmates, some had dual citizenship – Russian and Ukrainian. ek: They are in Sevastopol? anastasia: In Sevastopol, yes, they had it there. But here, more in Crimea, I haven’t met anyone with dual citizenship … I do not know. I think dual citizenship makes no sense. Thus, Anastasia knew others with Russian citizenship but saw it as irrelevant to her situation. Denis also described the popularity of Russian citizenship in Sevastopol, but associated it with persons who wished to leave Crimea to improve their lives and prospects:

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And half of my class from school [in Sevastopol], they are citizens of Russia. Several people received citizenship in five years. It is connected only with money. This is due only to the fact that in Moscow, it is in Moscow, you can earn much more than here. That is, it is a business, just business. For political motivation, I do not know anyone, really. Thus, material motivations remained a relevant discourse. Ethnic Russians knew others who had acquired, or wished to acquire, Russian citizenship within specific pockets of Crimea, but did not share the same “business” interests or motivations. supporting the legal status quo Ethnic Russians also demonstrated greater respect for Ukraine’s current legal situation, and support for maintaining the legal status quo, than Politicized Russians. Ethnic Russians wanted Ukraine to continue to forbid dual citizenship. For example, Ekaterina explained her support for single citizenship as a marker of patriotism toward Ukraine. In particular, many Ethnic Russians believed that individuals should have to “choose” between Ukraine and Russia, rather than be a member of both (Anatolii, Ekaterina). Ethnic Russians were happy to choose Ukraine, and not Russia, as “my country” (Anatolii, Ekaterina), confirming their view of citizenship as mutually exclusive and competing. But not all Ethnic Russians saw citizenship as a mutually exclusive choice. Instead, Irina saw Ukraine’s unwillingness to accept dual citizenship as signalling the state’s “weakness” and paranoia:

ek: Do you want that [holding] two passports is not illegal? irina: Well, I think that Ukraine will sooner or later arrive at dual citizenship. I think, on the contrary, it does not fall apart after that, as many think, but just that it’s more comfortable for citizens. I’m telling you, in Russia there is a practice of dual citizenship, and no one is afraid that everything will fall apart, and it’s fine. Many countries allow dual citizenship itself, right? England, probably, too … Ukraine is somehow very nervous about this … No, I do not think they have these passports [for any influence over the state], just as a means to their own safety. That is, they can at any time leave the country or go there. And impact on the Ukrainian statehood – I think it has absolutely none. In other words, Irina wanted to move beyond seeing citizenship as mutually exclusive, and dual citizenship as threatening to Ukraine’s statehood, believing this merely showed Ukraine’s weakness as a state.

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Indeed, a very few Ethnic Russians wanted dual citizenship rights, including Russian citizenship. Sergei wanted the rights and opportunities of Russian citizenship, to be able to work in Russia more freely and to further the possible reintegration of Crimea and Ukraine with Russia. But Sergei was also involved with rok , which, as I note above, was lobbying for Russian citizenship rights. Dinara saw dual citizenship as an opportunity to “live better,” whether it be citizenship in Russia or elsewhere. For Dinara, dual citizenship acted almost as an insurance policy – not “bad to have,” because “you don’t know what there will be tomorrow” in terms of material items like money and bread. Such framing of dual citizenship as an insurance policy also resonated with how Romanian citizenship was perceived in Moldova, as I explain in Chapter 7. More broadly, however, most Ethnic Russians understood Russian citizenship as undesirable, unnecessary, and in competition with their loyalty to Ukraine. Political Ukrainians: Dual Citizenship Is Okay If It’s Not Russian Citizenship

With a sense of identity separate from Russia and their denigration of Russia, Political Ukrainians demonstrated a mutually exclusive and competing understanding of Russian citizenship. For example, they believed that individuals should choose Ukrainian or Russian citizenship according to where they wanted to live and with which state they wished to identify. They also expressed this sentiment more strongly and uniformly than Ethnic Russians. As Grigorii explained, “if we live in Ukraine, we have to have [only] Ukrainian citizenship.” Like Ethnic Russians, many Political Ukrainians saw Russian citizenship as pointless and something they did not want. Russian citizenship was also something they knew little about or were disinterested in discussing:

ek: Do you think that it’s still possible to receive Russian citizenship? daniil: Here? ek: Yes. daniil: I don’t know. I don’t want to receive Russian citizenship, so I’m not interested in this question. Among Political Ukrainians, the exception in this regard was Tamara, who was studying in Russia on a Compatriot scholarship. With but few opportunities for becoming a journalist in Ukraine, she described it as

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“cool” (kruto) to become a Russian citizen as it would enable her to work and earn money. Thus, only a single Political Ukrainian was able to envisage living in Russia and becoming a Russian citizen, to improve her life chances. But Tamara was also a beneficiary of Russia’s Compatriot policy, which I return to below when discussing engagement with quasi-citizenship. Tamara’s endorsement of Russian citizenship was even starker compared to most Political Ukrainians, who saw Russian citizenship not only as pointless but sinister in comparison to dual citizenship more generally (Timur). For example, Aliona had no problem with dual citizenship in general, especially “if you get married to someone from abroad, and you want to live here, or there, with your family.” But Aliona was more critical of Russian citizenship, thinking that if people “needed” Russian citizenship then they should “leave for Russia” (Alla also). In essence, they believed that individuals “should be citizens of their state,” and only their state (Aliona, Grigorii, Vita, Roman, Inna). Political Ukrainians held antipathy toward Russian citizenship largely because they deemed it a threat, politically and geopolitically. They knew no one personally who had acquired Russian citizenship, but assumed that obtaining it was possible and popular in Crimea (Gennadii, Timur, Daria, Nadia). Several cited Russia’s passportization activities in South Ossetia and the risk posed to Ukraine by Russia’s “aggressive mentality” (Viktor, Alla). This criticism by Political Ukrainians of Russian citizenship as aggressive and competitive was consistent with their approach to Russia, which they saw as undermining Ukraine and using Crimea “like a hook” to coerce Kyiv (Alla, Timur, Vera, Oksana, Daniil). Overall, Political Ukrainians framed citizenship as a mutually exclusive choice – even more strongly than Ethnic Russians – with Ukraine being forced to protect itself from Russian aggression, including Russian citizenship. Crimeans: Hybrid Identification but Single Citizenship

Crimeans were a cross-cutting category with a hybrid identification that positioned them between Ukraine and Russia regarding identification, family ties, and territorially. However, turning to citizenship, most Crimeans had a separate understanding of citizenship. They did not conceive of citizenship as a mutually exclusive choice, as Political Ukrainians and Ethnic Russians did, but were nonetheless unmotivated by and disinterested in Russian citizenship. Crimeans saw Russia as close by and having a “very strong position” in Crimea (Ruslan). At the same time, like Ethnic Russians and Political Ukrainians, most Crimeans saw Russian citizenship, as well as

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dual citizenship, as “not necessary” for them (Nina, Stanislav, Larisa). For example, Stanislav framed dual citizenship as unnecessary for ordinary people: So, I do not know. If you go to work, work. What prevents working there? Why citizenship? Well, if you go to Israel, for example … but there is, in principle, open entry, but at least open and enter. It’s difficult to work there … I do not think we need dual citizenship. But why? And so, for us mere mortals … Dual citizenship is not necessary … That is, you need dual citizenship to decide where you want to live? So, you determine first and then choose the citizenship. Like Political Ukrainians, most Crimeans associated Russian citizenship with being resident in Russia – that is, with choosing a place to live (Nina, Stanislav, Larisa). Although Crimeans framed citizenship less normatively than Political Ukrainians, who thought Russian citizens ought to reside in Russia, most Crimeans neither wanted nor needed the material benefits of Russian citizenship. Most had no desire to emigrate to Russia and could already travel there. And, relating Russian citizenship to emigration, Crimeans did not perceive that Russian citizenship posed a threat for Crimea or Ukraine. The exception was Ruslan, an employee of Rossotrudnichestvo and thus a functionary of the Compatriot policy. Ruslan wanted the opportunities that the right to dual citizenship could provide and explicitly described citizenship as a right he wanted, alongside stronger language rights:

ek: And what do you want in Crimea in the future? ruslan: Me, personally? ek: Yes ruslan: Well, I personally – it is my personal opinion? ek: Yes, yes, yes. ruslan: Dual citizenship. Russian language in Ukraine, like a second national language. ek: Dual citizenship – how? ruslan: I mean, I cannot get citizenship of Ukraine and get citizenship from either Belarus, even Russia, even the United States, even Israel, though there anyone you want … Now, this. Russian language as the second [state language] in Ukraine, Ukrainian and Russian please. Well, yes. Perhaps … well, the reform of the judicial system. ek: Well, why dual citizenship? ruslan: Why dual? Well, so I can work where I want. You see,

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well, if I’m here now … I worked all my life in the state structure, yes. Here I am now, going to work somewhere, I’m coming to retirement age, I’ll get dual citizenship. Ukraine will say to me: you have dual citizenship, we will not pay you a pension. And with dual citizenship, I can get a pension in Ukraine and work somewhere else. I can move around the world. I can do so. I’m interested. My son will be even more interested. Because the normal process of globalization is going. Why should one, so to speak, live, work, well … Man must live where there is work, not work where you live … Right? Ruslan wanted the material opportunities of citizenship, such as a higher pension or a better job for his son, and viewed dual citizenship as a normal right in a globalized world. I return to Ruslan below as a beneficiary of the Compatriot policy. Most Crimeans supported Ukraine’s policy of singular citizenship, believing that it was “better” (Larisa, Stanislav). For his part, however, Ruslan believed that Ukraine should not be “afraid” of dual citizenship (like Irina, an Ethnic Russian), and he raised the issue twice. The second time, Ruslan reiterated: They are afraid. They are afraid for two reasons: first of all, politically, because it is feared … Well, let’s say in Crimea I told you, Ukraine is afraid that if you give dual citizenship, then people will immediately get citizenship from the Russian Federation … And then there is some conflict, well, you never know what can be. Russia says, excuse me, you in Crimea have offended the citizens of the Russian Federation. You have in Crimea about one and a half million out of two million who are the citizens of the Russian Federation. And just, Ukraine – what? That is what they fear. Second, well, that, for example, although I think it’s a baseless excuse, baseless. I do not think anyone would drag Crimea … Well, here it is … Here Chechnya, Russia cannot cope … And then there’s Crimea, well sit down. While some feared that Russian citizenship might be used as a pretext for conflict, Ruslan saw no threat to Ukraine in Russian citizenship, in part because Russia was not sufficiently invested in Crimea enough to pursue such a conflict after Chechnya.8 But overall, and aside from Ruslan, a beneficiary of the Compatriot policy, most Crimeans saw Russian citizenship as a choice of where to

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live, and as a practice both undesirable and separate from Ukrainian citizenship, despite their cross-cutting identification that situated them between Ukraine and Russia. Ethnic Ukrainians: The Geopolitical Risk of Dual Citizenship

Finally, Ethnic Ukrainians had a mutually exclusive understanding of identification, framing Russian identification in Crimea as based upon false consciousness and Russia as a competitive threat to their identification and to Ukraine. Ethnic Ukrainians understood the choice of Ukrainian or Russian citizenship as mutually exclusive and in competition, and were the most antagonistic toward Russian citizenship, viewing it as a competitive threat to Ukraine. Like Political Ukrainians, Ethnic Ukrainians saw Russia as a coercive actor that used Crimea to “blackmail Kyiv” and did not treat Ukraine as a wholly “foreign entity” because of Soviet ties (Viacheslav, Petro, Hanna, Bohdan). However, many were confident that Crimea was changing and becoming more integrated with Ukraine, as Taras argued: I would say that by far the vast majority of Crimean residents, regardless of nationality, consider themselves citizens of Ukraine. That is, this is not to say that this is the mentality, although where it intersects. It used to be much worse, so a lot of people with a Ukrainian passport did not consider themselves, that is, they received a passport because nowhere to go to live – you need a document. Now, most of them, most Crimeans consider themselves citizens of Ukraine. In other words, Taras saw Ukrainian citizenship becoming more desirable and functioning as a binding agent to the state. But Taras also later expressed concern that a section of Crimean society was aligned more with Russia than Ukraine in terms of citizenship preferences: While there is certainly a part of the population which is insignificant, which is not considered, although they have a passport, [they] do not consider themselves citizens of this country. And by hook or by crook, they try to get a Russian passport, of these also a lot. As many of those have two passports, including many people who get a second passport on the principle – “just in case.”

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Ethnic Ukrainians maligned Russian citizenship and what it meant for Ukraine’s cohesion and stability. While they were relieved that the threat of Russian citizenship was decreasing over time, as Petro explained, the salience of this threat to Ukrainian territorial integrity remained very real:

ek: And what do you think about Russian citizenship? Is it possible or not possible? petro : Well, we have the law. The constitution prohibits having dual citizenship. We should just have Ukrainian citizenship. While some manage to have dual citizenship, this is a violation of the law. In Russia, [they] allowed dual citizenship. Russian business is strong, especially in the south coast of Crimea, businessmen invest money in sanatoriums, boarding houses, buying land. ek: But do you think that there are people from Crimea who received Russian citizenship? petro : I think there is. Rumors circulate, there were many scandals. But I was not engaged. I kind of think that this should be handled by the Security Service, the police, and they reveal such facts. But they say that there is. ek: And what do you think? Is there an effect, if people receive Russian citizenship? petro : Well, of course, it is insecurity for Crimea, the more status of autonomy … Tomorrow they will say, let’s put to a referendum question the status of Crimea. We know that around 63 to 70 per cent can vote for it. This chance is decreasing every year, thank God. But today, there is insecurity. They are actively investing, so tomorrow they will light a match, and it will start. Thus, Ethnic Ukrainians supported normative, singular citizenship, with dual citizenship being illegal. They saw dual citizenship as a threat to Ukraine’s security and to Crimea’s position within Ukraine. After all, Ethnic Ukrainians believed that Ukraine had to do its best to protect itself from competitive threats like citizenship, especially given its geopolitical precarity. Russian Citizenship as Abnormal and Undesirable

In this section, I demonstrated how, contrary to prior assumptions, Crimea did not appear to be a case of en masse passportization: no participants were Russian citizens and few desired to be. While there

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were likely pockets of Russian citizens in Sevastopol, outside of the city, acquiring Russian citizenship and being a Russian citizen were not normal or accessible practices in the period before 2014. For most participants, Russian citizenship was also undesirable. Most saw Russian citizenship as unnecessary if not malign, offering them rights they neither wanted nor needed, and its acquisition either as separate from themselves (Crimeans) or in competition with Ukrainian citizenship (Ethnic Russians, Political Ukrainians, Ethnic Ukrainians). Even Politicized Russians, the participants most likely to have Russian citizenship, could neither access Russian citizenship nor considered it legal to do so. The fact that they desired Russian citizenship because of discrimination, and lobbied for it actively to improve their rights and leverage against Ukraine, reinforces how out of reach it was before 2014.9

prac ti ces o f q uas i -c i t i z e n sh i p : compatri o t cli ents i n a se a o f d i si n t e r e st Moving to practices of quasi-citizenship, Russia’s annexation of Crimea transformed an inert Compatriot concept and community into something at risk, instrumentalizing and securitizing Compatriots within Crimea. Even before annexation, we could conceive of Crimea as a most likely site of engagement with the Compatriot policy because of Crimea’s “special” status vis-à-vis Russia. Moreover, Kivirähk et al. (2010, 258) reported that Compatriot organizations were more active in Crimea than elsewhere because of Russia’s support. But Crimea did not appear to be a priority for Russia, at least in terms of scholarship places, compared to other cases such as Tajikistan and Abkhazia (Chapter 3). What did it mean to be a Compatriot in Crimea before 2014? Like Russian citizenship, this section demonstrates that most participants did not engage with the Compatriot policy, aside from Politicized Russians (Table 5.2). Instead, participants were disinterested in the policy and in Russia more generally. Meanwhile, Politicized Russians were dissatisfied that the Compatriot policy failed to offer citizenship. Chief among the participants’ disinterest in the Compatriot policy, and the dissatisfaction of Politicized Russians, was the irrelevance of the resettlement program. Russia had wanted to “‘kill two birds with one stone’: to help our citizens who want to leave the republics of the former Union, and to populate a remote territory” (Eldashova 2006). But Russia had failed to persuade many to leave, and the resettlement program was “virtually ignored” by those whom Russia sought to engage. Now, the policy seemed “suitable only for people who need to run or

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Table 5.2 | Practices of Russian quasi-citizenship in Crimea Identification implication

Identified as compatriot

Yes

Engaged with compatriot policy

Quasicitizenship implication

Yes, but dissatisfied

Nested with Russia

Politicized Russians

Competing with Ukrainian state and Ukrainian identity

Ethnic Russians

Russian and Ukrainian identity as cross-cutting

Political Ukrainians

Separated from Russian identity

No

No (except beneficiaries)

Separated from Russia

Crimeans

Russian and Ukrainian identity as cross-cutting

No

No (except beneficiaries)

Separated from Russia

Ethnic Ukrainians

Competing with Russian state and Russian identity

No

Mostly no

No

No

Competing with Russia

Competing with Russia

have nowhere to go” (Kozenko 2009). In fact, the program only became more successful following the conflict in Donetsk and Luhansk in 2014, when resettlement began to include refugees (Schenk 2016). What we know less about, and what this section explores, is why resettlement was such a failure. For example, Politicized Russians – let alone other participant cohorts who did not identify as Compatriots – did not wish to leave Crimea for Russia. This section also explores how and why Politicized Russians were the most engaged participants in the Compatriot policy, pointing to the nexus of discrimination as well as to the Compatriot policy and its organizational dimensions.10 Moreover, discrimination aligned with channels of financial resources, with Politicized Russians appearing as

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“professional Russians” implicated in patron-client relations through the Compatriot policy vis-à-vis Russia.11 Thus, the Compatriot policy functioned in highly networked ways, whereby only beneficiaries – e.g., of scholarships or employment, or those involved in pro-Russian organizations – were engaged in it (Table 5.2), even though they were disappointed that it did not offer Russian citizenship. Politicized Russians as Professional Russians

Given their strong pro-Russian identification and desire for Russian citizenship, we might expect Politicized Russians to be the most engaged with the Compatriot policy. While this was the case, this section explores sentiments of discrimination and organizational ties on the part of Politicized Russians, which are fundamental to understanding this engagement. Politicized Russians also wanted to be more nested with, and receive more rights from, Russia than the Compatriot policy offered – namely, citizenship. disappointed compatriots Politicized Russians were the only participants with a strong Compatriot consciousness. They framed themselves explicitly as “their Compatriots” (Aleksei, Evgenii, Vitalii), referring both to Russia, their present-day greater homeland, and the Soviet Union, their nostalgic homeland. More than nationalism and nostalgia, however, the identification by Politicized Russians as discriminated against and threatened by Ukraine was also integral to their identification with the Compatriot policy. For example, they saw Russia’s Compatriot activities as “certainly necessary” because of the “infringement of my rights” and their right, as Compatriots, to “live with dignity in any country of the world” (Mikhail, Vitalii). While Politicized Russians were grateful that Russia “does not forget about our Compatriots,” they wanted to “see Russia doing more active steps” to help them (Artiom, Mikhail, Olga). For example, when I asked Artiom, from the re party’s youth wing, if the Compatriot policy was sufficient, he replied: Let’s just say there is no limit to perfection, so we would like more. But we’re glad that they pay us attention and do not forget. In Russia, there is a law on the support of Compatriots abroad, and only its presence indicates that they have not forgotten us, but we hope only for its strength.

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Others, including those affiliated with re , believed that Russia “does very little, well, almost nothing” (Mikhail). Notably, Olga, who was affiliated with rok , saw Russia as doing less than other kin-states. For example, Olga compared Russia’s activities to Hungary’s more active approach in Ukraine: You know, unfortunately, I do not see a plan in this policy, you know? It is sort of a passive policy, as a policy. Russia, unfortunately, does not protect the rights of Russian compatriots in different countries. In this case, I like policies … well, I would like, as Russian people, that there would be a Russian policy toward Compatriots similar to the policy of Hungary in respect of his countrymen. Hungarians are very clearly defending their compatriots in all the countries where they remain, including in Ukraine … Hungary raises the question all the time, any Hungarian delegation here or Ukrainian delegation to Hungary, all the time there’s the issue of the rights of Hungarians living in Ukraine. And Russia is spending a huge amount of, well, it’s enough to say that in the number of negotiations with Ukraine, the issue about the rights of Russians was never raised. Never, unfortunately. Politicized Russians wanted “more active steps” from Russia (Artiom). They were disappointed, both by the weakness of the Compatriot policy and what it failed to offer, namely the right to acquire Russian citizenship (Aleksei, Evgenii, Vitalii, Mikhail, Aleksandr). The Compatriot organizations re and rok , for their parts, lobbied for access to citizenship within the remit of the Compatriot policy (Portal of the Russian People of Crimea 2011a). Although disappointed by what the Compatriot policy failed to offer (citizenship), they were also disappointed by what it did offer, namely the program of resettlement. Putin was reported as speaking with Compatriots in Kazakhstan, who told him: “I want to leave [to Russia], something pulls” (Gontmakher 2006). But the Politicized Russians did not want to leave “their homeland” and “sunny Crimea” for “snowy Siberia” and Russia’s “minor regions” (Evgenii, Artiom, Aleksei, Yurii, Olga, Vitalii). For example, Olga indicated that “the vast majority of Crimeans are not satisfied by this program” of resettlement. For her, those who “wanted to leave left long ago,” while those who remained had “roots” in Crimea and did not want to leave. Ultimately, the resettlement program was orthogonal to the goals of Politicized Russians,

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who desired rights in situ – namely citizenship – not the chance to leave for Russia’s unknown, colder, and peripheral regions and depopulate Crimea. Pro-Russian Compatriot organizations also fervently criticized the resettlement program for encouraging emigration, which led to the “weakening the Russian community” in Crimea (Iatsenko 2006). For example, at the World Congress of Compatriots in 2006, rok leader Sergei Tsekov raised concerns about Compatriot policies, including scholarship places, because their task was “to do everything so that the Russians remain living in the Russian Crimea and the Russian city of Sevastopol” (ibid.). Tsekov’s concern was echoed by Politicized Russians, like Dmitrii: One example, in Russia, there is a program of resettlement of Compatriots in the Russian Federation. We in Crimea are opponents of this program. We are against it – why? Because if all Russians leave Crimea to live in Russia, unfortunately, in Crimea, nobody will remain. We are in the frame of mind that Russians here can earn their living and have wealth, to live here, not leaving. We are against when Russians leave to the territory of the Russian Federation. Thus, Politicized Russians did not want Compatriots to leave Crimea because they saw this as a weakening of their demographic and political strength within the peninsula.12 Instead, Politicized Russians wanted Russia to support them and their rights as ethnic Russians in situ by offering citizenship. It is unlikely that they would ever be satisfied with a Compatriot policy that fell short of offering full and legal citizenship rights. compatriot organizations as nepotistic gatekeepers Observing the involvement of Politicized Russians in Compatriot organizations, we also see how the Compatriot policy operated in practice as “club work,” to use Konstantin Kosachev’s words.13 By design, Politicized Russians, as members of pro-Russian Compatriot organizations, were the Compatriot policy’s primary beneficiaries. Moreover, Politicized Russians typified the idea of the “professional Russian,” a discourse commonly iterated by other participants and Crimean media as a criticism that such activists were motivated more by business interests than nationalist ideology (Barash 2010). As “professional Russians,” Politicized Russians demonstrated the clientelist relations

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of “club work,” a relationship which the Compatriot policy had established between Russia and the pro-Russian organizations of which they were members. Politicized Russians perceived these local pro-Russian Compatriot organizations as allowing them to “to feel like full citizens because of the skewed Ukrainization” and giving them a collective voice with which to lobby Russia for protection (Olga, Mikhail, Svetlana). Several Politicized Russians argued, without prompting, that these organizations were not a pro-Russian fifth column within Crimea, but were “normal” and “legal” organizations. At the same time, several had left these local pro-Russian organizations and were critical of the nepotism and networks of patronage in which the organizations were implicated in their management of the Compatriot policy (Aleksei, Evgenii). Politicized Russians were both the beneficiaries and the gatekeepers of the resources available to Compatriot organizations, including scholarship places. For example, Compatriot organizations were the key disseminators of information about how to access scholarship places. Over time, these activities became more professionalized and built into the Compatriot framework as it operated within Crimea. In previous years, for example, rok had held information sessions for students and parents; but by 2012, these sessions had moved into the newly opened Rossotrudnichestvo office, Russia’s local Compatriot policy outpost. As I witnessed, Russian university officials would also visit the Rossotrudnichestvo office to disseminate information on stipends and how to apply.14 Svetlana, who was involved in organizing such sessions and consulting with students, described how these sessions would advise interested parents and students how to access the scheme, and to which universities and courses to apply, to ensure that their members were “referred to good universities,” because, “as Compatriots they receive recommendations” (Mikhail, Svetlana). As someone who had left these organizations, Aleksei criticized the way in which rok played gatekeeper to the scholarship program. Not only was the program small in terms of the number of available places, but, as Aleksei described it, rok ensured that only its members could access those places because of how they disseminated information and recommendations. We might expect organizations to benefit their members in allocating resources rather than fulfill a more public role in wider Crimean society, beyond their membership. After all, these pro-Russian Compatriot organizations failed to engage with the wider Crimean society: re was a marginal political party that received only 4 per cent of the vote in Crimea’s 2010 parliamentary elections, because its central message of

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discrimination (and Compatriot consciousness) failed to resonate more broadly.15 But in terms of the distribution of resources, we are not only talking about scholarship places but also financial resources, indicating a patron-client relationship between pro-Russian Compatriot organizations and the Russian state through its Compatriot policy. Rumours and ripostes circulated in Crimea concerning the distribution of resources and “dirty money” between the Compatriot policy and rok , as a Compatriot organization (bbc Monitoring – Former Soviet Union 2009d),16 and also implicated the Russian consulate. Meanwhile, the consulate argued there was little money being distributed in the first place and that the rumours were A lie! To begin with, there is little money. There should be more attention and Russian projects for foreign compatriots … All the money, although not enough, will go, I emphasize, in a civilized and open way to Crimean compatriots, only for projects, festivals, schools, learning the Russian language. They will go through ksors [the Coordinating Council of Russian Compatriot Organizations]. The Consulate General will not see anything but ksors . (Portal of the Russian People of Crimea 2011b) While Russia’s consulate and local Compatriot organizations were lobbying for more money, both argued this was allocated for specific activities. Without prompting, Politicized Russians who were affiliated to Compatriot organizations directly denied any accusations that they “lived on money from Russia” (Artiom, Dmitrii), as if implicitly to deny that they were “professional Russians.” For example, Mikhail argued that he and other Compatriot organization affiliates “spend our own money.”17 Similarly, Artiom and Dmitrii raised the issue of Russian funding themselves:

artiom: Many people say that we are here to represent the Russian fsb,18 that we work with Russian money, but if Russia invested a small amount in Compatriot organizations, we would have full power here in Crimea. But, unfortunately, it’s not the case with money, and, as an example, we do not live on money from Russia. We do what we can, and we are looking for internal resources. Many people here understand that Russia sponsors us, that we are working on some projects, but it is not so. dmitrii: The budget of the youth organization is not a mystery; it’s zero hryvnia. This work is voluntary. Therefore, it often takes such

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character: it has ups and downs. I agree with Artiom that, nevertheless, it strengthens us … We will do ten times better. Therefore, there are pluses and minuses. Markedly, Artiom and Dmitrii sought to distance themselves from any direct connection to the Russian government and its security services, framing themselves instead as fostering “humanitarian” links and promoting “Russian language, culture, the history of the Russian people.” In other words, they were conscious that they and the Compatriot organizations were being framed through the “professional Russians” lens, and tried to distance themselves from it. But media reports indicated that the Russian consulate itself, in Simferopol, expected to “receive kickbacks from financial flows in support of Russian compatriots,” with the suggestion that, “as a result, the pro-Russian organizations of Crimea quarrelled” (Ivzhenko 2011). Beyond Crimea, Compatriot organizations elsewhere, such as in Estonia, have been criticized for facilitating flows of money to secure “loyal interests” and creating systems of dependence between organizations and the kin-state (Grigas 2012, 9; see also Waterbury 2011). In other words, these kin-state policies of quasi-citizenship concern financial flows more than they do identity. Identity performs an ideological function – to ensure resonance with post-Soviet nostalgia of their elderly members – but the broader function of Compatriot organizations is to capture loyalty and maintain patron-client relations with Russia. compatriot organizations and lobbying russia Not only did Politicized Russians, as Compatriots, identify as discriminated against, in contrast to most participants, but Compatriot organizations actively lobbied Russia on this basis, confirming the idea that to be Russian in Crimea was to be discriminated against.19 For example, Compatriot organizations held regular roundtables discussing the issue of discrimination and their efforts to uphold the “rights of the Russian-speaking population in their native language, and in curbing Russophobic and anti-Russian propaganda in the media” (Tatarchenko 2010). Thus, pro-Russian organizations within the Compatriot framework acted as “intermediaries” to implement Compatriot policies on the ground, even if Politicized Russians were squarely dissatisfied with these policies (Barash 2010). In this context of lobbying and loyalty between Compatriot organizations and Russia, as a state fostering patron-client relations as much as kin-state relations, it is not surprising to see how Russia mobilized ideas

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of discrimination in the wake of annexation (see also Chapter 4). While these sentiments of discrimination did not accord with the discourses of other identification categories in these chapters, they did accord with those of Politicized Russians as well as with the information being transmitted by Compatriot organizations to Russia. In her study of local agency, Caspersen (2010, 3) notes how kin-states may wield influence over local leaders within kin communities to the extent of not regarding them “as independent actors.” Meanwhile, Waterbury (2018, 37) identifies how kin-states such as Hungary have a broader tendency to foster “unhealthy patterns of paternalism and dependency” in how they distribute such resources. Taking these insights further, this discussion of kin majority politics in Crimea demonstrates how, via Compatriot organizations, pro-Russian constituents sought to wield influence themselves vis-à-vis Russia (rather than only the other way around), receiving financial support from Russia and lobbying its government for rights – such as citizenship – superior to those offered under Compatriot benefits, but without seeking territorial change (see Chapter 4). These local pro-Russian Compatriot organizations also functioned as Compatriot policy gatekeepers in Crimea, demonstrating the overlap between identification, ideology, networks, and finance. The importance of finance and clientelism takes our understanding of “ethnic parallelism” further.20 In Crimea, Politicized Russians aligned themselves with Russia not only to develop parallel institutions but also to maintain pivotal resource-based and patron-client relations with Russia in Crimea before 2014. As a bizarre counterpoint to annexation, prior to 2014, Russia was not in a place to listen, or invest, in Crimean politics more than it was already doing. And, as we see in the discussion below of other identification categories, these clientelist relations actually weakened ties with Russia by creating disdain and repulsion through the widespread impression of Politicized Russians as “professional Russians,” as well as greater disinterest in engaging with the Compatriot policy. Ethnic Russians as Dissatisfied Compatriots or Disinterested

The Compatriot policy’s flipside is the question of whom it failed to engage as Compatriots, given that most Ethnic Russians did not identify as such. For Russia to have been effectively engaging with Compatriots before attempting to securitize them via annexation, we might have expected this category – with their cross-cutting identification as Russian – to be more engaged or identified as Compatriots. Yet, the disengagement of Ethnic Russians from the Compatriot policy aligned with

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their disengagement from Russian citizenship: most were simply not interested in the Compatriot policy and separated themselves from practices of quasi-citizenship. Mostly, Ethnic Russians saw the Compatriot policy merely as an “excuse” for Russia to engage with Russians abroad (Maksim, Vladislav). But they were not interested in such an excuse, and their suspicion of the Compatriot policy’s corrupt inner workings further undermined its legitimacy. As evidence of their weaker Compatriot consciousness compared to Politicized Russians, few Ethnic Russians knew much about the policy:

ek: Do you consider yourself a compatriot of the Russian Federation or not? anastasia: No, I don’t know. I never heard of this at all. Indeed, several Ethnic Russians did not understand why Russia would conceive of them as potential Compatriots. As Dinara explained, while she did not know anything about the Compatriot policy, she also did not conceive of herself as a Compatriot of Russia because “Russia, it is Russia.” Other Ethnic Russians had a more complex relationship with the Compatriot policy, such as Vadim, who identified as a Compatriot because of his interpersonal relationships with those he knew who resided in Russia. At the same time, he resisted Compatriot connections to Russia as a state, mirroring his disgust at Putin (see Chapter 4):

ek: And do you feel like a compatriot of the Russian Federation? vadim: Yes, of course. I have relatives there. Of course, I feel – but on the level of relationships. Well, I do not go there. Here, Putin did not take me in the Kremlin … At the household level, there is kinship … It is my native people. Vadim then commented that he had heard of the Compatriot policy, but then clarified: “but I’m not interested … I’m not interested.” Thus, even Ethnic Russians who did have weak Compatriot identification nonetheless were not interested in engaging with the policy. As a more specific example of their disinterest and lack of engagement in the Compatriot policy, few Ethnic Russians were aware of Russia’s educational policies in Crimea. Instead, most responded by focusing on the branch of the Russian State University (mgu ) in Sevastopol, including Anastasia, who had studied there; but the mgu presence in Sevastopol was not something I explicitly asked participants about. By

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contrast, only a handful mentioned or even knew about Russia’s free scholarship places under the Compatriot policy, perhaps indicating that their lives were touched more by what Russia did nearby than by what it offered as a policy to lure Compatriots across the border. Overall, few Ethnic Russians saw education as a domain through which Russia sought to engage with them significantly, or as a domain via which they wished to engage with Russia. While we might not expect full or partial knowledge about specific Russian policies in Crimea on the part of the participants, the contrast with Moldova is striking. In Moldova, many participants – across identification categories – knew of and spoke positively about Romania’s expansive education policies. the few ethnic russian compatriots Three Ethnic Russians did identify as Compatriots, however, reflecting their support for Russian citizenship. These Ethnic Russians thought that Russia should offer more support to Compatriots (Anatolii, Irina, Sergei). For example, Irina explained what made her feel like a Compatriot:

ek: And do you feel like a compatriot of the Russian Federation? irina: Well yes, of course, I feel. ek: Why? irina: I am often in Moscow because it’s part of my identity … Moscow is part of my cognitive map of the world, so I’m there very often. I have many friends there, I studied there, it’s part of my space, part of my world. Irina identified as a Compatriot because of her symbolic identification with and attachment to Russia. Similarly to Irina, Sergei, a member of rok , had a similar attachment to being a Compatriot, but, like Politicized Russians, was equally critical of the policy’s limited assistance. In his words, the Compatriot policy was not enough, and needed to be stronger. Specifically, Sergei wanted Russia to act on providing Russian-language mass media and offering more places for students in Compatriot education programs. we don’t want to leave Although divided between a minority that identified as Compatriots and a majority that did not, Ethnic Russians were unified in their antipathy toward the Compatriot policy’s central component: the resettlement program. Echoing Politicized Russians, Ethnic Russians did not wish to leave Crimea, least of all for “uncomfortable” and underdeveloped

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Russian regions like Tuva, in southern Siberia (Vadim). As Vadim remarked, “what is there to do in Tuva?” Vadim and Irina believed the Compatriot policy would convince “no one to leave” Crimea for Russia, because Crimea’s residents were “not interested” in the resettlement program. And Irina, who identified as a Compatriot, was especially critical of resettlement: On the resettlement of compatriots … I know, I think that this program is unfortunate for Crimea because Russians do not have to leave Crimea, because Crimea is a Russian enclave. And, as far as I know, this program in Crimea does not work. There is no one to leave. Moreover, the land is not Black Earth, as some suggest. In central Russia, it’s uncomfortable.21 This program is not for Crimea. It is not working. Maybe for other regions of the former Soviet Union, but not for Crimea. It is not suitable for Crimea. Instead, Ethnic Russians wanted to remain in Crimea, where it was “warm” (Ekaterina, Vadim, Irina) compared to regions for which Russia sought to attract Compatriot resettlement, such as Siberia. These sentiments echoed comments in the media, that Crimeans, if willing to leave at all, would be unwilling to venture “further than the Stavropol Territory or the Krasnodar Territory,” regions adjacent to Crimea (Eldashova 2006). Resettlement to Russia was, to reiterate Irina, “not suitable for Crimea” (also Ekaterina, Vadim). Indeed, many did not even conceive of Russia as a place to migrate to, and suggested that it would be “better,” if they wished to migrate, “just to go to England” (Ekaterina, Vadim), pointing yet again to why the resettlement program was such a failure. the compatriot policy and organizations as corrupt and irrelevant A further dimension, which cut across Ethnic Russians, some of whom identified as Compatriots, was their criticism of the Compatriot policy as corrupt and nepotistic. In particular, they identified the Compatriot policy as central in the distribution of illicit financial resources, an effort in which local pro-Russian organizations were complicit. For example, Roman, who worked in the Party of Regions, saw the Compatriot policy as a money-laundering scheme: I think that it turned into a big corruption scheme to launder money, because those projects which Russia runs for their countrymen, few

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know what they are funding. It is unclear, through someone it is done – it is not clear, there are all the same people spinning, and the output is no more. Similarly, Denis rebuked the Compatriot policy as “a scam.” He commented on the hypocrisy of the pro-Russian organizations – in particular their leaders, such as the rok ’s Sergei Tsekov – playing the role of Russians:

denis: Incidentally, his ethnicity is Bulgarian. Tsekov is a Bulgarian; he is not Russian. ek: Interesting. denis: However, it turned out that Tsekov is Bulgarian and the most Russian of all the Russians. He’s a good man, Sergei Pavlovich Tsekov. He was a doctor; he worked in Saki.22 When it came to politics, he has changed. He became a different person because of what is happening here. It clicked. All this is not serious. In Soviet times, it is called a puppet regime, like puppets. Well, it is strange … it is money laundering again, so. Indeed, the pro-Russian Compatriot organizations irritated many Ethnic Russians because they behaved and “protested” as if they were acting “on our behalf,” although they enjoyed the support only of a local minority (Vadim, Irina, Maksim, Roman). Ethnic Russians criticized the internal dysfunctionality and irrelevance of these “illiterate” and “clumsy” organizations comprised only of the “most advanced patriots” who “loudly shout” about their concerns, namely that “they [Ukraine] infringe on our rights” (Vadim, Irina, Maxim). For Denis, his “Russian community” (obshchina russkaia) was not rok but “my friends, daily conversations on the street, or at work. These are Russian people. This is the Russian community.” Noting their hypocrisy and financial interests, Ethnic Russians described the members of these Compatriot organizations as “Russian by profession.” While Politicized Russians resisted this discourse, Vadim commented that “professional Russians” participated only in these organizations to profit from their relations with Russia: They are Russian by profession. I have the profession of being “Russian.” I’ll go to rallies, write letters to some sort of official events to promote Russian culture. And for that, they will be paid.

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Specifically, Ethnic Russians accused Compatriot organizations of being “paid” to go to “rallies” and make known their concerns about the protection of Russian language and culture (Vadim). In particular, they saw these organizations as noisy and argumentative, and excessively so thanks to the resources allocated to them by Russia, which further “debased” their reputation within Crimea (Vadim). For Ethnic Russians, Russia’s unappealing image was that of a patron supporting corrupt and nepotistic practices in Crimea, with the Compatriot organizations acting as local clients of the Compatriot policy, which likewise tainted any associations with the policy as the funder of this malfeasance. Overall, for Ethnic Russians, their cross-cutting identification did not translate to cross-cutting citizenship or quasi-citizenship practices, with few identifying as Compatriots. This absence of a Compatriot consciousness may be explained by how Ethnic Russians neither felt discriminated against nor wished to engage with the local pro-Russian organizations, the malign gatekeepers from which such discourses emanated. Even those who did identify as Compatriots felt similar antipathy to Compatriot organizations and the resettlement program. Political Ukrainians as Disinterested and Confused

Political Ukrainians, as might be expected given their separated identification, were even less interested in the Compatriot policy than Ethnic Russians. Apart from one beneficiary (Tamara), no Political Ukrainians identified as Compatriots. And the majority (Nadia, Timur, Vera, Oksana, Artur, Alla, Gennadii, Vita, Aliona, Daniil) were not, nor wished to be, informed about the policy. Their lack of self-identification as Compatriots by Political Ukrainians aligned with their sense of confusion about the Compatriot policy’s purpose (Vera, Oksana). For example, they were confused as to whom Russia considered to be Compatriots: whether you had to have “both passports, Russian and Ukrainian” (Gennadii) or whether you had to have relatives from Russia (Inna). Instead of identifying with Russia’s population, Political Ukrainians identified as compatriots of each other, as citizens and residents of Ukraine (Vera, Oksana, Aliona). This confusion meant they were less critical of quasi-citizenship than citizenship, positioning it as separate rather than in competition (like citizenship) because of their disinterest in the Compatriot policy.

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being a compatriot beneficiary Only Tamara framed Compatriot practices as “cool” (kruto) and “very great” (ochen’ klassno), herself a beneficiary studying as a Compatriot on a Russian scholarship. She fondly described her experience of studying in Krasnodar, in southern Russia – about 280 miles from Simferopol – and the benefits of the scholarship, which included free university accommodation. As a journalism student, Tamara saw Russia as providing more employment opportunities in her field than Ukraine and, following her studies, wished to remain in Russia, as it now felt “like home” because she had friends there. Tamara explained how she had come to hear of the Compatriot program and its scholarships from her schoolteacher, who directed her to a conference at the newly opened Rossotrudnichestvo centre in Simferopol, which then assisted her with her application. This example demonstrates how a person could become networked within, and a beneficiary of, the Compatriot system through informal and contingent connections; indeed, Tamara was referred to me by contacts within Rossotrudnichestvo. But such information about the Compatriot scholarship program for study in Russia was not widely disseminated in Crimea, in part because the program held but few places for Compatriots from Crimea in the first place. It was significant, therefore, that the only Political Ukrainian who reflected positively on Compatriot practices was someone who benefitted materially, if not symbolically, from such Russian opportunities. compatriot organizations: irrelevant and possibly nefarious Compared to Ethnic Russians, Political Ukrainians were slightly less critical of local pro-Russian organizations, in part because of their lack of interest and knowledge in these organizations’ activities. Some were neither informed nor interested in local Compatriot organizations (Vera, Oksana, Daria, Daniil). Others strongly maligned these organizations while noting their marginal position and limited political success. At the same time, like Ethnic Russians and Ethnic Ukrainians, several Political Ukrainians criticized the channels of money from Russia, which the organizations used to gain power and “increase their political influence” (Viktor, Gennadii, Daniil, Inna). Apart from Tamara, most Political Ukrainians expressed knowledge of, but little interest in, opportunities to study in Russia for free, wanting to remain in Crimea for university studies to be close to their families

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(Gennadii, Inna, Aliona, Nadia, Alla). They also noted how, in Crimea, they could study in the Russian language, which they could not do elsewhere in Ukraine (Vera, Oksana). In fact, Political Ukrainians were concerned that students did not return to Ukraine after studying abroad “in Russia, or Turkey,” so these scholarships were not “so good in economy, politics” for Ukraine (Gennadii). They saw Russian programs as more geopolitical in nature, as they encouraged those receiving scholarships to feel “thankful” toward Russia and be more supportive of neoimperialist priorities such as furthering “Slavic integration” (slavianskaia integratsiia) (Inna). Finally, Political Ukrainians were either uninterested in Russia’s program of facilitated resettlement for Compatriots, or simply had not heard of the policy. Those Political Ukrainians who had heard about the policy’s enticement of “all native Russians to get back to Russia” thought that it did “not promise good things” (Gennadii, Daria). They knew that it was not being used “very widely” by people from Crimea because it did not offer the possibility of living in Moscow, which was primarily where those who wanted to move to Russia wished to live (Gennadii, Daria). Thus, much like the broader Compatriot policy, for most Political Ukrainians the resettlement program was irrelevant to their lives, reinforcing their separated understanding of quasi-citizenship. Crimeans as Disinterested

Like Ethnic Russians and Political Ukrainians, most Crimeans had little knowledge and interest in Russia’s Compatriot policy, and most did not identify as Compatriots (Larisa, Tatiana, Stanislav). For Crimeans, as with Ethnic Russians, their cross-cutting and hybrid identification did not translate to a Compatriot consciousness. Instead, most Crimeans, except for one Compatriot policy beneficiary (Ruslan), had separate practices of quasi-citizenship exemplified by their lack of engagement with the Compatriot policy. the compatriot policy as irrelevant Confirming the separateness of Crimeans from the Compatriot policy, few even knew anything about it. For example, when asked whether he knew about the policy, Stanislav replied: “But there is such a program? I didn’t know about such a program.” Similarly, Larisa neither knew of the Compatriot policy nor felt like a Compatriot of Russia. Meanwhile, Nina was one of the few Crimeans who described Compatriots

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as those whose parents and grandparents had been born in the former territory of the Soviet Union; however, she also did not identify as a Compatriot either. Relatedly, most Crimeans framed local pro-Russian Compatriot organizations as irrelevant to their lives, as they were associated with Soviet nostalgia and appealed primarily to pensioners who “liked the Soviet Union” (Tatiana, Larisa, Nina). Most Crimeans, like Ethnic Russians and Political Ukrainians, lacked trust in these organizations and believed they operated outside the law. For example, Nina believed these organizations functioned as intermediaries with rok , for purposes of receiving money from Russia and passing it to the re political party, as well as to groups of their supporters, such as pensioners [Nina].23 While several Crimeans had heard of the resettlement program, they neither connected it to the Compatriot Policy nor had any interest in it. As several remarked, “no one will go to the hinterland” in Russia because these regions were unattractive, both in terms of economy and climate (Tatiana, Nina, Stanislav). Other Crimeans pivoted away from Russia as a destination to which they could conceive of emigrating, and instead explained that they were more likely to visit or to move within Ukraine, to Kyiv or Lviv, as places to which they felt closer (Larisa). In other words, for Crimeans as for other identification categories, the resettlement program did not reflect their priorities in any way, again underlining why the program was a failure. being a compatriot beneficiary While most Crimeans were disinterested in identifying as such or engaging with the Compatriot policy, the exception was Ruslan – a beneficiary as well as an employee of the Rossotrudnichestvo centre in Simferopol, the official office of the Compatriot policy in Crimea. Despite not identifying as discriminated against, Ruslan did identify as a Compatriot because he was an employee and thus a beneficiary of the Compatriot policy. But he also articulated a specific configuration of what it meant to be a Compatriot, which drew on Soviet nostalgia:

ruslan: To be a compatriot is to speak in Russian, well to support … First, Compatriots, it’s not enough to speak Russian, to have relatives in Russia. We all, practically everyone living in Crimea, speaks Russian, and in general. So, here are compatriots – all those, and we do not separate, compatriots may be Crimean Tatars, please. If he speaks Russian well, if he likes Russian culture, Soviet, Russian

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culture, here. Please, it does not mean that they must necessarily be Russian. Compatriot may be Ukrainian and Crimean Tatar … We do not divide. ek: Together, you’re Compatriots? ruslan: Yeah. I mean, compatriots are the people who lived in the vast Soviet Union. Ruslan did not conceive of Compatriots according to an ethnic or pan-ethnic (i.e., pan-Slavic) concept, or to a spiritual attachment per se, but rather along the lines of a nostalgic imaginary that connected people across the space of a former state. As he explained, “we’re not going to give this up,” as he and Crimea’s elderly residents in general “feel nostalgia, they feel longing” for the Soviet Union. In turn, Ruslan argued that Russia owed a “debt” to Compatriots, because the Soviet Union no longer existed. For example, concerning the Compatriot policy’s scholarship component, Ruslan argued that Russia had a “moral obligation” to provide such scholarship places:

ruslan: Each year, every year, Rossotrudnichestvo in Crimea, about fifty to sixty people, people who are out of school – well, here in the eleventh year – are sent to Russia to study. It’s free. ek: But why is education in Russia important for Rossotrudnichestvo, for Crimeans? ruslan: Well, because why there are people who speak in Russian, which in Russia … Well, why … Why is the UK interested in teaching people from the Commonwealth? And for the British taxpayer, the British … right? Why, I wonder? Americans wonder why? Why the German Goethe Institute trains [people]? Why? So here, the same thing … Well, we live here side by side, across the border … The parents of these children … We are here just twenty years ago. We were all one country. We are one nation, we should be one people, we have been … I think even, I think that even a debt to pay to the people. Well, we cannot – but at least we are training. Somehow, at least some moral obligation to say so. ek: But after education in Russia… ruslan: After education, please, they can stay in Russia if they want, they can return here … But, you know, to get an education right now – it’s half the battle. Half the battle … A good education, it’s difficult.

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By comparing Russia’s activities to those of other states, Ruslan argued that the Compatriot policy’s issuance of scholarships was a normal thing for states to do, and was a way for Russia to repay its “debt” to the Compatriots that it had abandoned by at least ensuring they got a “good education.” Interestingly, while such discourses of “moral obligations” and debts to be repaid by a kin-state were also present and salient in Moldova, only Ruslan described Russia as a kin-state in this way. Ruslan was also an exception among Crimeans who otherwise were entirely separate from, and disinterested in, the Compatriot policy. Ethnic Ukrainians as Supporters of Ukrainian Statehood

We might expect Ethnic Ukrainians to be the least engaged in the Compatriot policy because they identified singularly and competitively, viewing Russia and Russian citizenship as threats to Ukraine. Consistently, Ethnic Ukrainians had a competitive understanding of the Compatriot policy and were the most critical participants. In particular, they saw aligning to Russia as Compatriots, or to Ukraine, as a mutually exclusive choice; and they saw Ukraine as the right choice in this equation. Similar to Political Ukrainians, Ethnic Ukrainians distanced themselves from the Compatriot policy because of their strong affiliation to Ukraine. When questioned if they identified as Compatriots of Russia, they responded that they were “supporter[s] of Ukrainian statehood” (Hanna, Bohdan, Petro). But Ethnic Ukrainians also opposed the Compatriot policy more strongly than Political Ukrainians, signalling their disinterest in and disgust toward Russia:

ek: Do you consider yourself a compatriot of the Russian Federation? petro: I do not have a relationship with the Russian Federation. I am an enemy of the Russian Federation. Because I do not see loyalty and democracy, that is, to see how they are good neighbourly relations with us are building, it is defiantly. More than simply expressing disinterest, Petro framed himself as an “enemy” of Russia, signalling his competitive relationship with Russia because of the Compatriot policy. Specifically, Ethnic Ukrainians had no interest in engaging with the resettlement program and, like all the other identification categories, believed that only a “few” in Crimea were interested in doing so

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(Bohdan, Taras). As Taras commented, “I am far from thinking that here this program was born thanks to the Russian Federation[’s] attention to the problems of ordinary Russians who live abroad.” Instead, Taras saw resettlement as a program designed to ease the “erosion of the Slavic population” in Russia’s East, where there were “whole villages that simply die and no one goes there.” These were places to which “no one from Sevastopol, from Crimea, wants to go” (Taras). In other words, the resettlement program seemed to be designed as a quick fix for Russia’s demographic problems, but did not reflect the priorities of those wishing to resettle in Russia. the compatriot organizations as nefarious and quarrelsome Ethnic Ukrainians maligned the Compatriot policy primarily because of the quarreling that it engendered between rival pro-Russian Compatriot organizations in Crimea. For example, the attachment of the Compatriot policy to these local organizations, and their funding streams, formed the primary framework for how Ethnic Ukrainians viewed the policy:

ek: Do you know about the policy of Russian compatriots? viacheslav: Yes. It’s right in recent years, mostly all funding for pro-Russian organizations in this program is to support compatriots … It is not intended to support ethnic Russians. It aims to support the political allies of the Kremlin. And so, this is the primary goal. And in the end, this is the goal of increasing political influence in Ukraine and other countries. In other words, Ethnic Ukrainians were quick to identify the competitive political (if not also the geopolitical) aims of the Compatriot policy. They saw ethnic interests as a veil for masking the more nefarious and financial interests, of which Russia was the patron. For example, several Ethnic Ukrainians described local pro-Russian organizations as “puppets of the Kremlin,” which facilitated Russia’s “interference” in Crimea’s “internal affairs,” and spoke of their potential to “destabilize” Crimea (Viacheslav, Taras, Petro). Ethnic Ukrainians also saw these organizations as concerned only with “making money,” ensuring that the funds went into “their pockets” and “social lives” (Taras, Petro, Viacheslav), a critique echoing that of Ethnic Russians and Political Ukrainians, that those participating in these organizations were “professional Russians.” Following their accusation that Russians in Crimea operated under a false consciousness and were merely brainwashed Ukrainians (Chapter

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4), Ethnic Ukrainians framed the Compatriot policy and its clients within Crimea in a similar vein. For example, echoing Denis’s (Ethnic Russian) criticism of rok leader Sergei Tsekov, Viacheslav too claimed that Tsekov was not really ethnically Russian and was simply manipulating his position: So, in the Russian movement now, there are such heated discussions, arguments about who can be considered a Russian, a Russian compatriot. Because many of the leaders here, of these pro-Russian organizations, they are not ethnic Russians [etnichestkie russkie]. That is, they are not ethnic Russians. Tsekov is half Bulgarian. That is, his father was Bulgarian … And for this reason, this discussion is being conducted, that Russia does not support Russians [russkie] but supports political movements, just like pro-Kremlin movements, it does not matter who it will be. Russian or Ukrainian or Jewish, the main thing is that they are supported by the Kremlin. All in all, Viacheslav’s response underlined how Ethnic Ukrainians conceived of ethnicity as a hollow mask intended to obscure the Compatriot policy’s true purpose. More broadly, Ethnic Ukrainians framed the Compatriot policy as designed to create a corrupt and malign system of dependence by providing “financial support, moral support” only to those who were “loyal to Moscow” (Viacheslav, Taras).24 At the same time, because these organizations sought to appeal to people based on issues of ethnicity, their claims failed to resonate beyond their few supporters. They lacked “broad support from people,” because there simply was no “prejudice” or infringement upon Russians’ cultural and linguistic rights in Crimea (Taras, Bohdan, Viacheslav, Iulia, Hanna). In turn, Ethnic Ukrainians argued that these organizations’ shady funding practices led to “internal intrigue, strife” over who would “manage those funds,” and ultimately contributed to their own lack of broader success because the “average Crimean” did not identify with these quarrels (Viacheslav, Taras). Disappointed or Disinterested Compatriots

On the one hand, the identification categories from Chapter 4 provide some insight in examining Compatriot consciousness and dissatisfaction. On the other, the categories also help to explicate how the policy failed to resonate with most participants, who neither conceived of themselves

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as Compatriots nor understood why Russia would perceive of them as such. But, contrary to expectations, it was not only Politicized Russians who identified as Compatriots; a few participants from other categories also engaged with the Compatriot policy as beneficiaries. For Politicized Russians, their association with local pro-Russian organizations, such as rok and re , and the discourses of discrimination which underpinned these organizations, were fundamental to their identification as Compatriots: one reinforced the other, with the Compatriot policy framed as necessary to protect them from Ukraine’s discrimination. Politicized Russians were also the gatekeepers to the Compatriot policy, indicating the pivotal networks through which Compatriot practices functioned and finances flowed. What becomes obvious is how the Compatriot policy’s niche approach was carried out via the local pro-Russian organizations, which controlled information about and access to scholarships, for example, for those in the Compatriot networks (Politicized Russians and other beneficiaries). These two dimensions – identification as a Compatriot and association with local pro-Russian organizations – are interlinked in meaningful ways. Indeed, Ethnic Russians and Ethnic Ukrainians were critical of the local pro-Russian organizations, as damaging forces within the Crimean political landscape – even though they were marginal and unpopular – as they engaged in corruption and received funding from Russia and thus afforded Russia undue influence in Crimea and Ukraine. However, most participants contested the notion they were Compatriots. Given the cross-cutting identification of Ethnic Russians and Crimeans, we might have expected this to translate to more interest in, and more identification and engagement with, the Compatriot policy. Apart from Politicized Russians, most participants did not understand why Russia would conceive of them as Compatriots and were disinterested in such quasi-citizenship practices. In comparison to Moldova, where there was broad knowledge across identification categories as to the availability and accessibility of Romanian support (see Chapter 7), in Crimea the Compatriot policy failed to matter to those outside the Compatriot organizations, who were neither interested in nor informed about the policy. Perhaps Russia’s actions were deliberate; and perhaps, prior to annexation, Russia cared little about converting critics and focused its resources instead on supporting the converted. Still, participants’ disinterest in (most identification categories) or dissatisfaction with (Politicized Russians) the resettlement program was emblematic of their negative feelings toward the Compatriot policy. Most participants wanted to be left alone by Russia. Meanwhile, Politicized Russians

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wanted Russia to support them in situ, by providing Russian citizenship to gain more leverage vis-à-vis Ukraine, rather than sponsor their emigration and thereby hollow out Crimea’s Russian majority.

c o nclus i o n We could set out to conceive of Crimea through the lens of passportization, or as a most likely case of Compatriot engagement. But by grounding our understanding in practices of citizenship and quasi-citizenship, we can move beyond viewing Crimean residents as passive objects of state policy, as entities to be passportized. Instead, focusing on the choices that Crimea’s residents made in relation to Russian citizenship or quasi-citizenship, it is important to be more skeptical about the notion that Crimea prior to annexation was a site of en masse participation and a context in which Compatriots were simply ordinary residents. To the contrary, before annexation, Compatriots were key individuals organized in and among local pro-Russian organizations, who disbursed resources on behalf of Russia and reaped benefit from these activities in the form of greater influence in Compatriot networks. These discussions offer a new, bottom-up lens for understanding how kin-state policies operated and were contested within Crimea. First, addressing practices of citizenship, this chapter showed that, to a great extent, participants in Crimea were not engaging with Russian citizenship (Table 5.3). Only Politicized Russians wished to be able to become Russian citizens and become more nested within Russia while remaining in Crimea; but they found that their appeals to Russia went unanswered. Most participants had no interest in becoming Russian citizens and saw it as irrelevant to their lives, as they understood citizenship as either separate (Crimeans) or competing (Ethnic Russians, Political Ukrainians, Ethnic Ukrainians). Identification thus provides some insight for understanding to whom citizenship held appeal, based on notions of discrimination and politicization vis-à-vis Russia, and to whom it did not, with the majority invested in Ukrainian, and only Ukrainian, citizenship. Against the spectre of annexation, this general preference for Ukrainian citizenship is often forgotten (Gumeniuk 2020, 81–2), as though annexation had been precipitated by those who already were or wished to become Russian citizens (see King 2014). Of course, some participants did want to become Russian citizens, but these were specific cases of politicized individuals within Compatriot organizations. Second, in terms of practices of quasi-citizenship, a minority of participants identified as Compatriots (see Table 5.3). However, what is

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Table 5.3 | Practices of citizenship and quasi-citizenship in Crimea Identification

Citizenship

Quasi-citizenship

Politicized Russians

Competing

Nested within Russia

Nested with Russia

Ethnic Russians

Cross-cutting

Competitive with Russia

Separated from Russia

Political Ukrainians

Separated

Competitive with Russia

Separated (except beneficiaries) from Russia

Crimeans

Cross-cutting

Separated from Russia

Separated (except beneficiaries) from Russia

Ethnic Ukrainians

Competing

Competitive with Russia

Competitive with Russia

important is who identified as Compatriots (chiefly Politicized Russians and Compatriot policy beneficiaries), why they identified as Compatriots, and what kinds of status, rights, and benefits they expected to receive. Politicized Russians wanted citizenship in situ to further their nesting within Russia (though not rights of resettlement), because they identified as discriminated against and because of the networks with which they were aligned. Although we might expect that Politicized Russians would be the most likely participants to engage with Russia, it is also meaningful that this was the case. Ultimately, the Compatriot policy failed to engage those with cross-cutting identification, who instead had separated understandings of quasi-citizenship. For example, most Ethnic Russians had little interest in identifying as Compatriots and instead reconciled themselves with Ukraine, as citizens. It is also interesting that categories with competing understandings of Russian citizenship (Ethnic Russians, Political Ukrainians) held separated understandings of quasi-citizenship, because they saw the Compatriot policy as more marginal and less of a threat than Russian citizenship. Had the Compatriot policy offered

Neither Russian Citizens nor Compatriots

149

more attractive rights, or had ethnic Russians experienced more systematic and persistent discrimination, perhaps this might have inclined more participants to identify as Compatriots. The Compatriot concept has long been discussed as referring to a “very loose” and deliberately “ambiguous” community (Kosmarskaya 2011, 60; Byford 2012).25 Following annexation, Compatriots were securitized by Russia as an identifiable community that needed to be protected (Wanner 2014, 428–30). Before annexation, however, most participants in this study did not conceive of themselves as Compatriots, let alone imagine that they required Russian protection, as they did not identify as discriminated against. These discourses of discrimination and protection were specific to those who identified as Compatriots: Politicized Russians organized as clients within pro-Russian Compatriot organizations, who lobbied Russia as victims of discrimination. There is ample evidence of kin-state migration to Germany of ethnic Germans from Eastern and Central Europe after 1989, because they were discriminated against in their home states (Cordell and Wolff 2007). But for most participants, Crimea was not a site of discrimination except for Politicized Russians, nor was it a place that people desired to leave for resettlement in Russia – least of all for reasons of discrimination. Nonetheless, pro-Russian Compatriot organizations used claims of discrimination as the focus of their lobbying efforts, to gain supporters within Crimea and win support from Russia – a key insight for understanding the dynamics of ethnic parallelism and the local agency of kin elites. Equally, most identification categories, apart from Politicized Russians, maligned the Compatriot policy and its mode of operation within Crimea via nefarious and clientelist organizational networks. Ethnic Ukrainians, in particular – who held a competing understanding of quasi-citizenship – denigrated the policy. Thus, even as Crimea came to be discussed in terms of such discourses of discrimination, and annexation was thereby legitimized by Russia, these chapters provide a means of scrutinizing such narratives by demonstrating the plural meanings of identification, the broad disinterest in Russia within Crimea, and the critique of undue Russian influence. A bottom-up perspective also reveals something about the impact of the Compatriot policy. In the past, many scholars and analysts understood the Compatriot policy as exerting, or capable of exerting, coercive power (Littlefield 2009; Kivirähk et al. 2010; Kudors 2010; Byford 2012; Roslycky 2011), while only a minority saw it as moderate (Zevelev 2008; Rutland 2010; see Chapter 3). By examining quasi-citizenship practices, this chapter shows that for most participants, the Compatriot policy was

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indeed moderate and barely touched their lives. The only participants to take an interest in the Compatriot policy and Russian citizenship were those involved in the pro-Russian Compatriot organizations. To many, the Compatriot policy appeared to be an instrument that arranged and financed patronage and systems of loyalty between a kin-state and its local clients (Waterbury 2011). These insights take us beyond existing understandings of local kin agency and ethnic parallelism by demonstrating the ties of nepotism and clientelism that were instrumental to kin-state engagement in Crimea. Indeed, the lens of nepotism is especially useful in advancing discussions of ethnic parallelism by showing how kin-state policies, and the financial arrangements that accompany them, can create patron-client relations in which organizational networks of finance become paramount.26 Meanwhile, these patron-client relations can reinforce a kin majority’s broader disinterest in, if not aversion to, the kin-state, outside those linked to it via organizational ties. To take this bottom-up discussion further, it is also helpful to use a comparative lens to contrast these findings with an actual case of en masse acquisition of kin-state citizenship. The following two chapters turn to such a case – Moldova – where I investigate the meanings of Romanian identification and engagement with Romanian kin-state policies.

6 To Be Nested, or Not, in Moldova “As a popular joke goes: Mom’s Russian, Dad’s Romanian, but little Ivan is Moldovan.” The Economist (2014)

Since it became an independent state in 1991, scholars and observers have conceived of Moldova as a state where identity, ethnicity, and kinstate claims remain the most salient – and problematic – aspect of politics.1 Indeed, identity, it has been argued, has been the electoral cleavage of politics since Moldova’s first multiparty elections in 1994 (Danero Iglesias 2015). Intriguingly, identity debates are not disputes between different ethnic groups but concern the meaning and content of the Moldovan identity and nation. Following the competing discourses of neo-Soviet Moldovanism and pan-Romanianism (Chapter 3), the most debated aspects are the naming of the state’s language (Romanian or Moldovan?)2 and the content of its history (Romanian and Dacian, or Slavic and Soviet?). In turn, identity disputes are framed as being responsible for perpetuating Moldova’s situation as a weak state with a weak elite, stuck between stalling democratization and incapacity for authoritarianism (Way 2003). Identity is also framed as responsible for Moldova’s struggle over sovereignty. Externally, scholars argue Moldova is weakened by the “geopolitical pressures” of irredentism (Eyal and Smith 1996, 242). Internally, scholars argue, the state is unable to generate loyalty to Moldova when “pre-existing ethnic loyalties predominate, especially when they are bisected by artificial borders” (Schrad 2004, 479). In sum, Moldova is framed as a “paradigmatic example” of a state struggling with identity (Kennedy 2010, 516), with Romanian irredentism deemed responsible for the “tinderbox” of Moldova’s separatist struggles (Schrad 2004, 481). This chapter interrogates what it means to identify Moldovan and/ or Romanian in Moldova. For example, how do people articulate the boundary between Moldovan and Romanian forms of identification?

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Although ethnicity and identity have been the most studied aspects of Moldovan politics (Cash 2007, 588), discussions rarely probe much below the surface to explore the meanings of identification. Just looking at Moldovan censuses (National Bureau of Statistics 2004a), we might assume those identifying as Romanian to be a minority in Moldova (2 per cent in 2004, 7 per cent in 2014) compared to a robust Moldovan majority (75 per cent in 2004, 76 per cent in 2014; see Figure 6.1).3 But censuses’ mutually exclusive categories can align more with different political regimes’ nationalizing projects than with how citizens identify.4 Moreover, other efforts of data collection have also stopped short of delving beyond these mutually exclusive categories. For example, Moldova’s first and so far only Ethnobarometer, conducted in 2005, as well as subsequent population surveys, did not tackle the relationship between the categories of Moldovan and Romanian.5 Finally, many analysts and scholars have taken positions on what Romanian and Moldovan identities represent (e.g., separable or inseparable categories), often because of their own political or personal biases, while ignoring the potential plurality of meanings, or at least blurring, of these categories of identification.6 Instead, this chapter focuses on everyday and bottom-up understandings of Moldovan and Romanian forms of identification. This endeavour concerns more than hermeneutics. Without understanding the relationship between Moldovan and Romanian as forms and categories of identification, and between Moldova and Romania as political entities, we are unable to understand the extent to which identities are salient in Moldova, and for whom. We are unable to understand whether, and by whom, the Moldovan nation and state is perceived as artificial. Finally, without understanding identity from an everyday perspective, we lack the context to understand how and why people acquire (or reacquire) Romanian citizenship and the impact of this en masse acquisition (see Chapter 7). In Crimea, bottom-up debates concerned the participation, or not, in discourses of discrimination and competition, particularly for those most aligned with the kin-state. But, in Moldova, we see something different: bottom-up debates do not concern competition but nesting. How, and how far, do Moldova as a nation, and Moldovan as a language and linguistic region, nest within Romania, as a kin-state? For some – especially those most aligned with the kin-state – Moldova is a smaller matryoshka doll within a larger Romanian nation. For others, Moldova is a separate nation and Moldovan a different language. Equally, as this chapter explores, we should not assume nested cultural understandings of Romania to be necessarily political, in terms of expressing territorial

To Be Nested, or Not, in Moldova

Moldovans

75%

6% 4% 4% 5%

Gagauz Romanians

76%

8% 7%

Ukrainians Russians

153

2%

7%

Bulgarians Other

2004 2014

Roma 0

.5

1

1.5

Millions

2

2.5

Figure 6.1 | Recent Moldovan census results for ethnic identification. Source: National Bureau of Statistics 2004a; National Bureau of Statistics 2017.

preferences, determining loyalty, or undermining the existence of a Moldovan state. Rather, this chapter analyzes if, and how, Moldovan and Romanian categories are conceived relationally, as separate, competing, cross-cutting, or nesting. Does Moldova – and if so, for whom – signify “not a people [popor] as such, but merely a part of the Romanian nation [neamului romanesc]?” (Plus-Minus magazine, February 1994, cited in King 1994, 355). Does identifying as Romanian in Moldova always equate to supporting unification with Romania? And for whom does Romania remain the “exploiter” of Moldova (Mungiu-Pippidi 2007, 92)? Looking beyond the mutually exclusive categories of Moldovan and Romanian, and the discourses of Moldovanism and pan-Romanianism, instead I draw upon fifty-five interviews which I conducted in Moldova in 2012 and 2013, to explore the fracturing and plurality of what it means to be Moldovan and Romanian. Using “I–we–they” logics, I focus on understanding how individuals understood themselves in terms of what they considered to be part of the self and of the other, in relation to Moldovan and Romanian as categories of identification, and to

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Table 6.1 | Mapping language and legitimizing myths onto inductive categories Language Inductive category

Legitimizing myth

Number of participants Spoken by participants

Considered majority in Moldova

S¸ tefan cel Mare

Moldovan, thus Romanian

Relational implication

Organic Romanians

22

Romanian

Romanian

Nested with Romania

Cultural Romanians

14

Romanian

Romanian

n/a

Cross-cutting with Romania

Ambivalent Romanians

5

Romanian

Romanian

n/a

Cross-cutting with Romania, but uncertain

Moldovans

10

Romanian and Russian

Romanian

Early Moldovan statesman

Separated from Romania(n), but not competing

Linguistic Moldovans

3

Moldovan and Russian

Moldovan

Spoke Slavonic Moldovan

Competing with Romania

Moldova and Romania as political and historical entities. I then aggregate these self-other perspectives into inductive categories, following the logic used in Chapter 4, in regard to Crimea, to construct five inductive categories: Organic Romanians, Cultural Romanians, Ambivalent Romanians, Moldovans, and Linguistic Moldovans. The following sections take each category in turn to examine how participants self-identified, with attention to how self-identification is articulated through debates over language and legitimizing myths. These dimensions provide useful benchmarks for examining the overlap and differences between and across identification categories, to understand the “I–we–they” logics that nest and cross-cut the categories of Romanian and Moldovan, or position them in competition. Concerning language, only a minority of participants (Linguistic Moldovans) gave

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their language as Moldovan rather than Romanian (see Table 6.1). Exploring legitimizing myths, I contrast the identification categories’ interpretations of emerging historical figures, in particular Stefan cel Mare (Stephen the Great), the voivode (governor) of the Moldovan Principality (1457–1504). As a shared and “ever present icon” between Romania and Moldova (Eagles 2013), for some, S¸tefan is the first Moldovan statesman (Linguistic Moldovans), while for others he is a symbol of nested connections to Romania (Organic Romanians; see Table 6.1).

o r gani c ro ma n i a n s “All Moldovans are Romanians, but not all Romanians are Moldovans.” Valeriu (Organic Romanian participant)

Organic Romanians comprised twenty-two participants who considered themselves to be both Romanian and Moldovan. Specifically, they described themselves as a “Romanian from Moldova” (Oleg) or a “Bessarabian Romanian” (Cristina, Eugeniu, Mihaela).7 For Organic Romanians, Moldovan was not a hybrid or cross-cutting form of identification but a nested identification within the Romanian nation. As several reasoned, “all Moldovans are Romanians, but not all Romanians are Moldovans” (Cristina, Valeriu, Vasile), positioning themselves as a part of the Romanian national self. Organic Romanians were a mix of gender and age, though many were from the post-Soviet generation (aged twenty to twenty-nine). This age profile is significant, as I discuss below, because identifying as Romanian, for Organic Romanians at this moment, invoked the state’s process of overcoming Soviet repression, under which Romanian nationalist dissenters had been punished. Organic Romanians also worked in a range of professions, though many were politically active and employed in politics. Several participated in the youth wings of existing parliamentary parties on the right, and “pro-European,” wing of Moldovan politics, including the Partidul Liberal Democrat din Moldova (Liberal Democrat Party, or pldm) (Dumitru, Mircea, Alina) and more the pro-Romanian Partidul Liberal (Liberal Party, or pl ) (Vasile, Aurel). pl and pldm have distinct attitudes to Romania, making it surprising that activists of both identified as Organic Romanians. For example, pl ’s discourse calls for Moldova’s “future destiny” to be with Romania, and within the eu , because of their shared national identity, history, “language, culture and spirituality” (Liberal Party 2014; see also Liberal Party 2010). By contrast, pldm has

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Kin Majorities

focused less on Romania’s cultural dimension and more on its strategic and “special role” in Moldova’s path of European integration (Liberal Democrat Party 2011; see also Liberal Democrat Party 2014). Other participants, like Sergiu, were involved in a new extraparliamentary party (which I have anonymized so as not to identify the participant by way of association). Finally, Traian and Valeriu were active in the even more pro-Romanian and pro-unification extraparliamentary Partidul Nat¸ional Liberal (National Liberal Party, or pnl ), a party “for the freedom of the reunited Romanian nation” (National Liberal Party 2011). Outside of formal party politics, several were involved in pro-unification organizations such as Basarabia Pa˘mânt Românesc (Bessarabia Is Romanian Land) and Act¸iunea 2012 (Action 2012),8 and had participated in or organized marches to support unification with Romania (Eduard, Ion, Cristina). But many were less politically involved, working as photographers (Mihaela), designers (Eugeniu), businesspeople (Constantin and Oleg), and students (Cristina, Iulian), or in ngo s (Corneliu and Maxim) or a new media start-up (Iurie). Finally, many had spent time in Romania as children (Marina) or had studied in Romania (Vasile, Eugeniu, Ion). Overall, Organic Romanians aligned with the ideas of pan-Romanianism (per Chapter 2), wherein any aspects of Moldovan “distinctiveness” are framed as “regional variations” of what is otherwise a common and shared “pan-Romanian culture” (Protsyk and Osoian 2010, 15). This section takes the pan-Romanian perspective further by unpacking, from the bottom up, the “I–we–they” logics of pan-Romanian discourse (see Bucher and Jasper 2016, 399). Specifically, I focus on cultural but also biological or “primordial” understandings of Romanian identification in Moldova that have been overlooked by existing explications of panRomanian perspectives. Although I explore the biological and primordial logics within how Organic Romanians articulate their identification, I do not suggest that this category is itself a fixed or primordial identification, or that those whom I classify as Organic Romanians are themselves unchanging in how they identify. Indeed, what this chapter illuminates is flux, especially across generations and within families (as in Crimea; see Chapter 4); and also among individual participants as they experience changes and different socialization experiences (something I highlight explicitly in the case of the Moldovans). Rather, the Organic Romanian category is, like those that follow, a particular articulation, or snapshot, of how a set of individuals identified in a single moment of their lives and of post-Soviet Moldovan politics. Indeed, as I show below, this articulation, which has remained salient in the post-Soviet period, began as

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a form of identification in search of territorial irredentism and transformed into extra-territorial relations with Romania via citizenship and the eu . We Have the Same Language, Culture, and Blood as Our Brothers

Organic Romanians stressed their sameness (ethnic, cultural, linguistic, historical, and biological) with Romanians: as “Moldovan and therefore Romanian” (Cristina).9 Specifically, Organic Romanians constructed Moldova and Romania as the “same nation” because they were the “same” culturally, historically, and linguistically (Mircea, Iulian, Traian, Corneliu, Oleg, Adrian, Eugeniu, Marina, Alina) and because “we look the same as Romanians” (Maxim). As Vasile described: They are identical – costumes, clothing, customs, celebrations, everything we do, and habits from birth, baptism, godparents, weddings, and funerals – they are exactly the same traditions [in Moldova and Romania]. The world understands this. Indeed, the only differences that Organic Romanians saw between Romania and Moldova were likened to differences in customs between different villages (Corneliu). Importantly, Organic Romanians presented it as a biological fact that they were “the same” as Romanians in Romania because, “in essence, we are Romanian” (Maria) and shared both “the same language” and the “same blood” as Romanians (Constantin, Maxim). Connected by blood, Romanian ethnicity was not a choice, regardless of Soviet propaganda efforts to construct a Moldovan nation. This organic logic resembles the wider notions of romantic nationalism associated with romantic nationalists such as Herder, who saw the nation as an “organic” being and “a primordial and unique cultural and territorial community” (Hutchinson 2004, 110). Today, most scholars would consider nations not as primordial entities but as constructed social objects imagined as real (Anderson 1983). Nonetheless, we may still productively analyze the discourses constructing nations as primordial and biological, and contrast them with other discourses that question such essentializing logics (e.g., Ambivalent Romanians, Moldovans; see also Zimmer 2003). For example, it was common for Organic Romanians to talk about Romanians as their “brothers” and to reinforce that they were the same neam (people, nation) (Iulian, Vitalie, Mihaela). As a biological given, this familial discourse reinforced their perceived lack of choice

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Kin Majorities

about being Romanian. Explicitly, as Aurel explained, “you don’t have a choice to choose your mother,” either in terms of family or ethnicity. Organic Romanians also used familial metaphors to describe the simultaneity, and thus the nestedness, of being Moldovan and therefore also Romanian. As Mircea explained, he could be “Moldovan, Romanian, and Bessarabian” simultaneously, just as he could be a “brother, lover, and son” at the same time. For Mircea, these were not inseparable forms of identification, but multiple, nesting forms of identification. Correcting History: Moldova as a Romanian Region

Central to these ideas of sameness and nestedness was the casting of Moldova as a Romanian region rather than a separate nation, whereby “Moldova is part of Romania even if they’re two different countries” (Marina). In turn, they sought to correct understandings of Moldova as a nation, describing it as an “artificial” nation that “doesn’t exist” (Eduard, Vasile, Alina) with the Moldovan language being not a “true” language but a “dialect of Romanian” (Alina, Vitalie). Where Moldova existed in the Organic Romanian consciousness was as a historical “region,” and a “t¸a˘ri” (administrative territory), of Romania. As Valeriu and Traian, from the pnl , indicated:

ek: Do you think a Moldovan identity exists in Moldova? traian: Depends how you take – at the regional level, yes. As a region, yes. We are a region that is called Moldova, as there is Oltenia, Ardeal, etc.10 But identity, as a nation, we are Romanian. valeriu: All, all Moldovans are Romanians, but not all Romanians are Moldovans. ek: I understand. Do you think that people from Romania are the same as people from Moldova? valeriu: Romania is made up of several parts: Moldova, Muntenia, Transylvania, etc.11 We are part of Romania, only that we are here in Moldova. traian: We have the same language and the same traditions. But something called Moldovan doesn’t exist, only the region. But that identity as a people, as a nation, the language, we’re Romanian. Moldovan doesn’t exist. Romanian, English, etc., exists, as it is in the US. Even if there is an American dialect, the basis of the language is still English. So, to us, there is no Moldovan, only Romanian.

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159

Similarly, in Vasile’s words: Let me explain: it is not wrong when I say I’m Moldovan – because I live in this area which is called Moldova – geographically, as there is Transylvania, Dobrogea, etc. – but I am Romanian, because I belong to the entire space of the Romanian area.12 It’s like it is in France – north, south, east, west, in Italy – there are different dialects of the language and they do not all understand each other, in the same state in the north do not understand those in the south. In Spain and in England, there are the same problems. We, Romanians from Chis¸ina˘u, understand perfectly those from Timis¸oara [Banat], those from Bras¸ov [Transylvania] and anywhere in Romania. In this sense, we have a better situation. In both examples, Organic Romanians normalized Moldova’s relationship to Romania by casting it as a Romanian region, just like any other, despite Moldova’s Soviet past. As a Romanian region, they described Moldova’s specificities of language and culture as regional in character, rather than national or ethnic. Further emphasizing and legitimizing Moldova’s regional dimension, Organic Romanians historicized and primordialized Moldova’s connection with Romania over the longue durée. For example, Organic Romanians used the medieval figure of S¸tefan cel Mare to signal Romania and Moldova’s shared history. As Maxim articulated: I have been just in Ias¸i. It’s a big fortress. It’s a fortress of our king, S¸tefan cel Mare. So, our king’s fortress in Romania, it’s in Ias¸i,13 and also S¸tefan cel Mare, he’s on our money. So, we have common history. We have a common language, even Romanian language. Similarly, Alina remarked how it was impossible to imagine Romania and Moldova to be “different nations when we have S¸tefan cel Mare’s statue here, and his body is in Putna in Romania” (Alina). Organic Romanians also referenced the common, Dacian origins of Romania and Moldova’s residents, an even more primordial trope. This trope, which Dennis Deletant (1991) refers to as “Dacomania,” is a common one in popular discourse and has been used by Romanian nationalists, and the Ceaus¸escu dictatorship, to explain the “ethnogenesis of the Romanians.” As Deletant explains, Dacia came to have an “almost messianic ethnic and political role” in creating “the ideal nation state” (76).14 Among Organic Romanians, Dumitru used the Dacian

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Kin Majorities

trope to demonstrate that Moldova’s connection to Romania dated “further back” to two millennia ago, and that the modern-day inhabitants of Romania and Moldova were “the descendants” of such Dacian heroes and leaders as Burebista (82–44 bc ), Decebal (ad 87–106), and Traian, the thirteenth emperor of Rome (ad 98–117). Returning to the discussion above, regarding the use of family analogies to describe Moldova’s connection to Romania, Oleg likened these Dacian heroes to family members, as though Romania and Moldova were related by blood:

oleg: It’s like when a man helps his sister. Romania is the brother; Moldova is the sister. Help, because there is a matter of blood, language, and it’s interesting to see a country with common people in the same space. ek: Who would be the parents? oleg: European Union! Sorry, the parents are Decebal and Traian. Traian is the one who came two thousand years ago, the Roman emperor who killed, defeated, and assimilated the Dacians who lived in this territory. In 105–07, there were two wars between the Roman Empire and Dacia, and the Roman Empire won. We are their descendants. Through this longue durée Dacian trope, we can see how the MoldovaRomania connection is presented as one that is enduring and biological, a familial connection harkening back to the Dacians of antiquity. For Organic Romanians, this interweaving affirmed the essentializing and biological narratives linking Romania’s and Moldova’s current residents as the descendants of Dacian and Roman parents. Blaming Russification and the Soviet Other

While asserting their biological connections to Romania, Organic Romanians blamed the “Russian occupation” and the Soviet totalitarian regime, and their enduring legacies, for creating and promoting “the idea we’re different” from Romania (Dumitru, Iulian, Adrian, Alina, Maxim). In particular, they blamed Soviet “propaganda” for inventing Moldovanism, and a separate Moldovan nation, “to manipulate people’s heads” (Eugeniu). As Oleg put it: Communists told us: you are not Romanian, you are Moldovan – you are different from Romanians. You do not speak Romanian, you speak Moldovan language.

To Be Nested, or Not, in Moldova

161

In framing the Moldovan nation and language as Soviet inventions, Organic Romanians accorded others no agency to self-define as Moldovan. Organic Romanians conceived any deviation from their pan-Romanian perspective as a miscategorization and false consciousness – legacies of Soviet propaganda. For example, they belittled how Moldova’s residents did not “understand” that because “they were Moldovan, they were Romanian” (Aurel). As they explained, it was a “problem” that “not all ethnic Moldovans consider themselves Romanian,” because “everyone [in Moldova] is Romanian but called Moldovan” (Vitalie, Maria, Oleg, Vasile). Organic Romanians argued that no construct such as a Moldovan nation would exist at all were it not for the repressive efforts of the Soviet authorities, and thereby reinforced what they perceived as a biological connection to Romania and the rightful nesting of Moldova within Romania. Much like participants in Crimea, Organic Romanians commented on the generational shift between themselves, as a post-Soviet generation, and their Soviet-era parents because of different political and education regimes and interpretations of history. Here, however, new forms of identification were not created (such as Political Ukrainians, in Crimea). Instead, old meanings were rekindled that had been repressed during the Soviet period, which some Organic Romanians shared with their grandparents. For example, Corneliu expressed explicitly this generational and educational difference between him and his father: So, I never had this problem to interact with Romanian people. My dad has. My dad does not like those people from Romania who speak Romanian. He’s more like Putin’s Russia, even [though] he’s not a Russian speaker, a Russian ethnic. It came more from Soviet time … It’s because of education and the educational system overall. Because my father is fifty-two years old, and he grew up in Soviet times. He was in a school where basically, his village, there wasn’t a Russian school and Romanian school. It was a mixed one. So, he’s been influenced by Russian speakers. He speaks Russian very well. He’s not a Russian speaker, I can say. And like, he said, “Okay, Soviet Union gave me an education, gave me a job, gives the opportunity,” even if his parents were peasants working in the field. But he could become an engineer and work in a factory, etc. And then everything was destroyed in the 1990s. He had to go to Moscow to work in construction and then came back to different places. And now he works again in a factory, in a carpet factory, it was reopened … So, he saw the difference between Soviet time, and then

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the nineties, and now. And he said, okay, then it was better. We lived in peace, we didn’t hate each other. It was okay and nice and beautiful for everyone. For the Soviet generation, like Corneliu’s father, the post-Soviet period meant economic decline and the loss of jobs and status, associations that led him to align himself with Soviet legacies and the current Russian regime. For Corneliu’s generation, however, the post-Soviet period afforded new opportunities and a different understanding of Romanian identification. Some, such as Maxim, explained their efforts to reeducate their parents: And my parents, they think, they thought that we have Moldavian language, and we have our history coming from Russia, so we are coming from there. But after that, I grew up, and I am twenty-four years old, and I have my opinion, and they respect my opinion. And I’m trying to tell them about our right history, our language, all this stuff. And they’re becoming, they’re starting to understand what is the real history. And now, if you’ll ask my father or my mother what language we speak, they will say Romanian. In Corneliu’s and Maxim’s responses, we see the cleavages within families, and across generations, which Organic Romanians sought to challenge, supporting their biological connection to Romania and relegating to the past the legacy of propaganda and the invention of a Moldovan nation. Overall, Organic Romanians pointed toward a process of de-Sovietization of the self. By affirming continuity between the present day and the pre-Soviet past, they could imagine themselves as part of the Romanian nation and as Organic Romanians (see also Smith 2003; Prina 2013). In turn, they described a sense of continuity in terms of an ongoing struggle to support the “correct” version of history – of a recovered Moldovan identity nested within a Romanian one. Were Organic Romanians Unionists?

Given their affection and orientation toward Romania, we might expect Organic Romanians to be the most likely supporters of territorial and political (re)unification with Romania.15 Indeed, several were involved in pro-unification organizations such as Basarabia Pa˘mânt Românesc and Act¸iunea 2012, and had organized or participated in pro-unification marches (Eduard, Ion, Cristina). A minority of Organic Romanians sup-

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ported unification (Constantin, Eduard, Cristina, Ion, Mircea, Traian, Valeriu). Meanwhile, others supported unification in the longer term, as a “natural” and “normal” process (Iulian, Cristina, Maxim). However, after twenty years of diverging political and social development between Romania and Moldova, most Organic Romanians framed unification as “irrelevant” (Iurie, Alina, Mihaela, Vasile, Cristina). Such a disjuncture between identity and territorial preference demonstrates that identification with a kin-state state should not be presumed as expressing specific territorial and political preferences. Instead, we see how, for Organic Romanians, articulation of identification has transformed from support for irredentism into support for extra-territorial relations with Romania. For example, Europeanized relations with Romania were a common goal for Organic Romanians, as a “solution” for reducing their separation from Romania. Organic Romanians imagined Europeanization as a way of being “together” with Romania in the eu , “without borders” (Oleg, Iulian, Marina, Adrian, Corneliu, Dumitru, Mircea). Europeanization was also a counterpoint, seen as enabling Moldova to increase its separation from the Russian “hammer” and “Soviet concept” (Vitalie, Dumitru, Eduard, Mihaela). Europeanization offered the hope of a different and improved future, closer to Romania and further from the past, while territorial unification remained an unnecessary, politically irrelevant goal for the present. Others have commented on the links between Europeanization and kin-state politics, particularly the nationalization of eu citizenship by kin-states (see the discussion of Harpaz 2019b in Chapter 2; see also Batory 2010; Pogonyi 2017b), which I explore further in Chapter 7. What we see here, however, is a different, more nuanced phenomenon, wherein Europeanization is framed as a panacea bringing with it multiple positive effects: promising and building a better future, reducing the disruption of borders as a division, eliminating the need for territorial forms of irredentism, and diminishing the coercive geopolitics of past and present.

cultural rom a n i a n s “We are Romanian and live in Moldova.” Ilie (Cultural Romanian participant)

Cultural Romanians comprised fourteen participants, who identified as Romanian and with Romania as a kin-state. Equally, they combined this Romanian identification with a strong sense of belonging to Moldova,

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not as just a region, but as a state and their home, indicating how their Romanian identification cross-cut with their identification and affiliation to Moldova. Cultural Romanians were mixed as to gender and many were from the post-Soviet generation, aged twenty to twenty-nine. In contrast to Organic Romanians, who were more politicized in general and more strongly affiliated with political parties and pro-unification organizations, Cultural Romanians were not explicitly affiliated with any particular political parties. Instead, many had regular jobs outside of politics: in a travel agency for persons seeking employment abroad (Cristian), a media organization for young people (Ana), a youth ngo (Petru), a local film festival (Alexandra), in television production (Elena), real estate (Radu), and academia (Tudor). Some were recent graduates of local universities (Viorica, Ilie) while others were returning to Moldova from studies abroad, such as Diana, who was starting a PhD in the United States, Violeta, who was completing her undergraduate education in the UK, and Rodica, who recently completed an mba and had worked for several years outside of Moldova. Indeed, many Cultural Romanians had had international experiences, and several others had completed studies abroad, including Radu, who had studied in Bulgaria. These experiences positioned them within Moldova’s new intellectual, urban elite residing in Chis¸ina˘u; such international experiences were simply out of reach for many of Moldova’s residents. At the same time, Viorica’s international experience was not as positive because her mother had spent most of Viorica’s childhood working in Moscow to support their family, while she remained in Moldova. She expressed a darker side of Moldovans’ international experiences, one based in dependent migrant labour and remittances sent home to support families and the Moldovan economy: “I hate Moscow, because Moscow stole my childhood.”16 Cultural Romanians, thus, represented the spectrum of international experiences for Moldova’s residents, from privilege to economic dependency. My Origin Is Romanian, but I’m a Citizen of Moldova

While emphasizing their origin as Romanian, Cultural Romanians articulated a plural and cross-cutting identity, in the duality of identifying as both ethnically Romanian and politically Moldovan. For example, several described how “my origin is Romanian” (Ilie, Tudor, Ana, Viorica) or framed themselves as “ethnically” Romanian (Radu). But they also followed this up by noting their status as Moldovan citizens,

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passport holders, or residents (Radu, Diana, Ana, Tudor). As Diana explained, “I consider myself Romanian with Moldovan passport.” By describing themselves in terms of such a plurality, they distinguished themselves immediately from Organic Romanians, who placed less emphasis on their political status as Moldovan citizens. However, Diana also noted that she would not necessarily describe herself as Romanian when abroad: When I go abroad, I don’t say I’m Romanian. I say I’m Moldovan. In Moldova … there is this clash between “are you Romanian, are you Moldovan, are you Soviet.” I feel like I don’t see a Moldovan culture that is distinct from the Romanian or from the former Soviet – let’s say the Russian, the present Russian culture. So, I can’t say that there is something Moldovan, very, very distinct about ourselves that makes us be Moldovan. But if there would be, if there’s a hot debate, I’m okay saying, in Moldova, that I’m Moldovan. Specifically, Cultural Romanians emphasized their specific situation of being Romanian in Moldova, an experience interlaced with the Soviet and Russian legacies, that differentiated them from Romanians in Romania. Some Cultural Romanians, like Organic Romanians, identified themselves as Romanian in biological terms. As Viorica explained, “my blood is Romanian”; and, as Radu related, his “ancestors” were Romanian and shared “the same ethnicity with people born over the Prut.”17 However, Cultural Romanians more often reflected on their Romanianness in cultural rather than biological ways, describing Romanians as those with whom they “obviously share history, language, culture,” such as traditional clothing (Radu, Cristian, Rodica, Alexandra, Violeta). Finally, Cultural Romanians identified the importance of Romanian, as their “native” language, as a factor underpinning their identification as Romanian (Rodica, Cristian, Diana, Ana). For some participants, “just” speaking Romanian made them feel Romanian (Cristian). Because of the intergenerational, symbolic conflicts between them and their parents, Cultural Romanians were also more cognizant (and accepting) regarding the contentions of identity in Moldova. As Viorica explained: My father would never admit that he is Romanian. Because their brain was washed. During … Moldova was almost a hundred years under Russian occupation. And a hundred years pass not so

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easily! The fact that your brain is washed every day, that there is so much propaganda and they tell you: “You’re not Romanian! Hate Romanians! Hate Romanians!” This does not pass so easily. It does not become erased so fast. My parents say, “Well, what are you, Romanian?” Since I’m starting to take it a little … almost fight. And it’s hard to talk with them on this subject. But ultimately, judge every person how you talk to every person. My parents consider themselves Moldovans. It is forbidden, for them, to declare Romanian ethnicity. I declare that [as] my ethnicity, but I consider myself Moldovan … Again, I say that I speak Romanian. My father did not say so. He will say that he speaks Moldovan, because it was said at the Soviet school that taught him. They could not say that “I learn Romanian language.” Thus, Cultural Romanians described the uneasy nature and generationally shifting contentions of Romanian identification, the result of changing political regimes and education systems. For example, during the Soviet period, the parents of Cultural Romanians had often been required to use the Cyrillic script to write Moldovan/Romanian (Diana). As Viorica explained, these differences had arisen not only because of education but also as a result of the older generation’s specific political and social experiences, which made identifying as Romanian almost impossible and an act of treason against Moldova: They [Viorica’s parents] are patriots. Especially my father in 1992, just two months after I was born, he participated in the war in Transnistria – and participated in the war in Afghanistan, before leaving to Transnistria. My father was a lieutenant in the military. So, that he participated there in this war justifies further that he says he is Moldovan. Because he defended the country we live in today. And defended the independence of the country. Viorica did not associate identifying as Romanian with something treasonous or signifying disloyalty to Moldova, as her parents did. However, she was still uneasy about it because of her parents. Such intergenerational contestations disrupt assumptions around ethnicity as “myths of common ancestry” – assumptions which presume that meanings remain constant within families that share such a common ancestry (see Smith 1998; Chandra 2006). Instead, across categories, participants in Moldova and Crimea described how myths could be interpreted differently within families, with separate interpretations translating to

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differing forms of identification. Surprising, too, was the revelation that the socializing potential of different political regimes could exert itself to greater effect than the socialization processes between parents and children. For example, participants sought to reeducate their parents according to interpretations of history and identity, once taboo, but now widely accepted. In fact, Cultural Romanians pointed to the role of the Soviet regime in differentiating and disrupting the continuity of such myths, as participants sometimes had more in common, in terms of meanings of identification, with pre-Soviet grandparents than with their Soviet-era parents. Tudor explained: I’m Romanian as ethnic, from an ethnic point of view, because my grandparents in different papers – so, I have looked at them, and they considered themselves Romanians. My parents, they were born during Soviet times, and in the documents, they were mentioned as Moldovans. But I think it’s not right, because the grandparents, the parents of my parents, had been Romanians, so it’s just to recover, to reestablish the word. In turn, many highlighted the difficult experiences of their grandparents and great-grandparents, “who really suffered” in the transition from Greater Romania to the Soviet Union during the period of deportations (Diana).18 Similarly to Organic Romanians, the shifting meanings allowed for a de-Sovietization of the self and differentiation from Soviet-era generations, including within one’s own family. Romania: More than a Neighbour, Less than a Brother?

Reinforcing their cross-cutting identification, Cultural Romanians expressed a sense of closeness to, and identification with, Romania as a kin-state. Equally, they had some hesitance toward Romania. For example, some identified Romania as “more than just a neighbour to us” because of shared “history, language and culture” (Radu). Cultural Romanians also felt closer to Romania as a “bigger brother” with whom they shared a common language:

rodica: So, I think many of us look at Romania as our bigger brother. And I think culturally, Moldovans are primarily Romanian speaking, and I think, you know, culturally much closer to Romania than to Russia. And even I had to choose between a job in Moscow and one

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in Romania, and I felt much closer to Bucharest than to Moscow. So, I decided to go to Bucharest … It was the same job, in the same company, and I had to decide. And I know the salary would be much, much higher in Moscow, but I just feel much closer to Romanians. ek: In terms of distance, like, it’s only eight hours to Bucharest. rodica: No, I think it’s about culture. I think it’s about culture and language. You know I speak Romanian. When I’m in Moldova, I don’t speak Russian so much. I feel much more comfortable in a Romanian-speaking environment than a Russian-speaking one. However, Cultural Romanians rejected the belief held by Organic Romanians that they were Romanian in the same sense as Romanians in Romania. Rather, they saw Moldova, and themselves, as partly but not entirely Romanian. For Violeta, Romania still did not feel “as comfortable” as Moldova. While describing their language as Romanian, other Cultural Romanians differentiated the Romanian they spoke from classical literary Romanian. For example, in Moldova, they spoke a more “basic” everyday language. This more fluid vernacular included Russian linguistic and lexical influences, which differentiated it from the “pure” Romanian of Romania (Ilie, Rodica). This sense of differentiation from Romanians in Romania centred on the different experiences and legacies of Cultural Romanians, something that Organic Romanians implicitly denied. In particular, Cultural Romanians saw Moldova as “more Russian” and Romania as “more European” (Alexandra, Ilie, Elena). As Diana explained: I think that Moldova was always a mix of Romanian legacy but also the Soviet legacy. So it’s, I would not say here, there are many, not many, there is a minority calling themselves “pure Romanians” and there is a larger minority, especially of older people, who really consider themselves Homo Sovieticus. So, for them, Romania doesn’t exist and anything like that. But in general life, I think that in terms of language and traditions and habits, there is a very strong mix of both. Like what we have from our Latin roots but also what we have from our Soviet roots. I think it’s a mixture of traditions, of habits, of cultural traits even. Indeed, Cultural Romanians did not denigrate Moldova’s linguistic hybridity and cultural pluralism. In general, they wished to “make the best” of the multiethnic, multicultural realities in Moldova, which “are

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really more peaceful” than divisive political discourses would suggest (Violeta, Diana). They also felt different because of their negative experiences in Romania and disliked how Romanians saw them as different and more Russian (Diana). As Viorica related: Last year, I think this time I was in Romania. I was in Bras¸ ov. And there it happened … I had a situation which almost disgusted me. A young lady, a lady, a grown woman with a family with kids … let me tell you, I do not know how to begin to tell you … In Romania, a lot of people think, they consider that in the Republic of Moldova, there aren’t Romanians but Russians. And we here speak Russian and don’t speak Romanian. It was a situation where this lady, whom I spoke to, it hurt me very deeply. Because she said, “Oh, but they speak to you in Romanian?” And I spoke my thought: “Oh my God! This lady is forty years, forty years [old]! Yes! She is young and should be aware of what language they speak over the Prut River in Moldova. On the other hand, you’re not so young that you have already a certain age and should be the same. You know it, you know certain things.” But people are not interested. So, there’s stereotyped thinking, you know? There is a stereotype that in Bessarabia, they speak Russian, because there was the Russian occupation. In this excerpt, Viorica demonstrates her disgust at being ignorantly stereotyped, which heightened her sense of differentiation from Romanians in Romania. And while the Romanian state may frame Moldova’s residents as brothers, the experience of Romanian society could cut against this discourse by exposing stereotypes that mark Moldovan residents as subordinate and other, if not altogether Russian, by virtue of Moldova’s Soviet and tsarist legacies. Pride in Moldova as Home

Demonstrating their cross-cutting identification, Cultural Romanians also expressed a strong sense of belonging to Moldova, their “home” and state of citizenship (Marian, Ilie, Tudor, Radu, Viorica, Alexandra, Ana, Diana). As Cristian and Marian explained, they “feel Moldovan” in a political sense. Even as citizens of a “recent state” (Tudor), they felt pride and “opportunity” in Moldova, as their place of origin (Radu, Rodica). For many Cultural Romanians, Moldova was home – the place where they felt good, despite its endemic socioeconomic and political problems.

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As Viorica put it: When you are in another foreign country, you feel like a little damaged, with fewer rights. But here, all rights are valid, are strong. I feel stronger at home, and self-confident. For Radu, similarly, Moldova was “the land of opportunity … where despite all the difficulties and problems, and bureaucracy, nonetheless the climate, the market is full of opportunities for people to explore.” For Cultural Romanians, the emphasis on Moldova as a weak state with endemic problems of corruption, poverty, and a lack of jobs did not undermine their sense of pride and their hope in Moldova as a state where they could imagine having a good future. This pride was buttressed by the sense that Moldova was improving and had more become “a lot more European” in terms of “behaviour” and “ideas” (Rodica). Thus, Moldova’s legitimacy in the eyes of its citizens is worth remarking upon, especially given that Cultural Romanians identified as Romanian and with Romania as a kin-state. Cultural Romanians expressed their connection to Moldova not only by differentiating themselves from what it meant to be Romanian in Romania; it also signified a positive affiliation to the state of Moldova that was not compromised by identifying with Romania as a kin-state. The most prescient example of Moldova’s legitimacy for Cultural Romanians was their strong belief in Moldova’s right to its “own statehood.” They saw it as “paradoxical” that, after their short experience of independence, they might wish again to become a “centre of a region within another country” (Viorica, Tudor, Alexandra, Radu, Rodica, Ilie). This is not to ignore or erase the disappointment of the past, in the 1990s, when they believed Moldova could and “should have been part of Romania” (Violeta, Rodica, Ilie, Radu, Cristian). However, in the twenty-first century, most Cultural Romanians saw unification as “now impossible” and no longer “politically relevant” (Violeta, Rodica, Ilie, Radu, Cristian). But, like Organic Romanians, Cultural Romanians placed their hopes on Europeanization as a potential “salvation” (Diana, Maria, Marian). They also believed in Romania’s efforts as a lobbyist for Moldova, as Moldova’s “big brother” and “main promoter of Moldova into the eu” (Diana). Cultural Romanians envisioned Europeanization happening from above but also from below, via citizens, through the expansion of Romanian citizenship, thereby facilitating new opportunities and forms of interaction such as cross-border freedoms, which were

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previously restricted (something I discuss further in the next chapter). For both Cultural Romanians and Organic Romanians, therefore, Europeanization was both a panacea and a means for circumnavigating debates about unification, as it provided new ways of interacting with Romania and the eu . Europeanization negated the need to even discuss formal, territorial, and political unification with Romania. In sum, Cultural Romanians thought of Moldova as a vessel of differentiation, in which was distilled a specifically Moldovan articulation of Romanian identification. They were not nested within Romania but had a cross-cutting identification with Romania and as Romanian, situating them between the nested Organic Romanians and another cross-cutting category, Ambivalent Romanians, which I discuss next.

amb i valent ro m a n i a n s “Just friendly relations, two Romanian states. We are cousins, we are relatives, but when everybody is boss in his own courtyard, this way.” Gheorghe (Ambivalent Romanian participant)

Ambivalent Romanians comprised five participants and included those who were hesitant and critical of identifying as wholly Romanian and Moldovan. They recognized themselves as partially Romanian and partially Moldovan, but were hesitant to discuss their particular identification or this hybridity in general terms. In turn, they articulated cross-cutting forms of identification, although differently from Cultural Romanians, who were resolute in identifying as Romanian and with Romania as a kin-state. In contrast, the cross-cutting identification of Ambivalent Romanians stemmed from a deficiency in Moldova’s identity and demonstrated their greater hesitancy vis-à-vis Moldova compared to Cultural Romanians and Moldovans (the category I discuss next). Ambivalent Romanians were all men, mixed in age (twenty to fifty years old), and not overtly affiliated to political parties. Rather, many held jobs within the intelligentsia as academics (Gheorghe, Andrei) or in think tanks (Vlad, Mihai). Stepan was studying at a university in Romania, having earlier attended Prometeu Prim, an elite private lyceum in Moldova with a strong ethos of Romanian literary and cultural education.19 Others had studied in Romania during the 1990s (Andrei, Gheorghe). For Stepan, Andrei, and Gheorghe, their experiences in Romania, past and present, had been crucial in forming their hesitancy toward both Romania and Moldova.

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In particular, several Ambivalent Romanians were hesitant about discussing how they identified and were often happier to talk about identification in the abstract – for example, about Moldova’s population in general, rather than about themselves. In this vein, Vlad was happy to discuss Moldova’s population as being culturally close to Romania’s. However, Vlad and others were reticent regarding self-identification. In contrast to Crimeans in Crimea, who were happy to discuss their hybridity, Ambivalent Romanians were more reluctant to discuss identity, and in particular self-identification, because of their situation between two different entities that they felt unsure about (something I discuss in greater detail below). Importantly, Ambivalent Romanians were certain about their language, which they resolutely described as Romanian (Vlad, Andrei, Mihai, Gheorghe). As Vlad explained, nomenclature was not significant: “you can call it whatever you like.” Linguistically, what mattered was that they spoke the “same language” as Romania, even if the language they spoke on an everyday basis used “some Russisms” and had a “different accent” from the Romanian that was spoken in Romania (Vlad). For Ambivalent Romanians, these differences of dialect did not signify a linguistic boundary because, as they explained, “big brother [Romania] speaks in your own language” (Mihai, Gheorghe). In other words, their hesitancy toward Moldova and Romania was political, cultural, and ethnic rather than linguistic. Reluctance toward Moldova and Being Moldovan

Some Ambivalent Romanians were less reluctant about identification and simply replied that “ethnically we are Romanians. From a civic point of view, of the state, we are Moldovans” (Gheorghe). Others, however, dwelled on this hybridity in a less enthusiastic way, like Stepan, who described himself as “Moldovan but not entirely.” Stepan added that he felt “pretty different, I don’t really feel Romanian or Moldovan” but at an “intersection of nationalities.” Rather than something to celebrate, for Stepan, hybridity was a source of uncertainty and almost instability, as he wished to be able to identify more concretely. Meanwhile, Vlad felt different from Romanians in Romania because of his “accent, way of speaking.” But Vlad also felt that Moldova lacked markers of cultural differentiation from Romania. He could not say that he knew “something really Moldovan in me … I don’t know if I have something [to] describe myself as Moldova.” While recognizing their cross-cutting identification, Ambivalent Romanians focused on what they, and Moldova, lacked in terms of identification and differentiation. Agreeing with this prognosis, Andrei argued that what Moldova needed was a stronger civic basis for identifying as

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Moldovan, and not merely a nationalist pro-Romanianism. Andrei wished for such a civic and plural style of identification as a corrective against the idea that Moldova was an exclusionary, monoethnic state of Romanians, when, in reality, many who did not identify as such – like ethnic Russians and others who did not speak Romanian – all lived side by side in Moldova. Related to the ambivalence of Ambivalent Romanian toward themselves as Moldovan was their reluctance toward Moldova. For example, Stepan explained he felt “very ashamed of being Moldovan.” He also cited his father, who did not see himself as Moldovan and “hates” Moldova. His father, Stepan added, was “angry” because of his experience of forty-seven years of political chaos while residing in Moldova, which manifested in personal and economic difficulties. This reluctance differentiated Ambivalent Romanians from Moldovans and the more Romanian-oriented Cultural Romanians, both of which expressed “pride” in Moldova. In explaining their reluctance, if not shame, toward Moldova, we return to the idea of Moldova’s deficiency as a state, its inability to build a “correct” and binding identity (Vlad, Stepan). For example, Stepan believed that in Moldova, it was “not their fault” that they lacked such an identity because “Russian culture destroyed a lot with vodka and banditry.” Vlad, too, believed that Moldova had failed to build an identity sufficiently different from Russia’s owing to the latter’s robust propaganda and brainwashing. This focus on deficiency demarcated Ambivalent Romanians, who problematized Moldova as a state, from other categories which were less critical of Moldova – in particular Organic Romanians and Cultural Romanians, who were able to reconcile their identification with Moldova and Romania more easily. Ambivalence toward Romania and Its Relationship to Moldova

Like Organic Romanians and Cultural Romanians, Ambivalent Romanians described commonalities with Romania, sharing “common bonds with ancestors from the same lands” (Stepan) and the “same culture and history [today and in the past], same language,” the “same writers,” and “same religion” (Vlad). However, Ambivalent Romanians juxtaposed these commonalities with the differentiating legacies of Russian imperialism and the Soviet Union. Gheorghe explained:

gheorghe: So, we [Romania and Moldova] entered modernity from different doors. We are the same ethnoculture, basically, and language, etc., but we are a little bit different. They imitated the French model. We entered modernity, let’s say from the Russian door.

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ek: As a gubernia.20 gheorghe: As a gubernia, as a kind of … and what is difficult for us now, is that after the experience of Russians as big brother, we are very sensitive to look at somebody who says, you should do that and that and that. Like also this – a new, big brother, even this big brother speaks in your own language, but with a different accent and different kind of … Characterizing Romania as a “big brother” with a different historical trajectory, Gheorghe explained that Moldova did not want another “big brother” after its recent experiences with Russian domination. Indeed, Stepan believed that the Soviet Union had “brainwashed” Moldova’s residents to believe that “Romanians are bad guys … from a historical point of view” and that “Moldova has nothing to do with Romania.” Thus, Moldova’s inclusion in the Russian empire and the Soviet Union explained their hesitancy in identifying as wholly Romanian, while their historical connection to Romania also inhibited them from identifying as wholly Moldovan. These different legacies played out into the present, as Ambivalent Romanians were hesitant toward Romania both because of the two states’ diverging contemporary political experiences and paths, and negative personal experiences in Romania. In particular, they commented on the snobbery they had experienced in Romania while visiting or studying there for extended periods, with Romanians othering and stereotyping them as Russian because they were “Bessarabian” and “not a hundred per cent Romanian” (Vlad, Gheorghe, Andrei). While Organic Romanians saw themselves as connected to Romania by blood, Ambivalent Romanians framed Romania as a “cousin” or “friend.” Indeed, they did not wish Romania to see Moldova as a brother, and disliked the Romanian tendency to be “too ideological” and “nationalist” toward Moldova (Vlad, Andrei) – a stronger critique of Romania compared to Organic Romanians and Cultural Romanians. Instead, like most Cultural Romanians and Organic Romanians, Ambivalent Romanians saw Europeanization as their preferred path for “improving our relations” with Romania, by not having “the Prut river,” which currently divides the two countries, “as a border like in the Soviet period” (Gheorghe). Europeanization, therefore, was about de-Sovietization and, geopolitically, a way to “get rid of Russia” and its enduring influence in Moldova (Gheorghe, Mihai, Stepan).

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Overall, Ambivalent Romanians exhibited a cross-cutting identification that combined Romanian and Moldovan forms of identification. Nonetheless, of all the identification categories, they were also among the most hesitant toward both Romania and Moldova.

mo ld ova n s “I speak Romanian, I live in the Republic of Moldova, and I am Moldovan.” Anton (Moldovan participant)

Shifting away from the more Romanian-oriented categories, Moldovans were a category of ten participants who identified as Moldovan for reasons more political than cultural, and eschewed identifying as Romanian or with Romania as a kin-state. Moldovans also had a separate and singular form of identification rather than a pluralistic one. For this cohort, the only overlap with Romania concerned language: despite differences of dialect, Moldovans considered their language as Romanian rather than Moldovan, differentiating them from Linguistic Moldovans (the next identification category to be discussed, below). Moldovans saw Moldova as somewhere between Russia and Romania, a territory where Russian and Romanian cultural practices intermingled. While Moldovans identified singularly as Moldovan, for them Moldovan also signalled hybridity, reflecting their multicultural, multiethnic, and multilingual family histories as well as Moldova’s territorial flux. Moldovans also did not position themselves in competition with Romania or with a Romanian cultural/ethnic other, differentiating them further from Linguistic Moldovans. Moldovans were equally mixed in terms of gender and age, though most were from the post-Soviet generation (aged in their twenties to thirties). Many Moldovans emphasized how they were from multilingual families, often with one Russian-speaking and one Romanian-speaking parent (Lilia, Valentina, Nicolae, Viorel, Natalia, Ludmila, Pavel), making their family histories more similar to Linguistic Moldovans than to the more Romanian-oriented categories. For example, Dan’s parents were from Moldova, but he had grown up in Abkhazia before moving to Moldova. Dan described himself as a “Russian speaker,” with English as his second language,21 and learning Romanian as a third language so he could function in his job as a lawyer. In interviews, Moldovans would switch between Romanian and Russian as a common practice, explaining each idea in the language they felt was more suited to it (Natalia, Ludmila, Pavel).

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Most Moldovans were not politically active or affiliated overtly to political parties, unlike Linguistic Moldovans. Instead, they were recent graduates (Natalia), were involved with ngo s (Lilia) or student organizations (Valentina and Nicolae), or worked in insurance (Nina). Those who were slightly older included Dan, a lawyer, Viorel, who worked in a think tank, and Pavel, a former soldier. Among Moldovans, Anton was the exception in being politically active, involved in the youth wing of Moldova’s Democratic Party (pdm ), a party known more for being pro-business and pro-growth than for engaging in identity discussions, in comparison with its former fellow “pro-European” coalition parties pl and pldm .22 pdm ’s approach to identity has been more pluralistic and deliberately vague, yet it did reflect how Moldovans positioned themselves, in terms both of pride in Moldovan statehood and an ecumenical approach to language and culture.23 In turn, this pluralistic approach contrasts with the more mutually exclusive and anti-Romanian approach taken by Linguistic Moldovans. We’re Totally Moldovan, but That’s Something Messy

Moldovans described themselves as “Moldovan of course” (Valentina) and “totally” and “purely” Moldovan (Natalia). Rather than constructing “Moldovan” as an artificial category, as Organic Romanians and Cultural Romanians did, Moldovans expressed pride in being Moldovan (Valentina). For example, Nina described how she “loves Moldova, it’s my country,” while others described Moldova as a state that “deserves its existence” (Anton, Ludmila). Relatedly, their identification as Moldovan stemmed from a feeling of being a part of the Moldovan state. But it was also normative, reflecting the need to “conform with the constitution” and identify as Moldovan (Valentina, Nicolae). As Anton explained: I am a citizen of Moldova, and this is confirmed by both my id card and my passport. I want to do everything for this country, and I think that as long as I’m involved, I worked here, it is my responsibility to do everything for this country. In all these explanations of Moldovan identification, a cultural underpinning was notably absent. Even identifying as Moldovan was not an “issue” and was “not really important” (Dan). In part, this cultural absence can be explained because Moldovans saw being Moldovan as something “messy” and “convoluted” (Viorel, Dan). Thus, Moldovans

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perceived Moldovan identity as something hybrid, and by way of explanation cited a “lot of influxes of people going” into Moldova from Romania and the Soviet Union (Dan). As Lilia commented, Moldova had “many mothers” (Lilia), in contrast to one Organic Romanian who claimed that you do not have a “choice to choose your mother” (Aurel). Specifically, and resonating with previously discussed identification categories, Moldovans described how Moldova lacked many specific or unique traits that might signal its citizens’ Moldovanness and thereby differentiate them from Romania and Romanians:

viorel: Well, we’re now, you know, getting into the deep course of Moldovan identity. Moldovan identity is quite a complicated thing. Probably you won’t hear two identical points on that. And I have to admit that Moldovan identity is quite a messy thing. Like people, they’ll tell you language, but then again, Romanians speak the same language – but wait, our language is somewhat different. It’s a different dialect, but still, it’s a dialect. If you think of French or Spanish languages, the differences are bigger between different dialects of these languages, are bigger than differences between the dialect here, the Moldovan dialect and the standard Romanian language, so it’s not a criterion. Religion, yes, I have to admit this is an important element of Moldovan identity. ek: Which separates it from Romania? viorel: No, no, it’s the same religion – well, different churches. But again, that’s another interesting topic for discussion, if you want later about the role of Orthodox Christianity in Moldovan identity. Because it’s not about religion as faith. It’s about traditions, customs … Because what is Moldovan identity? What makes me feel Moldovan? I don’t know, maybe parents and grandparents. While not identifying with Romania, Moldovans constructed a blurred line between themselves and Romania, similar to Ambivalent Romanians and Cultural Romanians, who identified with Romania. Historically, it was clear to Moldovans that they were “either the same people” as Romanians in Romania, or “we’re so close that it’s impossible to draw a clear distinction” (Dan, Valentina). As Dan explained, Moldova’s history was complicated, and this had implications for identification: There was an issue that Moldova, today’s Moldova, was part of Moldovan principality, then it was severed from it and joined with Russia. Then it became again part of Romania, then again, part of

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the Soviet Union. And because of that, there were a lot of influxes of people going in the country and also leaving the country. So, there is right now such a convoluted situation. It’s quite difficult to say something very clear. The discourse of the Moldovan participants echoed van Meurs’s (1998) argument of “carving out” a Moldovan identity from history or cultural practices. Nonetheless, they inverted this argument by signalling the impossibility of effecting such a carving out. On the one hand, they had the “same language, same history” as Romania but, on the other, a “different history because Romanians, proper Romanians, don’t have Russian background” (Viorel). Indeed, Moldovans agreed, linguistically speaking, that Romanian and Moldovan were the same language. Moldovan was just the language’s “official name” (Valentina, Eugeniu), a sentiment echoed by pdm politician Marian Lupu in 2010, when he claimed that the language he spoke was “Romanian from a scientific point of view, Moldovan – from a political point of view” (Unimedia 2010).24 Moldovans, therefore, did not see language as something that differentiated them from Romanians. But neither did they see language as the basis of their identification – that is to say, they did not identify as Romanian because they spoke Romanian, as Cultural Romanians did. Anton, however, as the exception – the only politicized Moldovan – framed Moldova more culturally and his identification as Moldovan more primordially, using the trope of S¸tefan cel Mare. In Anton’s iteration of this legitimizing myth, S¸tefan confirmed Anton’s Moldovan identification and affirmed the primordial existence of the Moldovan nation. While Organic Romanians used the trope of S¸tefan to argue for Moldova’s regionality within the Romanian nation, Anton used S¸tefan to argue for Moldova’s difference and independence from Romania over the longue durée: For me, there is another thing that bothers me very much. I see that for some who strongly supports the idea of Romanianism, to consider yourself Moldovan is something offensive, which is a totally wrong approach. S¸tefan cel Mare was Moldovan in the true sense – by the way, he wrote in Cyrillic. Moreover, Anton invoked S¸tefan as both a symbol of a Moldovan nation and the creator of the first Moldovan state – a state which Anton described as stronger than, and in competition with, the other regions of what today comprises the Romanian state:

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I always say one thing, namely that the Moldovan principality [T¸ara Moldovei], if we take the historical aspect, was not only a regional identity but also a state identity. In Romania, there are several identities: Moldovan, from Banat, Transylvanian, Ardeal, etc., depending on the regional unit. But the Moldovan principality was not only a regional identity. It was a state, a state that had relationships, and that was even stronger than Muntenia (because back then, there was Romania, but there was Wallachia, Moldova, etc.). And there are some things that should be of interest to historians – historical facts. For example, S¸tefan cel Mare conquered Wallachia [T¸ara Româneasca˘] three times. Thus, Anton positioned Moldova not only as separate but as locked in a primordial competition with Romania, a conception reminiscent of the competitive longue durée discourses of Linguistic Moldovans (although Anton did not name the language he spoke as Moldovan). Apart from Anton, however, most Moldovans eschewed cultural markers of Moldovan identification. In this context, the contingency of ethnic identification and the politicization of identity and language were also evident, across both Moldova and Crimea. Whereas Cultural Romanians might identify as Romanian, and their parents as Moldovan, the situation was more complex for Moldovans. For example, some Moldovans described their parents or grandparents as Romanian if they were born in the interwar Greater Romania. Others described their parents as more “pro-Soviet” than themselves, and “very pro-Russian,” because of their Soviet nostalgia, even if such nostalgia was less pronounced than that of “many Russian speakers” (Dan). However, these dynamics within families were complex and not limited simply to intergenerational differences (i.e., between participants and their parents) but also included differences between siblings. For example, Valentina remarked on the difference between her and her sister, who was ten years older and had grown up during the Soviet period. Because of this Soviet experience, Valentina described her sister as “more of that type of [Soviet] mentality,” as a Russian speaker. In contrast, Valentina felt herself to be “totally different” from her sister because she was born in the 1990s. In other words, the contingency of identification could be felt within generations, or across micro-generations, depending on the specific period of socialization. Others such as Dan, finally, remarked on their personal contingency of identification, having shifted from being “very pro-Russian” himself, like his father, toward being more pro-Moldovan and less anti-Romanian during his teenage years:

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Well, I was a Russian speaker. I was very pro-Russian. I wanted to leave for Russia when I was, I don’t know, fifteen years old. And I was forced to learn Romanian. And any time when someone’s forced to do something, made to do something, some kind of denial appears. So that was my denial of Romanian. So then, as I say, when you get rid of the emotions and you start thinking, you understand that we’re [Moldovans and Romanians] so close that to think the same way as I did when I was thirteen, fourteen, I think is stupid. In other words, Moldovans expressed greater contingency than previous categories – among themselves, over the courses of their lives, and between siblings, rather than merely between themselves and their parents. These different forms of contingency underlined Moldovan identity as being a matter of choice. But they also signified a resilient political form of identification that is especially striking in the context of a weak state. Finally, Moldovans indicated a form of Moldovan identification that recognized rather than rejected links to Romania, wherein Romania was neither a kin-state (as for Organic, Cultural, and Ambivalent Romanians) nor a competitor (as for Linguistic Moldovans). Small, Mighty, but Weak

Similar to Political Ukrainians in Crimea, what mattered to Moldovans was their political identification as Moldovan and their sense of dignity in relation to this identification. In a weak state with nearby kinstate claims, we might expect identification as Moldovan to be weak, especially as scholars have blamed identity for perpetuating Moldova’s condition as a weak but plural state (Way 2003; see also Tudoroiu 2015; Heintz 2008b). Moldova’s political weakness is relevant, too, for considering citizenship, as Štiks (2015, 181) observes how, in similar cases like Bosnia and Kosovo, “a ‘useless’ passport disengages citizens from their already weak states” (see also Chapter 7). For Moldovans, however, their identification as Moldovan was something positive and differentiating, a marker of resilience against state weakness, kin-state co-ethnic claims, and the pan-Romanian identification of many of their fellow citizens. Structurally, Moldova was a “small but mighty” state, sandwiched between the more powerful and wealthy states of Romania, Ukraine, and Russia (Lilia). But, feeling pride in identifying as Moldovan and as Moldovan citizens, Moldovans were also depressed by their state’s weakness and endemic corruption, and felt a sense of inertia, of

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unmet hopes for real political change. After 2009, with the end of the Communist government and the coming to power of a pro-European coalition, they had expected political change but this failed to materialize (Valentina, Nina, Dan). Moreover, Moldovans saw the post-2009 political elite as no different from that of the previous Communist government, as a class of individuals who “only think about themselves” (Nicolae, Valentina). At the same time, Moldovans aspired to a better future. Explicitly, they wished to improve Moldova’s image and no longer to be “judged as a poor country.” They wanted a more trustworthy political elite and for there to be “no differences” or economic and social barriers between Moldova and other states (Valentina, Nicolae). Like previous identification categories, they supported Moldova’s Europeanization, which they envisaged as a “catalyst image” for the state’s development that would reduce the physical, economic, and social barriers between it and the eu (Lilia, Anton). However, unlike previous categories, Moldovans resisted seeing Romania and the eu as a site of geopolitical dependence. For example, they believed that Moldova needed “many supporters” rather than “one good friend” (i.e., Romania) for Moldova’s future “protection” (Lilia, Anton). They did not imagine a Romania-led version of Europeanization as a panacea, as some previous identification categories proposed. Romania Is a Friend, Not a Brother

Despite recognizing their closeness to Romania, Moldovans framed Romania neither as a kin-state nor a “brother,” as Cultural and Organic Romanians did. Instead, they conceived of themselves and Romanians from Romania as being from “different regions, different countries,” and with different accents, even if they spoke the same language (Valentina). Still, they felt a “very close friendship” with Romania, as the states had “a lot in common” (Anton, Lilia). But Moldovans also emphasized their differences from Romania, of being “ex-Soviet space” and having experienced “two centuries” of a “huge influence of Russian culture and Russian language” (Nina, Viorel). More than cultural differences, Moldovans felt different from Romania in terms of status, similar to Ambivalent Romanians and Cultural Romanians. For Moldovans, Romania was “in front of us” politically and economically, and, as an eu member state, had a different “speed of development” (Nina, Nicolae).

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Moldovans envisaged their relationship with Romania as complicated, much like their framing of Moldovan identity. This complexity was embodied in their cohort’s family histories and experiences, particularly during the transition from Greater Romania to the Soviet Union. As Viorel explained, “my grandmother had four brothers, and two of them were forcefully recruited to the Soviet army and two of them to the Romanian army, so they literally had to fight each other.”25 In other words, we observe the enduring relevance of historical legacies of territorial flux, complexity, and hybridity, both in the participants’ lives and for Moldova’s complicated present situation. Moldovans were also critical of Romania’s tendency to conceive of Moldova in terms of sentimental and primordial tropes. For example, Viorel saw it as being Romania’s “historic legacy” and in “their genetic code” to believe that “Moldova is a part, it’s always been part of Romania,” and to lament this “loss” of Moldova (Viorel). For his part, Anton sought to disrupt such sentimentalist discourse toward Moldova by blaming Romania, not Russia: Even when I did a master’s [degree] in Bucharest, telling colleagues that we always talk about Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, which is considered by Romanians as a very sensitive topic. But the biggest crime was not in Moscow but Bucharest, for a single reason, namely that Romania did not fire any guns and no bridge collapsed when the Red Army came, and gave their territory without a battle, without asking whether people agree with the “donation” – rather, the failure – of these territories. In other words, Anton sought to claim that Romania had no right to act sentimentally toward Moldova or yearn for Moldova, because it was Romania’s responsibility that Moldova was severed from it and annexed to the Soviet Union. In line with this complexity, Moldovans supported Moldova as a state independent from both Romania and Russia, while seeking Europeanization. As for previous, more Romanian-oriented participants, for Moldovans, unification was neither “possible” nor desirable (Nicolae, Nina). The potential “moment” of unification was in the past, in the early 1990s, when they were “fighting for the Latin alphabet” (Nicolae, Nina) – battles they had since won. Moldovans were now critical of unification as an “aggressive” and “extreme right” ideology that they did not “need” (Anton, Lilia). Indeed, Moldovans did not desire to be a peripheral “working class” community within Romania, but

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masters of their own, independent state (Lilia, Natalia, Nina). Indeed, Moldova was “a state that deserves its existence and which has already proved this” (Anton). Their pride in Moldova – as a state, as their home, as an entity in which they wished to invest – did not detract from their efforts to elucidate the complexities of what it meant to be Moldovan, and thus positioned between Romania and Russia. All in all, Moldovans saw themselves singularly, as Moldovan – itself a hybrid form of identification – and rejected Romania as a kin-state. Equally, their articulation of Moldovan identification was expressly political and thus differed from a more competitive, mutually exclusive, and neo-Soviet configuration of Moldovan identity, which I turn to next.

li ngui sti c mo l d ova n s “They call it Romanian, but I call it Moldovan.” Victor (Linguistic Moldovan participant)

Linguistic Moldovan participants, but three in number, defined themselves as ethnically Moldovan and their language as Moldovan.26 Moreover, they defined themselves according to an idea of a Moldovan self against a strong Romanian, and pan-Romanian, other – a conception in which Romanian and Moldovan ethnicity and language were mutually exclusive. Further, and consistent with neo-Soviet articulations of Moldovanism, Linguistic Moldovans framed Romania and the Romanian language as being in competition with Moldova and what it means to be Moldovan (March 2007, 602). The composition of Linguistic Moldovans is also significant. First, they were all men of the post-Soviet generation, aged under forty. Second, while naming their native language as Moldovan, Linguistic Moldovans grew up in multiethnic, multilinguistic families and were educated in mixed linguistic environments, similar to Moldovans. For example, Boris described his and his parents’ native language as Russian, and the languages used in conversation with his family as Russian and Moldovan. Meanwhile, Victor described his father as Ukrainian, with whom he spoke Russian, and his mother as Moldovan, with whom he spoke Moldovan. Third, all Linguistic Moldovans were politicized, participating in political parties on the so-called left of Moldova’s political spectrum (March 2007).27 These included the fading Communist Party (pcrm ) and its youth wing (Igor, Boris), and the rising Socialist Party (psrm ) (Victor), Moldova’s largest party since the 2014 parliamentary elections.

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In seeking to recruit ethnic minorities, these left-wing parties are all associated with promoting Moldovanism by defending the idea of a legitimate Moldovan nation entirely separate from, in competition with, and more Slavic than Romania, linguistically, ethnically, and culturally (Socialist Party 2014; Communist Party 2014; see also March 2007; Protsyk and Osoian 2010). These parties, and Linguistic Moldovans, all defended this neo-Soviet Moldovanist perspective and rejected explicitly the idea that Moldova was an artificial nation created by the Soviet Union. Instead, these left-wing parties, the Moldovanist perspective, and Linguistic Moldovans all argued for seeing Romania – as Moldova’s former occupier and its potential colonizer – as a threat to Moldova. Among Linguistic Moldovans, Igor was also involved in fringe Moldovanist organizations, such as “Eu sînt moldovan, Eu gra˘iesc moldovenes¸te” (I am Moldovan, I speak Moldovan).28 The name of this organization is significant in its use of the Moldovan term a grai (to speak) instead of the more common Romanian term vorbi – a choice of words that serves further to differentiate Moldovan from Romanian, as I discuss further below. The political involvements of Linguistic Moldovans represent a contextualizing factor critical to understanding that such narratives of competing Romanian and Moldovan identities exist predominantly in the political sphere. Such perspectives may exist in Moldova’s nonpolitical sphere as well, perhaps among older, Soviet-era generations. In this study, however, the everyday and less politicized perspective came from Moldovans, in a shift away from the neo-Soviet, Moldovanist cultural and linguistic perspective espoused by Linguistic Moldovans. Yes, We’re All Moldovans, Not Romanians

In 2011, Igor Dodon, leader of the left-wing and Moldovanist psrm , launched the campaign Iubesc Moldova (I Love Moldova) following the party’s ascent to prominence in Moldova’s political scene. To accompany the campaign, the Moldovan band Lume released an eponymous song, with parts in Romanian and parts in Russian (ipn 2011). As this excerpt demonstrates, the song proclaims pride in how “we are all Moldovans” and invokes the legitimizing myth of S¸tefan cel Mare: the russian-language part Not for nothing, Stefan the Great to smithereens Broke everyone who attacked, raising fear To the mercy of fate, he did not abandon the country Only for this, a low bow to him.

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Our motherland, we are responsible for her I want my children to grow here I love this country and its people And all that is dedicated to her in this song. the romanian-language part Yes, we are Moldovans We are proud of that We were born in Moldova We will live here. According to this iteration of the myth of S¸tefan, Moldovans are not Moldovan and thus Romanian because of S¸tefan (as Organic Romanians claimed); they are specifically, and only, Moldovan – and in competition with Romania – because of S¸tefan. This song epitomizes the wider Moldovanist discourse and political project of which Linguistic Moldovans were a part. For example, as Boris argued: He [S¸tefan cel Mare] himself said that he was a Moldovan, he led the state of Moldova … Yes, Romania then did not exist, then there was Moldova. There was Wallachia, Muntenia. Linguistic Moldovans positioned themselves, and S¸tefan cel Mare, in primordial competition with Romania, and cited the Moldovan nation’s earlier ethnogenesis. Thus, for Linguistic Moldovans, S¸tefan was a separating and competing symbol, rather than a unifying figure as Organic Romanians imagined. Explicitly, Linguistic Moldovans also identified as Moldovan in more cultural and ethnic terms than Moldovans, describing themselves as “ethnically Moldovan” through an imagined descent via a lineage of Moldovan ancestors (Boris, Igor). In particular, Linguistic Moldovans “carved a Moldovan identity out” of other elements, pointing to aspects – like S¸tefan – which they constructed as uniquely “Moldovan traditions and values” (Victor), in contrast to Moldovans, who could not “carve out” anything that was specifically Moldovan in cultural or historical terms (see also van Meurs 1998). For Linguistic Moldovans, this Moldovan specificity included language (as elaborated below) and cultural practices like food. For example, Linguistic Moldovans referred to popular dishes eaten in both Romania and Moldova as specifically Moldovan:

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victor: For example, even meals, traditions with parents, that are … I was in Europe and saw some other traditions. So, here I have my values and traditions. Even with ma˘ma˘liga˘ [polenta] – as many say, Moldovan ma˘ma˘liga˘. This is a Republic. ek: Or colt¸unas¸i [dumplings]. Or … victor: Colt¸unas¸i, this is Moldovan … That is, there are various points that differ from Russia, Romania. What is it? I love my country. I am really patriotic because I want to develop something Moldovan. Linguistic Moldovans thus rejected Moldova’s hybridity and the betweenness of Romanian and Moldovan cultural practices, which for many other participants, formed the crux of how they identified. Instead, Linguistic Moldovans specified and carved out practices that they conceived as uniquely Moldovan, to construct Moldova as a nation entirely separate from Romania. I Am Moldovan, I Speak Moldovan

The claims of Linguistic Moldovans centred on separating Moldovan as a language from Romanian, disputing the notion that it was merely a Romanian dialect or an artificial language created by the Soviet Union. This linguistic argument was also a political project of movements such as “Eu sînt moldovan, Eu graiesc moldovenes¸ te,” in which Igor was involved. First, Linguistic Moldovans separated Moldovan’s linguistic roots from those of Romanian by claiming, as Soviet-era linguists did, that “Moldovan is based on Slavonic languages” (Boris, Igor). Specifically, they identified their spoken vernacular as different from Romanian, because the language spoken in Moldova had “Russian phrases” and “many words that are taken from Russian” (Victor, Igor). They felt that Romanians patronized them on the basis of such differences and accused them of “not speak[ing] the clean language, you speak the language already twisted, crooked” (Igor), a sentiment resembling those of previous participants who felt subordinated by Romanians. As well as arguing for its uniqueness, Linguistic Moldovans disliked how Moldovan was portrayed as a low-status language and desired it to be accorded greater prestige. For example, in reference to the “Eu sînt moldovan, Eu graiesc moldovenes¸ te” movement’s use of a gra˘i (to speak), Boris argued that “a gra˘i is from Slavonic” and does not appear

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in Romanian, because the “Romanian analog” is limba (language) or a vorbesc (to speak). In naming the movement, the use of grai was an explicit choice, and related to feeling subordinated by Romanians for not speaking “clean Romanian.” Igor explained: They [Romanians] say that a gra˘i [to speak] is a peasant word. So, only illiterate people use it. But here it is, for us who are not illiterate … So, you can’t speak [gra˘ies¸ ti] Romanian. You speak [vorbes¸ti] Romanian … Yes, you can speak [gra˘ies¸ ti] Moldovan! So, there it is! While the linguistic grounds for differentiation may be shaky,29 differentiation in terms of status was more significant. Linguistic Moldovans felt judged by Romanians for how they spoke, deemed as peasants, which led to their defensiveness as well as to the desire for a political project to advocate for Moldovan as a separate language. Further, Linguistic Moldovans positioned Romanian and Moldovan as existing in competition, reflecting their claims of Moldova’s earlier ethnogenesis. For example, Igor claimed that the Moldovan language was “ancient” and predated Romanian (Igor). Similarly, Boris argued: Well, there are differences … Well, the literary form, it is basically the same because, since the Soviet era, it was established that a lot of writers, when they used Moldovan, mostly borrowed some Romanian words. Romanian language is more developed, so as Moldovan … But still, it does not change anything, because the Moldovan language still appeared earlier. And Moldova appeared earlier, historically, than Romania. Thus, Moldova’s earlier ethnogenesis was frequently cited in support of the Moldovan language’s earlier emergence, again positioning Romania and Moldova in competition. Returning to the hero S¸tefan – used by Linguistic Moldovans as a legitimizing myth to embed the significance and earlier emergence of Moldovan, as compared to Romanian – Igor and Victor contrived the language spoken by S¸tefan as Moldovan and as an ancient Slavic language (rather than as Romanian and a Latin language). Implicitly, their claims dismissed the idea of the Moldovan language as having been artificially created by Soviet policymakers by conferring upon it a higher status relative to Romanian, and proposing an interpretation of the S¸tefan myth by way of justification. Finally, Linguistic Moldovans saw it as their political right to differentiate the Moldovan and Romanian languages. As Victor argued, “the

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language differences are small,” but people “in many countries have the right to have a language of their own,” a claim that mirrored the Soviet policy of nativization, which provided that each Soviet republic should have its own titular language and ethnic group (Slezkine 1994). As Igor likewise argued: In Moldova, there’s a paradoxical situation. It’s about how the citizens of this country, to say that that language in which you talk, you have no right call it … you don’t have the right … you don’t – do you understand? That’s it. And for this, fight. It’s like when you finally get to call yourself Moldovan [you are] already dealing with politics. That’s it. It’s a paradox! No? In whichever country you go, saying that “I am English and speak English” … Well, speak. Speak! What’s the matter? In other words, Linguistic Moldovans sought recognition, and a higher linguistic status, for Moldovan as part of a political project to maintain the separation of the Moldovan nation as distinct from Romania. Pan-Romanianism as a Threat

Accompanying their construction of an ancient Moldovan self, entwined in a longue durée competition with Romania, Linguistic Moldovans also constructed a Romanian and pan-Romanian contemporary other which they saw as threatening Moldova. Not only did Linguistic Moldovans criticize Romania more forcefully than other categories, they seemed almost obsessed with portraying Romania as a malign, powerful state which interfered in Moldova by spreading and supporting pan-Romanian nationalism. For example, they claimed that Romania funded and otherwise supported pan-Romanian movements and a fifth column of “unionists,” which threatened Moldova’s statehood and territorial integrity (Igor). Boris argued that Romania’s support ensured that “Romanian nationalism is introduced into the framework of a state ideology.” Igor and Victor saw Romania as imposing nationalist symbols, such as the flag – “the Romanian tricolour, but with the Moldavian coat of arms” – and allowing schools to teach history incorrectly and indoctrinate students to believe “that you are Romanian.” To justify the current nationalist, if not irredentist, threat posed by Romania, Linguistic Moldovans drew on the past, particularly the interwar period. They framed Moldova, now independent, as having been “once a colony of Romania” following Greater Romania’s annexation

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of Bessarabia, which brought “hard times for Moldovans” (Igor, Victor). And, relating to the present, Linguistic Moldovans saw Romania as a threat because it had “more influence [than Moldova], more power, it is already in the European Union” – as well as a propensity to “dictate to us what to do” (Victor, Igor).30 Therefore, Linguistic Moldovans saw Romania neither as a constructive actor nor a kin-state. Rather, for them, Romania was a destructive actor, reinforcing their specific, mutually exclusive, and competing understanding of identification and language vis-à-vis Romania.

a fractured but (s o mewh at ) n e st e d k i n m ajo r i t y Focusing on what being Romanian and Moldovan meant to them as a lived experience, few participants identified in singular terms, as wholly Romanian or wholly Moldovan (see Table 6.1). Indeed, only Linguistic Moldovans engaged with such ideas of Moldova/Moldovan and Romania/Romanian as mutually exclusive and existing in competition. Exposing the fracturing of identity within the kin majority, many participants nested the meaning of being Moldovan within a Romanian identification (Organic Romanians) or cross-cut these forms of identification (Cultural Romanians and Ambivalent Romanians). In other words, when we formulate identification only in terms of mutually exclusive categories, or mutually exclusive discourses of Moldovanism or pan-Romanianism, we are missing the nuanced ways in which identification is experienced and given meaning. What was important in Moldova, precisely, was the nesting of identification, which blurred the boundary between Moldovan and Romanian identification, rather like the layers in a matryoshka doll; or the cross-cutting of identification, which again blurred boundaries through the intersection of Moldovan and Romanian forms of identification. Moreover, in both Crimea and Moldova, understanding how meanings of identification were contested across generations was critical. In Moldova, participants of the post-Soviet generation imagined themselves in more Romanian terms, though not exclusively, compared to their parents, who identified more as Moldovan. Through these articulations, we see how meanings of identification can and do change over time, problematizing the idea that ethnicity is based on “myths of common descent” (cf. Smith 1991). Broadly, ethnic identity appears not as visible and sticky, as Chandra (2006) argues, but as contingent, dynamic, and blurred within and across generations. Also significant in these debates regarding identification – nesting and cross-cutting, in particular – is how they exist in the context of a

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state that is often described as weak precisely because of these kinds of contestations. From an everyday perspective, although identification was contested, this contestation did not determine, or necessarily relate to, political and territorial preferences to the extent of supporting irredentism and wishing away the Moldovan state. Instead, for all participants – regardless of identification – Moldova was their home, a place in which they took pride and wished to invest. Elites may instrumentalize identity to perpetuate state weakness for their own ends, but this is a far stretch from the everyday perspectives of Moldovans, who remain invested in Moldova as a political entity, despite these weaknesses and contestations. This discussion yields a useful set of identification categories in which to situate an analysis of en masse acquisition of Romanian citizenship in Moldova, a subject I turn to in the next chapter.

7 From Nested Identities to Nested Citizens “If I betray my ancestors, I believe, No trace of mine remains: Give the eyes to the ravens, give the carcass to the dogs, Curse me in Romanian.” Nicolae Ma˘tca¸s (2004)1

In Moldova, in 2012 and 2013, discussions of Romanian citizenship abounded in everyday life. Interlocutors and friends would frequently broach the subject of the prevalence and normalcy of Romanian citizenship in Moldova. As one Cultural Romanian participant described, there had been a “gold rush” for Romanian citizenship in Moldova (Rodica). In stark contrast, talk of Russian citizenship and the Compatriot policy seldom formed a part of everyday discussions in Crimea. Even since Moldovans gained visa-free access to the eu in 2014, the appetite for Romanian citizenship, and acceptance of its reacquisition, has not waned.2 News reports speak of a thousand Moldovans per day applying for Romanian citizenship, and of one million having acquired it between 2008 and 2018 (Stiriletv 2018; bbc Monitoring – Former Soviet Union 2018b). This “gold rush” for Romanian citizenship included local political elites, such as current and former presidents, government members, and constitutional court judges, who were either applying to become, or already were, Romanian citizens (Publika 2012), just as many of the participants of this study were. For example, Vlad Filat of the pldm party, a former prime minister, advocated for the “restoration” of Romanian citizenship to Moldovans (bbc Monitoring – Former Soviet Union 2008b; bbc Monitoring – Former Soviet Union 2018). While the prevalence of Romanian citizenship remains mostly opaque (see Chapter 3), a drive toward transparency within Moldova has provided some windows for understanding the scale of proliferation. For example, Moldova’s State Chancellery records the citizenship status

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of those admitted to the civil service’s higher ranks. As evidence for the notion of a citizenship “gold rush,” as of June 2020, the data available for sixty-eight civil service job candidates indicates that forty-two (62 per cent) declared holding Romanian citizenship (State Chancellery 2020).3 Although Romanian citizenship is so normalized and endorsed by Moldovan elites, who are themselves becoming Romanian citizens in great number, the absence of critique is noticeable. The main exception was during the presidency of Vladimir Voronin, of the Communist Party (pcrm ), Moldova’s main neo-Soviet left party before 2014, who saw Romania’s expanding citizenry as a threat to Moldova’s sovereignty and “regional stability” (bbc Monitoring – Former Soviet Union 2009c, see also Iordachi 2002; Chirila 2010b, 37). Nonetheless, politicians from leftist parties, including pcrm and its successor, Moldova’s Socialist Party (psrm ), have also been reacquiring Romanian citizenship for some time.4 In sum, in Moldova today, Romanian citizens are everywhere, a situation suggestive of en masse acquisition of Romanian citizenship, particularly because it is a kin majority. Iurie Leanca˘ (2013), Moldova’s former pro-European prime minister, wrote in the Financial Times that Moldova shares “a land border with Romania and many Moldovans also have Romanian, and thus eu , citizenship.” But en masse acquisition is the most contentious and contested aspect of kin-state politics – and even something that the international community seeks to discourage, insisting that citizenship only be conferred on individuals with a “genuine link” to the state for which it is being acquired.5 However, requiring a “genuine link” does not, in and of itself, prevent en masse acquisition when states such as Romania claim to confer citizenship on a case-by-case basis. Ghinea argues that Romania is acting on a historical obligation of “regaining … not granting this right,” and notes that individuals must prove descent from those who lost Romanian citizenship in the interwar period (Ghinea 2010; see also Arraiza 2015). The European Commission has indicated that Romania’s policy respects the “genuine link” principle more than states that sell citizenship, like Malta, which receives greater blame than kin-states for eroding the trust of eu citizens (European Parliament 2014a; European Parliament 2014b).6 But several eu mep s from far-right parties have voiced concern that expanded Romanian citizenship would promote Moldovan immigration to the eu – a particularly poignant claim prior to Romania’s accession to the eu in 20077 – and would be, “in effect … an enlargement of the European Union” (bbc Monitoring – Europe 2009). Moldova is also a case of fragile statehood and citizenship, with high levels of distrust, emigration, and depopulation.8 Yet, to counter the “paranoia” of the eu states and Russia, Romanian analysts argue

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that Romania’s citizenship policy promotes neither Moldovan state weakness nor geopolitical weakness (bbc Monitoring – Europe 2007; Ghinea 2010). Rather, they maintain that Romania’s kin-state policies facilitate Moldova’s modernization and Europeanization from within. But citizenship establishes an important political, social, and potentially geopolitical link between individuals and “specific political and cultural communities,” not least kin-states (Waterbury 2018; see also Kiss, Toró, and Székely 2018). For home-states, especially those in which kin majorities reside, we need to explore the ramifications of increasing kin-state citizenship prevalence, in particular where such prevalence is normalized, as in Moldova. For example, we do not yet understand if en masse acquisition poses risks to a state’s sovereignty and territorial integrity, especially in cases like Moldova, which has struggled with issues relating to sovereignty and territorial integrity since achieving independence in 1991.9 Why has Romanian citizenship become, and remained, so popular and so normalized in Moldova? In studies of the acquisition of Romanian citizenship (Heintz 2008b; see also Iordachi 2004; Suveica 2013) and Bulgarian citizenship (in Macedonia, Spaskovska 2012), most give greater weight to materialist explanations concerning the strategic value of the citizenship gained, and less to symbolic explanations that connect prevalence to identity. Since 2009, the value of Romanian and Bulgarian citizenship soared by virtue of its attachment to eu citizenship, in particular for those on the eu ’s periphery. Almost overnight, Romanian citizenship became a “bridge to Europe,” providing Moldovans with legal rights relating to travel, employment, and migration within eu member states at a time when few other options were available (Iglesias, Sata, and Vass 2016; see also Gutu and Gheorghiu 2004). Researching migration and citizenship “from afar,” however, more often than not involves talking about, rather than to, those acquiring it, leading to the substantial risk of a “blind spot” (Leitner and Ehrkamp 2004, 1616; Birkvad 2019). Consequently, we may focus too closely on materialist explanations that could obscure other relevant discourses and how such discourses intersect. As well as prevalence, this chapter seeks to explicate the normalcy of Romanian citizenship. Such normalcy, I argue, is grounded in its legitimacy, stemming, in turn, from narratives of historical injustice. In other words, reacquiring Romanian citizenship performs a compensatory function as a “remedial right” (see Dumbrava 2014, 109) that reverses the historical injustice of close relatives who lost Romanian citizenship unwillingly following the Soviet annexation.10 Such discourses of historical injustice appear in Moldovan media, such as this quote from “Eugenia M.,” a twenty-five-year-old woman from Chis¸ina˘u:

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I’m grateful for this amazing chance. I grew up with my maternal grandparents, who had forcibly lost their Romanian citizenship. This is as much a great achievement to me, as it is a tribute to their memory. (quoted in Demian 2009) Eugenia points to how, for her, the meaning of citizenship derives neither from her symbolic connection to Romania nor from strategic gain, but how it honours and redresses her family’s loss of Romanian citizenship through the injustice of Soviet annexation. These logics of legitimacy provide an additional lens, alongside the materialist and symbolic explanations, through which to view the prevalence and normalcy of Romanian citizenship. To date, however, there has been little systematic analysis of such bottom-up logics of legitimacy, or of how the logics undergirding citizenship practices intersect, or not, with meanings of identification. Using the categories constructed in Chapter 6, this chapter delves beyond the numbers of those reacquiring citizenship to explore how discourses of legitimacy, alongside materialist and symbolic motivations, do or do not intersect with meanings of identification. In so doing, this chapter finds Romanian citizenship to be prevalent across identification categories and justified via such logics of legitimacy, signalling its prevalence and normalcy. Moreover, nested understandings of citizenship included more than merely those with nested understandings of identification (Organic Romanians as well as Cultural Romanians), while cross-cutting understandings of citizenship included more than merely those with cross-cutting understandings of identification (Ambivalent Romanians as well as Moldovans). Furthermore, for Organic Romanians and Cultural Romanians, understandings of citizenship also show how Romania(n) and Moldova(n) were not perceived as competing political and cultural entities and identities, but as interdependent. Finally, this chapter also focuses on quasi-citizenship practices by exploring how participants engaged with Romanian scholarship policies. What emerges is how Romanian educational policies, such as scholarships, represent another powerful means of engaging with Romania, in contrast to the lack of engagement with, and impact of, Russian scholarships in Crimea. Engaging with Romania through scholarships provides another lens for considering Moldova’s social, political, and geopolitical dependency on Romania, and the broad acceptance of such dependencies which cut across meanings of identification.

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th e go ld rush o f ro m a n i a n ci ti z ensh i p i n m o l d ova Unlike Russia’s consulate in Crimea, which was always barren, even during Russia’s presidential elections in February 2012, the area around Romania’s consulate in Chis¸ina˘u was always bustling.11 People would squeeze among the barriers, queueing for many hours, or even days, to get inside, sitting on walls or waiting on grassy patches beside the consular buildings. Some waited for visa applications, others to file their papers to begin the citizenship application process. During scholarship season, many waited in hope of a place in a Romanian university. The consulate’s periphery was also saturated with agencies offering services: translation, copying, and advocacy, as well as minibuses circulating across Moldova offering transport to the consulate in Chis¸ina˘u. These agencies also included an informal economy of “intermediaries” who could get you inside the consulate more quickly for a fee, or help with documents that could not be found or did not exist. Moreover, more nefarious rumours abounded, described by participants and reported in local news, that for just four to five thousand euros you could illegally procure a Romanian passport (Mogos and Calugareanu 2012; Kaminski 2018; bbc Monitoring – Former Soviet Union 2008a; bbc Monitoring – Former Soviet Union 2012a; bbc Monitoring – Former Soviet Union 2012b). Even high-profile figures were involved in these scandals such as Vladimir Plahotniuc, Moldova’s infamous oligarch, who was reported as having acquired Romanian citizenship under a fake name (Turcanu, Nani, and Basiul 2011). To contextualize this “gold rush” for Romanian citizenship, Moldovans never needed a visa – or even a passport – to visit Romania before 2002. But, as Romania sought eu accession, Moldovans’ ability to travel to Romania became heavily restricted and more expensive, with the imposition of a visa (Roper 2005, 507). In 2004, Gutu and Gheorghiu (2004, 203) described Romania’s eu accession as erecting a new “iron curtain” between Romania and Moldova because of the spillover effects on Moldovan citizens. Even when Romania made visas free, Moldovan citizens still had to travel to Romania’s consulate and show proof of having at least five hundred euros in a bank account, equivalent to about 30 per cent of an average annual Moldovan salary in 2010. Obtaining a visa could be a difficult and humiliating experience. For Diana, a Cultural Romanian, obtaining visas was a “total hell,” while media reported it as a “grueling procedure” where visas were “virtually unobtainable by honest means” (Lobjakas 2009; see also Gutu and Gheorghiu 2004).

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Indeed, the Moldovan government in 2009 accused Romania of having “deliberately bureaucratized the procedure” of obtaining a visa, thereby “forcing Moldovan citizens to obtain Romanian passports” (bbc Monitoring – Former Soviet Union 2009a). Between 2002 and the visa liberalization in 2014, reacquiring Romanian citizenship may simply have been – as many participants related – a more stable, assured, and humanizing process than procuring a visa. But reacquiring Romanian citizenship during the “gold rush” was neither easy nor quick. Many would wait outside the consulate for hours or days. Others waited, with little news for years or even decades, for their citizenship application to be processed (Demian 2009).12 Before Romania acceded to the eu , these lengthy wait times became a particular issue whenever the process of reacquisition was temporarily stalled or cancelled to stave off criticism from the eu and its member states that might threaten Romania’s accession chances. After accession was finalized in 2009, many applicants in Moldova found themselves in a bureaucratic backlog, with Romania having more applications on file than it had the capacity to process. Meanwhile, Romania also extended eligibility for reacquisition from first- to second- and, eventually, third-generation descendants (Iordachi 2013). Even before applying, it could take years to gather the necessary documents to prove descent from citizens of interwar Greater Romania (1918–40). Often, individuals had to retrieve original documents from local archives – in particular, for relatives who had been deported to Siberia or Kazakhstan, as many were in the early Soviet period (Viorel, Moldovan; Viorica, Cultural Romanian).13 These documents then had to be standardized, transliterated, and translated; hence the intermediary services around the Romanian consulate in Chis¸ina˘u (Ilie and Marian, Cultural Romanians). Names typically varied between documents, as the Soviet Union forced individuals to use Cyrillic script and change names, as part of the Soviet de-Romanianization process (Valeriu, Organic Romanian). In other words, the process of reacquiring Romanian citizenship could be as costly in time as it was in money, as Viorica, a Cultural Romanian, explained: In my case, it is a very interesting situation, because I want to get the documents to regain citizenship by the documents of my grandparents. What my grandmother is eighty years old. She was deported to Siberia. And that means that my grandmother’s documents, all but the voucher id card … and she did when she was returned, when they restored life here. All their documents were lost. Documents

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Figure 7.1 | Practices of Romanian citizenship by outcome and category.

we usually collect, but which had to raise her with only her clothes? Where should we collect? … My grandmother’s birth certificate, the document certifying her marriage, that … I know there must be more documents. All these things I do not have. And you have to get them. But that costs some money. Well, it doesn’t cost some astronomical sums, cosmic. However, it costs some money. But most importantly, it cost time. It costs time. It annoys me. In comparison, reacquiring Romanian citizenship was simply less of a gamble than applying for a visa, at least in the longer term. In the following sections, I use the identification categories from Chapter 6 to analyze how, why, and if participants engaged with Romanian citizenship and how citizenship practices intersected with the identification. I work through the assumption that those identifying more strongly with Romania and as Romanian (i.e., Organic Romanians) were more likely to engage with Romanian citizenship than those who eschewed Romanian identity and conceived of Romania as an aggressive threat to Moldovan sovereignty (Linguistic Moldovans). While this

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assumption holds broadly, the chapter finds broad engagement with Romania beyond those who identified with Romania as a kin-state (e.g., Moldovans; see Figure 7.1), an engagement grounded in the legitimacy and normalcy of reacquiring Romanian citizenship. Organic Romanians and the Natural Right of Romanian Citizenship

Most Organic Romanians had reacquired, or wanted to reacquire, Romanian citizenship (Figure 7.1). Matching their nested form of identification, most Organic Romanians saw Romanian citizenship as nested – as something that competed neither with Moldovan citizenship nor statehood, but amplified and corrected what it meant to be Romanian in Moldova. Equally, as Chapter 6 demonstrated, these nested understandings of identification did not translate to prointegration sentiments; what Romanian citizenship offered was the potential not to alter the separating border but to exist “over and above” this border (Kovács 2006, 442). While most Organic Romanians held Romanian citizenship, a minority felt they did not need it (Iurie, Alina, Adrian). These Organic Romanians believed the process was too costly and too complicated, as they needed to collect the relevant documents and visit the consulate (Iurie, Alina, Adrian). For example, Adrian felt it was “too late” to apply: I do not know. I feel it’s too late. I would be one of the last. Yes, I regret that I didn’t think about it before now. Honestly, I really do not know. I’ll do it, or not – no, I don’t … Because, well, a passport … I already consider myself Romanian. I mean, why change it? The downside is that many people left who can contribute to the development of the country. But that’s not their fault. They’re not to blame for this country, which has not developed here, to find a decent job. As Adrian made clear, he already considered himself Romanian. He did not need to prove this a second time by investing in Romanian citizenship. Equally, the two younger participants in the minority group believed that Romanian citizenship was costly and unnecessary, particularly given that their opportunities as Moldovan citizens might improve. They wanted to “wait for visa liberalization” with the eu , which the Moldovan administration had “promised” would happen in 2014, as indeed it did (Iurie, Alina). Finally, a small minority who were among the most pro-Romanian of Organic Romanians, and active in pro-Romanian and unification

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movements, saw the act of having to apply to reacquire Romanian citizenship as offensive. They did not believe they should have to apply for Romanian citizenship. Rather, they wanted it to be conferred automatically, as a “natural right” (Vitalie, Eduard). Thus, even those Organic Romanians who did not want to apply for Romanian citizenship nonetheless demonstrated a nested understanding of citizenship. Their citizenship status did not change how they felt about their nested relationship with Romania: they did not need Romanian citizenship to feel nested within Romania. romanian citizenship as a natural right In contrast, most Organic Romanians had reacquired, or wished to reacquire, Romanian citizenship. As Eugeniu explained, he had “actually recovered [redobândirea] it. Regained is the correct term.” Reflecting their organic identification, they saw it as “natural” to be both Romanian and Moldovan citizens (Oleg, Constantin, Vasile, Traian, Valeriu, Iulian, Ion, Marina), demonstrating the stronger symbolic attachment of Organic Romanians to Romanian citizenship as compared to other identification categories. Besides symbolic discourses, Organic Romanians also invoked discourses of legitimacy by framing Romanian citizenship as “my right.” As Traian, from the pro-Romanian pnl party, explained: Romanian citizenship is a very good and correct policy. We think that is a good thing. Indeed, citizenship was taken in a very abusive way from our grandparents and parents. They did not renounce it, but it was taken improperly from citizens, who were Romanian, by the then Communist policy of the Soviet Union. We, here, think that the policy that Romania has is good. In other words, Organic Romanians perceived Romanian citizenship as their right because of its personal and direct attachment to participants’ close relatives, whom they felt had been stripped of their Romanian citizenship unjustly (Dumitru, Mircea, Vasile, Traian, Maxim, Eugeniu). Similarly, Vasile, of the more mainstream pro-Romanian party pl , explained: I, for example, have Romanian citizenship and see no incompatibility between service to the state of the Republic of Moldova and Romanian citizenship. In 1940 and 1918, my parents and grandparents lived here in Bessarabia. When the Russians came with tanks in

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1940 and reoccupied us, they did not ask my grandfather if he wants to quit Romanian citizenship – because I have their birth certificates and it says [grandfather’s and grandmother’s names], born in the village of [village name], are citizens of Romania. Russians came with tanks. They have taken citizenship and given them Soviet citizenship. The right to Romanian citizenship is a moral reparation for us Romanians in Bessarabia, and we do not see any problem in this regard because each state – for example, Hungary for Hungarians, England for the English, France for French, equally take care of people who are inside and those outside the borders. I think it is our right, and more it is Romania’s obligation to take care of us. For Organic Romanians, reacquiring Romanian citizenship was a process of “recovery,” or “reparation,” in Vasile’s words. Reacquiring Romanian citizenship recognized the “historic truth” that they had “finally got their right citizenship,” and thereby reversed the injustices experienced by their relatives (Aurel, Maxim). Reaffirming the nested nature of Romanian and Moldovan citizenship, Vasile added that his allegiance to Romania and Moldova were mutually reinforcing rather than in competition. Similar to contestations of identification (per Chapter 6), Organic Romanians also described the intergenerational contestations of citizenship. While Eugeniu saw Romanian citizenship as a “return to normality” that reversed historical injustices, he explained how his parents opposed his reacquisition of Romanian citizenship because of their different values: Although my parents did not accept, frankly [that their son had reacquired Romanian citizenship]. Based on the same documents, I regained myself, and they could recover. They feel it’s [Romanian citizenship] opposite to their values. I don’t see in Romania the reunification of the idea … A simple matter of moving, so to speak, when you go from one side or another, absolutely normal. And why would I not obtain it? Because reacquiring Romanian citizenship necessitated that families act together to gather their relatives’ documents, it also led to participants articulating intergenerational contestations of citizenship – and explicitly so in cases where participants saw Romanian citizenship as nested while their parents saw it as competing. These familial cleavages over citizenship reflect how meanings of identification were also

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contingent over generations (Chapter 6), with the older, Soviet-era generations having been raised under a different political regime and fearing the consequences of Romanian citizenship for Moldova. For Organic Romanians, however, holding citizenship of, and “loyalty” toward, both Romania and Moldova was neither problematic nor a zero-sum affair. Their “obligations” toward and support for Romania did not replace, but simply came after, their obligations toward and support for Moldova (Corneliu, Mircea, Vitalie). And, for most participants, Romanian citizenship did not change or amplify their identification as Romanian or how they felt about Romania. As Corneliu explained: “I feel the same … I also see it like a second house, a second country. So, getting the citizenship, not getting it, no difference.” Instead, Romanian citizenship allowed Organic Romanians to feel a sense of equality to Romanians in Romania and to eu citizens (like me). Previously, some participants felt Romanian but without being able to “prove” they were Romanian (Constantin, Mihaela). Through Romanian citizenship, Corneliu explained that he became “Romanian like them” in Romania, and could live in Romania “not as [an] immigrant but as a citizen will all rights and obligations.” This proof of Romanianness and equalized status resonates with Pogonyi’s (2019, 976) work on Hungarian kin communities, who felt that official documents provided “guests from Hungary” with some proof of their belonging to Hungary. But Romanian citizenship was not only about equalizing and legitimizing ties to Romania but also, more geopolitically, about feeling they had “become European” (Oleg, Marina, Cristina). As Oleg observed: It is very good! We become Europeans, one by one. Every citizen of Moldova, through Romanian citizenship, becomes a European citizen. When there will be two to three million European citizens, through Romanian citizenship, this will solve the problem of Europeanization and European integration of Moldova. No union with Romania, but union with Europe. For example, Romanian citizenship allowed them to feel “protected as a European” because they had the “same rights” as eu citizens (Marina). While feeling more equal as citizens vis-à-vis the eu , Romanian citizenship did not affect how participants symbolically felt about Romania, a factor that reinforced the nested nature of Romanian citizenship, because of the blurring of identification between Moldova and Romania that Organic Romanians articulated.

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dismissing the material motivations of others While some Organic Romanians acknowledged the material value of Romanian citizenship, others distanced themselves from such material motivations, believing themselves to have a more legitimate claim to citizenship than those with more opportunistic motivations. Eugeniu, however, declared it “a little disingenuous” not to admit that the material value of Romanian citizenship might play “a bit” of a role their application decision, even if such opportunities were secondary to the symbolic motivations of identifying as Romanian (also Dumitru and Iulian). Nonetheless, many Organic Romanians dismissed material motivations and “profiteers,” who used Romanian citizenship for purely material reasons (Vasile). For example, describing the citizenship ceremony, Corneliu contrasted his respect for gaining Romanian citizenship with others who seemed to show less respect: Yeah … mixed feelings, I think. I had learned the hymn, I was prepared. I took my suit, tie – I took my tie, and I was going like, happy that I made this oath, and I will become a citizen. And when I came there, I saw come on two hundred people dressed like they were going to Piat¸a Centrala˘ [the central market], without any stress. It was cold outside, so everyone was [shudders as though cold] but my colleague, from work, he was last week, and give this oath, and he said someone came to embassy like he came to the beach, in shorts and no worry. And I was singing, yeah, really singing the hymn and looking around, and basically, it was only me. Around me was four or five people, and only me was singing. Everyone was like [imitates person not singing]. For Corneliu, the ceremony was a solemn matter of obligation and patriotism toward Romania, in contrast to those who were merely concerned about “getting the certificate” so that they could “go to Italy.” Thus, Organic Romanians framed themselves as legitimate holders of Romanian citizenship because they took it seriously and in contrast to opportunists and “profiteers,” who used Romanian citizenship “not [as] a way to feel Romanian” but as a “formula to go abroad legally” (Adrian, Iurie, Vasile). Notably, Organic Romanians argued that they were not motivated to use Romanian citizenship to leave Moldova because they wanted “to stay here, to develop the country, to change things” (Valeriu). Organic Romanians also viewed the “profiteers” neither as genuinely or legitimately Romanian nor as having a genuine or a legitimate desire to be a Romanian. As Mihaela observed during the citizenship ceremony:

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There was a person, and he didn’t even understand Romanian. He’s a true Russian, like speaking native Russian. It was so obvious that he paid money and he had these kinds of documents. Actually, they are trying to find some kind of relatives, which somehow, some kind … or getting married just for that. But the Romanian embassy was kind of cruel to them. They don’t even, I don’t know, listen to them. They don’t give the citizenship if you don’t understand Romanian. Like it’s your native language, why don’t you speak it or something? This sense of illegitimate citizenship reacquisition played into the reputation of Romanian citizenship as dubious or corrupt, such that Organic Romanians believed others were simply fabricating citizenship rights. These Organic Romanians desired Romanian citizenship to be more restricted along ethnonationalist or at least linguistic lines, to reflect their ideas about who ought to be deemed the legitimate beneficiaries of Romania’s policy (i.e., people like themselves). romanian citizenship as a salvation Organic Romanians envisioned Romanian citizenship as their “salvation,” offering them personal protection against Russia and future instability in Moldova (Oleg). Romanian citizenship allowed them to “not depend on the Moldovan passport with which you can only go to three countries,” and granted them the right to work and be educated in the eu (Oleg, Marina, Aurel, Cristina, Corneliu). Moreover, as Oleg explained, Romanian citizenship was a “salvation” because of its potential to “save people from starvation” in a state with endemic “hunger” and low wages. As a “salvation,” Romanian citizenship was also about protection. For example, Corneliu described Romanian citizenship as a form of “insurance,” in the event that a person “failed again and again and again” to make a life in Moldova. This discourse of protection suggests a nuanced materiality – of needing Romanian citizenship not to leave Moldova but to build a necessary reliance on Romania. In turn, this framing of citizenship demonstrates a broader sense of citizenship’s materiality, beyond merely a simplistic, practical calculus of maximized opportunity (cf. Harpaz 2019a). For citizens of weak and peripheral states, like Moldova, Romanian citizenship numbered among the few protections they could seek to protect themselves against future insecurity, both as individuals and as a society. Previous research has alluded to the idea of citizenship as an insurance policy in Turkey (Balta and Altan-Olcay 2020) and Israel (Harpaz 2019a), though primarily for economic elites.

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But these discourses in Moldova, as well as in Crimea (per Chapter 5), were more survivalist in character, linking citizenship to having bread and security rather than higher-level global opportunities. Fears of state weakness were also geopolitical. Citizenship was a “political tool” used both by Romania and Russia to “take more influence” in Moldova (Iulian, Maxim). As Eugeniu explained, he saw Romanian citizenship as a form of protection against the potential risk of Russian violence: Plus, citizenship can be interpreted simply as … simply more Bessarabians are opportunists, they take to go abroad. But on the other hand, it gives a sense of security. If tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, who knows what Russia strike? Citizenship is somehow … It remains a factor to maintain a balance, so to speak, in the area. In other words, Organic Romanians saw Romanian citizenship as offering not only insurance but stability and deterrence, conferring geopolitical protection against Russia upon individual Moldovans and the Moldovan state alike. Organic Romanians understood, and supported, such a geopolitical dependence on Romanian citizenship, emphasizing their view of Romanian citizenship as a mutually reinforcing and nested practice. Cultural Romanians and “Real” Romanian Citizenship

Cultural Romanians were a cross-cutting category in terms of identification, imagining themselves as overlapping, but neither nested within Romania nor entirely like Romanians in Romania. We might expect Cultural Romanians to be somewhat engaged in Romanian citizenship, but less than Organic Romanians. In fact, Cultural Romanians were similarly interested and invested in Romanian citizenship. They, too, demonstrated a nested understanding of citizenship that extended beyond their cross-cutting articulation of identification. In other words, at least in Moldova, it was not only nested forms of identification that might also translate into nested understandings of citizenship. The small minority of Cultural Romanians (two participants, Tudor and Petru) who did not wish to reacquire Romanian citizenship did not have strong reasons for not applying, as some Organic Romanians did. For example, although Tudor thought it was a “mistake” on his part not to have applied, he also believed it was too late to apply:

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So, I have studied in Romania. I have done my PhD there, and I didn’t apply for Romanian citizenship because at that time it was easy, just by deed, to cross the border, and I considered that it will be for the rest of my life, forever. But this doesn’t happen, and now I see that it was my mistake that I didn’t apply. But who knows? Although Tudor saw reacquiring Romanian citizenship as a “right” that would allow him to return to his grandparents’ “realities,” it was simply not a right that he had exercised as yet. In contrast, Petru was more critical of certain Moldovans’ reasons for reacquiring Romanian citizenship. He did not wish, for example, to be subsumed amid a sea of opportunists who were motivated only by the “benefits” of Romanian citizenship: I don’t know. So, I can apply for this, I don’t have any problems. But I haven’t decided. Because a lot of people from Romania look at us, at Moldovan citizens if to apply for Romania, to apply for Romanian passport, as you want benefits from my country. So, I don’t like this situation. I’m a citizen from Moldova. I speak Romanian. I’m not … I believe in Romanian values, but I am not applying now. Maybe in the future, but not now. Given his nested relationship with Romania, Petru did not want to abuse the sanctity of Romanian citizenship by applying for material reasons, and wished to avoid being seen in this way by Romanians in Romania. romanian citizenship as a necessary “back door” Cultural Romanians who desired or had reacquired Romanian citizenship gave more material, “practical reasons” than symbolic ones for reacquiring Romanian citizenship, as compared to Organic Romanians (Radu, Diana). Cultural Romanians conceived of Romanian citizenship as a “necessity” with which, in the absence of other options, they were almost forced to engage. For example, Romanian citizenship offered the “certainty” and flexibility to “get in the car and go where we want” (Ana, Petru, Radu, Maria, Cristian, Ilie, Violeta, Viorica, Alexandra, Diana). More specifically, several Cultural Romanians explained how Romanian citizenship was “our back door” to the eu (Maria, Radu). To them, this “back door” entailed the “opening of borders to the eu ” – both for them as individuals and for Moldova as a whole – and the provision of access which, for political reasons, had previously been beyond reach. As Diana explained:

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But I think for Moldovans, it’s not so much of a historical thing that you’re getting back to your Romanian roots. It’s more of a very practical reason for getting it. It’s about opening borders in the eu . You can travel freely. Because when you’re applying here for visas, this is total hell, total hell. I travelled a lot in the early 2000s. I changed like five or six passports because I travelled so much. And I always dealt with these embassies who look at you from above, who are always very skeptical that you’ll return, asking stupid, really stupid confirmations of your electricity bills or, I don’t know, stuff that you think, why would they need it. I mean, I totally understand why they need it. They want to make sure that you’re the person that’s going to return and not stay there. But this is humiliating you so much that many people are getting Romanian citizenship just for practical reasons. And I have to admit I did the same, for practical reasons. In other words, Diana saw “practical reasons” as outweighing symbolic reasons. Romanian citizenship was one of the few opportunities available that could change, and ease, the course of Moldovans’ lives. And, mostly, Romanian citizenship was a humanizing opportunity, allowing them to avoid the bureaucratic “hell” of applying for visas. Noting their increased mobility, some appreciated that living abroad offered them “more possibilities” and flexibility in terms of where they could live and work (Violeta, Cristian). Others were critical of this mobility as it contributed to the “depopulation of our country,” especially among the “working population” (Alexandru, Alexandra). For example, Viorica described how she was especially concerned about the impact of Romanian citizenship on Moldova’s brain drain: Oh, Ellie, do you know what scares me about Romanian citizenship? More and more people are against this citizenship. And the thought scares me more and more, and more will leave and will live abroad. Thus, not only work there. They will take the family there. Already having all the right documents, all documents executed, that scares me a lot … Yes. Get out of here. And it makes me think: “Well, Moldova could empty in a day” … Half of the country in another country! It is a tragedy! That is unacceptable! Other Cultural Romanians explained that they wanted to use Romanian citizenship to travel abroad while staying in Moldova, because it was their “home” (Marian, Viorica).

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Digging deeper into material motivations, Cultural Romanians wanted Romanian citizenship for more than just easier access to Romania. Ana, for example, also wanted symbolic access to Romania, through which she might better expose her children to the cultural connections between the two states: Yes, I want to apply. I want to apply for free travel. I want to go to Romania. I want to go to Ias¸i when I want. I want to go on vacation with my family anywhere. Livelihoods, I now … We, each summer, every holiday we have to spend it in Ukraine, the Black Sea, on the grounds that we fail to open our visa. Or to go through a travel agency is expensive for us. We are a family of four people, and we cannot afford a travel agency, because this involves a huge budget. If we had a passport, we get in the car and we go where we want. You will not need to make a hotel reservation, to … we go camping, we go on trips as we like … I think I’ll go to get a Romanian passport, even on the grounds that I can go to Romania to show my children. Last summer, I was in Romania on a pilgrimage through the monasteries of Bukovina. And I liked it very much and really want to … I want the possibility to show children the same culture. We have the same traditions. We are very much connected, even on the grounds of learning a beautiful language. In other words, Romanian citizenship was a material improvement in their lives. But this material focus also attested to the fact that Romanian citizenship could enhance their experience of nesting within Romania, both in terms of rights and in enabling them to socialize their children according to Romania and Moldova’s shared cultural norms. getting back “real” citizenship Like Organic Romanians, Cultural Romanians also articulated discourses of legitimacy rooted in an understanding of Romanian citizenship as a natural and nested practice. Cultural Romanians signalled their sense of dependency on this nested relationship, indicating Moldova’s incapacity to provide security and opportunity. In particular, Cultural Romanians understood reacquisition as getting back their “real” citizenship, of which their grandparents had been deprived (Ilie, Violeta, Rodica). For them, Romanian citizenship was Romania’s “apology,” which “recogniz[ed] our common history” and allowed Romania to atone for Ion Antonescu’s failure to “fight” Moldova’s annexation by the Soviet Union (Rodica, Violeta).14

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Some Cultural Romanians explained that, since they already identified as Romanian, then “why not” apply for Romanian citizenship as confirmation of their “patriotic feeling” (Maria, Marian, Ilie). For Rodica, however, Romanian citizenship was not just “another passport” but a “privilege,” which granted her a “connection with Romania that’s also certified in an official manner.” Other participants dismissed symbolic discourses and argued that to feel or be Romanian, it was “not necessary to have it [Romanian identification] written on paper” (Ana). In this regard, Romanian citizenship was “simply a document” for some, which enabled travel within the eu (Viorica, Alexandra). In other words, although Cultural Romanians possessed proof of their Romanian citizenship, they neither felt nor wished to feel entirely Romanian, culturally or politically. Still, Cultural Romanians associated Romanian citizenship with a greater “legitimacy” in terms of being able to call themselves Romanian, especially outside of Moldova; as well as with the motivation to become more interested and “more involved in Romania” and its politics (Alexandru, Violeta). Similarly to Organic Romanians, they delineated a hierarchy of legitimacy, positioning themselves as truer and more deserving holders of Romanian citizenship, over against the “opportunism” of others who reacquired Romanian citizenship merely to work abroad (Rodica). And they maligned those who lacked a genuine connection to Romania, such as citizenship applicants who were unable speak Romanian or those who needed to “create a history of … proximity to Romania, some sort of lineage” to be eligible (Cristian, Ilie, Alexandra, Marian). “What kind of Romanian citizenship [do] they have,” Marian complained, if they cannot speak the language of the state in which they are seeking to reacquire citizenship? Although Cultural Romanians did not see Romanian citizenship symbolically, they did, like Organic Romanians, construct an opportunist other in relation to a more legitimate self; this other, they claimed, sought to reacquire Romanian citizenship by faking lineages and documents in lieu of a genuine cultural, or even linguistic, link to Romania. romanian citizenship as political, or not Cultural Romanians, finally, debated the political dimensions of Romanian citizenship. On the one hand, some dismissed pcrm ’s portrayal of dual-citizen parliamentarians as “traitors” to Moldova (Maria). For her part, Alexandra argued that people should not be “afraid” if many gained Romanian citizenship.

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On the other hand, certain others made political assertions about Romanian citizenship’s potential impacts and framed these in a positive light. For example, Rodica believed that en masse acquisition of Romanian citizenship “might be beneficial for creating a stronger Moldova, if you can think about it that way.” Harkening back to the issue of Moldova’s dependency on Romania, Rodica believed that Romanian citizenship was “good for [the] wellbeing” of Moldova’s citizens and for furthering the state’s relations with Romania and the eu : It’s probably good for the country because it forces us to think more about Romania, what it means and our history – and the fact that we have a history. And I think that we really need to study a bit, you know, about Romanian, our history, our culture, so it’s … on the whole, I think it generally makes them supporters of the eu , in that way. In other words, if Romanian citizenship might yield political effects, Cultural Romanians framed these as likely to be positive. Like Organic Romanians, Cultural Romanians also saw Romanian citizenship as a form of protection, offering insurance “just in case” the situation deteriorated in Moldova (Maria, Alexandra). They did not trust Moldova as a state capable of ensuring their security and, as such, sought ways of becoming dependent on Romania in the belief that it might provide what Moldova could not. But others discussed the political implications of Romanian citizenship as problematic. For example, Viorica saw reacquiring Romanian citizenship as a statement against her “patriotic principles,” as her father was a Moldovan army veteran of the Transnistrian conflict. She articulated the psychological anguish and the interpersonal and intergenerational conflicts that could arise as a result of reacquiring Romanian citizenship. Nonetheless, Viorica felt herself forced to reacquire Romanian citizenship, even though it betrayed what her father had fought for:

viorica: I regret that I cannot pass with my blue passport, my Moldovan passport. I have to get to the state where I will renounce principles, any patriotic principles I have … A Romanian passport allows me to go abroad. Because I really need this thing … It would have been much easier to renounce my principles and go, “Let me do that Romanian passport.” I take my passport, I get money, suitcase, and go.

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ek: And for you, is this an opportunity or … viorica: For me, it is? ek: Yes. viorica: You know, it is a rather difficult question. Because I inherited from my father that spirit that “I love my country.” I love my country. My father fought for this land. I respect his life because … it was so close to being killed there. And how could I consider myself a citizen of another state? This is my state! This is the land of my ancestors who fought for my parents. But now, here we are … In recent days, just talking to my mom and say, “Mom, I need a Romanian passport.” And I realize that the answer to your question is this: that the passport, at the moment for me, is a must. It’s just a necessity – a mere formality, basically. I need it just to pass the border easier. That’s right, is somewhere in the depths of my soul, sure that is the call of the blood, you know? That’s my blood – Romanian – and the Romanian passport somehow shows my membership to the Romanian people and the Romanian … The people. Not the Romanian state. Yes, the Romanian people! For Viorica, Romanian citizenship represented a political statement against her father’s military legacy of defending Moldova’s sovereignty, and it was not a political statement that she felt comfortable making. Rather, applying for Romanian citizenship was a painful choice which she felt compelled to make. Finally, some Cultural Romanians emphasized the geopolitical significance of Romanian citizenship. For example, Alexandru equated Romanian citizenship with furthering the “good influence” of Romania, via the “support” of citizenship, to advance Moldova’s situation and “save us from the Russian influence” (Alexandru). More negatively, Ilie equated Romania’s tactics to Russia’s passportization policy in South Ossetia and Abkhazia, such that, having created a Romanian citizen majority in Moldova, Romania might argue, “there now live Romanians and we have the right to annex that territory.” Ilie did not equate Romanian citizenship with extra-territorial forms of irredentism that posed no challenge to existing borders, but with traditional, territorially revisionist forms of irredentism. In sum, despite the category’s cross-cutting forms of identification, Cultural Romanians saw Romanian citizenship as a legitimate and natural right that furthered political and geopolitical dependency on Romania and demonstrated the nesting of citizenship between Moldova and Romania.

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Ambivalent Romanians and Returning Romanian Citizenship

Another category with a cross-cutting identification, Ambivalent Romanians felt some ties to Romania, ethnically and culturally. Specifically, they felt less certain of themselves as Romanians than did Cultural Romanians, citing political and socialization experiences different from those of the Romanians in Romania. For Ambivalent Romanians, their cross-cutting identification translated to cross-cutting understandings of Romanian citizenship. They neither saw reacquiring Romanian citizenship as furthering their nesting vis-à-vis Romania, nor did they wish to be more nested vis-à-vis Romania. At the same time, like Organic Romanians and Cultural Romanians, they endorsed the legitimacy and normalcy of Romanian citizenship. Of the small number of Ambivalent Romanians, half had, and half had not, reacquired Romanian citizenship. Those who had not reacquired did not wish to do so because of the costs, especially those who rarely left Moldova (Mihai, Vlad). Vlad recognized that “important advantages” could be derived from Romanian citizenship, such as equal access to eu rights, enabling individuals to become a symbolic part of a “big European family” and demonstrating that material motivations could also sometimes have symbolic underpinnings. However, both Vlad and Mihai weighed these material advantages of mobility against the difficulties of citizenship application, including adjusting family documents to harmonize surnames, and their lack of need for greater mobility. In other words, those Ambivalent Romanians who did not engage in Romanian citizenship weighed the material and symbolic gains against the cost as well as their circumstances, which did not demand greater mobility. material more than symbolic As with Cultural Romanians, Ambivalent Romanians who had reacquired, or wished to reacquire, Romanian citizenship emphasized their material motivations. Gheorghe saw the desire to “travel to Europe” as the “main reason” why so many were applying for Romanian citizenship. In particular, younger participants such as Stepan, who was studying in Romania, did not want to stay in or return to Moldova. For Stepan, Moldova was a state with “no prosperity, no future.” Romanian citizenship, Stepan observed, provided a means for accessing opportunities, such as “better education” and the ability to “change” where you live – a contrast to his prospects in Moldova, which seemed able to provide little except future uncertainty.

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Ambivalent Romanians did not emphasize symbolic motivations, in part because, as Stepan put it, Romanian citizenship was not a “very nationalistic” practice for him. And, as with Cultural Romanians and Organic Romanians, Romanian citizenship rarely impacted how Ambivalent Romanians identified as Romanian, or with Romania, as it was already ambiguous (Andrei). Where symbolic attachments to Romanian citizenship did arise was in discussions as to how it might cement greater connections – and not just access – to the eu . As Vlad explained, over the last twenty years, Romanian citizenship had enabled a bottom-up process of “individual European integration.” In this regard, Gheorghe discussed how he felt upon using his Romanian passport for the first time, on a trip to Brussels:

gheorghe: But still I’m talking about the direction [in which we were travelling], we’re getting closer to the European Union and one of these instruments. Actually, it’s related to Romania. You know that they are giving us citizenship? ek: Has it changed – how you see Romania, to be a Romanian citizen? gheorghe: I just went to, I told you, to Brussels. And I felt, the first time, that I’m a European citizen. ek: Yes, you can just go whenever you want. gheorghe: Yes, and this the greatest. And we are very thankful to Romania for doing that. So, it’s a way of saying we are sorry. We cannot do really more. But I think this is a lot, with this strategy of gathering citizens. Here, Gheorghe repeated the same discourse as Cultural Romanians, which represented Romania’s citizenship policy as an apology for which they were grateful, and as an “instrument” of individual Europeanization. And, even though Gheorghe felt uncertainty in terms of his identification as Romanian and with Romania, Romanian citizenship opened a symbolic door to a European space and community that previously had remained closed owing to the peripherality of Moldovan citizenship. romanian citizenship as returning rights At the same time, like Cultural Romanians and Organic Romanians, Ambivalent Romanians constructed a hierarchy of legitimacy to criticize the material motivations of others. Ambivalent Romanians believed that “not everyone is using it [Romanian citizenship] in a normal or good

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way” and instead acquiring it only to “work in a shitty job [in Spain or Italy] and come back here and buy a cool car” (Stepan). Ambivalent Romanians wanted people to be motivated not by “money” but in the “right way,” by “developing yourself” to “bring something good back” to Moldova (Stepan). Similar to previous categories, for Ambivalent Romanians, the legitimacy of Romanian citizenship was related to the historical injustices experienced by their grandparents (Gheorghe). As Gheorghe described, Romanian citizenship signified a practice of “getting back the citizenship … because my grandpa, grandmother had it.” For him, Romanian citizenship was “normal” as an act of restitution (for Romania) and reparation (for Moldovan residents). In other words, Gheorghe repeated a discourse similar to that of Organic Romanians and Cultural Romanians, that Romania was seeking to apologize and atone for its previous sins of “evacuating” the territory of Moldova and ceding it to the Soviet Union. Presenting reacquisition of Romanian citizenship as legitimate, Ambivalent Romanians did not conceive of any adverse effects, apart from two participants, one of whom noted pcrm ’s opposition to dual citizenship (Andrei). Only Mihai framed Romanian citizenship negatively, describing the unfavourable demographic effect of easing emigration after receiving Romanian citizenship, as his wife and child had emigrated as Romanian citizens. Instead, many more Ambivalent Romanians normalized Romania’s citizenship policy, believing neither that Romania was “exceptional” in providing citizenship nor that Moldovans were “breaking any laws” in holding it (Gheorghe, Andrei). For example, Gheorghe compared Romania’s behaviour to other eu member states such as the UK and France, which he argued allowed even more people to gain citizenship annually than Romania did.15 He believed the attention to, and all the “let’s say pressing on Romania,” was “unfair” because Romania did not even give “the most.” Relating to Romanian citizenship’s normalness and legitimacy, Gheorghe believed that Romania had a sovereign right to decide who and how many could reacquire Romanian citizenship, just as other eu member states did. In sum, Ambivalent Romanians had cross-cutting understandings of Romanian citizenship. Unlike Organic and Cultural Romanians, they did not conceive of Romanian citizenship as a necessary dependency or a desired form of nesting. But, like previous identification categories, they conceived of Romanian citizenship as a legitimate and normal right which enabled the reversal of historical and personal injustices by opening doors that Moldovan citizenship could not.

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Moldovans and Commitment to Citizenship

Moldovans held a singular understanding of identification that was separated from Romania and the Romanian language. For example, they did not discuss cultural overlap with Romania, as did the more Romanian-oriented identification categories. As such, we might expect a similar disinterest in, and a separated understanding of, Romanian citizenship. In fact – and further demonstrating Romanian citizenship’s normalcy – most Moldovans were Romanian citizens or waiting for their application to be processed; only a minority had not or did not wish to reacquire Romanian citizenship. Thus, like Ambivalent Romanians, most Moldovans also held a cross-cutting understanding of citizenship practices and conceived Romanian citizenship through the same logics of legitimacy as previous categories. Moldovans did not want to become more nested or dependent vis-à-vis Romania, as Cultural and Organic Romanians did; but neither did they problematize the cross-cutting nature of citizenship practices, as Linguistic Moldovans did (the category I discuss next). to need, or not, romanian citizenship Those Moldovans who had neither reacquired, nor wished to reacquire, Romanian citizenship explained that they did not “need” it. For example, like the Ambivalent Romanians disinterested in Romanian citizenship, they neither experienced the necessary factors pushing them to migrate nor saw such citizenship as materially useful (Lilia, Anton). More specifically, Anton, the most politically engaged Moldovan from the pro-statist pdm party, opposed Romanian citizenship because he saw it as compromising his “commitment” to Moldova:

anton: I am for a good friendship with Romania – and I have many friends in Romania. I respect people’s choices in this regard. But citizenship, for me, is what is in the head of the table, and my relationships are in connection with the state of Moldova, as my commitment is to the state of the Republic of Moldova. ek: Do you want to obtain Romanian citizenship? anton: If I wanted, I would try to get it. I can tell you that I do not have Romanian citizenship, nor have I tried to get it, though both parents and my grandparents have a very Romanian surname. Although Anton exhibited a separated (if not potentially competing) understanding of citizenship, he was the only Moldovan who felt constrained from reacquiring Romanian citizenship because of this logic.

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His opposition may also be explained in part by his involvement with pdm, which, while practically pro-business, also engaged in identity narratives that sought to minimize overlap with Romania and instead supported friendship with Romania (among other states, including Russia). A further exception was Viorel, who had not yet reacquired Romanian citizenship but was planning to apply because he felt “forced” to do so following what he saw as the inexplicable refusal of his Romanian visa application. Viorel was also applying because of his lack of confidence in the ability of the current Moldovan government to negotiate a visa liberalization agreement with the eu : And frankly, if I had confidence that my own government was able to finalize the negotiation of, and sign, visa liberalization negotiation, whatever, the agreement, which in the end will not be an actual visa liberalization. If I have confidence that’s what’s going to happen in some foreseeable future – two or three years – I would never apply for Romanian citizenship. Viorel did not desire to apply for Romanian citizenship, but neither did he believe that the Moldovan government would be able to secure visa liberalization.16 Previously, Viorel felt constrained by time and money, having witnessed his wife spend “all the time and money and nerve cells … to collect all the papers and then stay in those endless lines in front of the consulate in forty degrees Celsius or minus twenty Celsius.” But because of Viorel’s visa denial, and the fact that his brother would “take care of the papers,” which they shared, he could also share the burden and cost of application, which previously had deterred him. Thus, the cost and hassle of applying could be offset by willingness on the part of one’s family to reacquire Romanian citizenship together. you can’t have two mothers Most Moldovans, however, had reacquired or sought to reacquire Romanian citizenship, and most were primarily motivated by material considerations. For example, some Moldovans wished to travel a “few times a year” to states within the eu , while continuing to live in Moldova (Nina, Valentina). Dan, in particular, pointed to the “benefits” of Romanian citizenship: Mostly because it provides those benefits, and yes, it makes life so easy. On the other side, it was mostly “why not?” I am actually, I have Romanian ancestry, and yeah, why not?

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At the same time, it is interesting that Dan articulated the “benefits” alongside his claim to Romanian ancestry; ancestry was not why he was applying per se, but it did permit him to frame the benefits of citizenship as legitimate and explained why such benefits were in reach at all. However, as “an instrument to reach Europe,” Nicolae repeated the common fear that acquisition of Romanian citizenship was contributing to Moldova’s depopulation. Emphasizing material over symbolic motivations, Moldovans agreed that Romanian citizenship had not changed, or would not change, their identification with Romania or as Moldovan, because Romanian citizenship was about a material “opportunity” rather than “an element of identity” (Viorel). Nina, for example, explained how the citizenship ceremony was an “emotional experience,” but did not make her more inclined to identify as Romanian or with Romania. As many reflected, irrespective of their citizenship status, you “cannot have two mothers” (Natalia, Ludmila, Pavel, Nicolae, Nina). In other words, being born of a Moldovan mother – literally and figuratively – and one’s affiliation to Moldova both remained unchanged by acquiring dual citizenship. a romanian instrument and a sign of moldova’s weakness Moldovans were more critical than other, more Romanian-oriented categories regarding Romanian citizenship’s potentially negative impacts, which was also consistent with their more cynical appraisal of Romania’s kin-state approach to Moldova. They were also more critical as to what Romanian citizenship suggested about the health of the Moldovan state. Although some, like Dan, viewed Romanian citizenship as “great,” others reasoned that the prevalence of Romanian citizenship pointed to weaknesses in the Moldovan state. Anton, for example, argued that the popularity of Romanian citizenship was an indicator of lack of performance, that Moldova has many drawbacks to its citizens. And Romanian citizenship is often taken as a comfort to be able to travel more easily to the eu , without having the Romanian identity in the soul. Although Anton opposed reacquiring Romanian citizenship for himself, he saw it as a “solution” for the many problems that Moldova’s residents experienced. But framing it in this way, as a solution, demonstrated Moldova’s weakness and “that our commitments with citizens

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[in Moldova] is not done as it should,” meaning that Romanian citizenship now offered Moldovans alternative channels to public goods and opportunities that their own state could not. Furthermore, Moldovans knew that many of the Moldovan elite, members of the “parliament, government, constitutional court,” used Romanian citizenship as a ‘solution’ alongside ordinary citizens [Viorel]. In particular, Viorel highlighted how elites were investing in lives for their children outside of Moldova. He saw this as further evidence of their lack of belief in – or willingness to risk – a future in Moldova:

viorel: Look at the current cabinet. You’d be surprised to see that more than half the cabinet members have their children living abroad. They’re students, who are already, if they’re grownups, having jobs abroad. They do not live here. They do not connect their future and the future of the children with the country that they rule. You know what I mean. ek: Do you think that impacts how they rule? viorel: Of course, because they don’t care. They don’t care. They do not believe in the future of the country that they rule. ek: Or they believe in what they can get out of it, maybe, in the short term. viorel: They just don’t care. And then, I was talking only about the cabinet. Thinking more broadly about the parliament, government, constitutional court, you see many people with multiple citizenships, with children who live abroad, who have no plans at all to return to the country whatsoever, to live in the country in which their fathers and mothers rule. Viorel saw elites as demonstrating the weakness of Moldova’s state capacity via their investment in futures outside of Moldova and endorsement of other states, like Romania, which offered public goods and opportunities that Moldova itself ought to have the capacity to provide. From such sentiments stemmed the belief, on the part of Moldovans, that Romania’s citizenship policy was a “very strong tool” for Romania (Viorel). Indeed, like some of the Cultural Romanians, Pavel believed that the proliferation of Romanian citizenship went beyond influence and comprised a process of unification “post-factum,” via a growing Romanian citizenry in Moldova. Others, however, identified significant differences between Romania’s less territorially revisionist policy vis-à-vis Moldova and Russia’s aggressive policy of passportization in

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Abkhazia and Georgia (Viorel, Dan). While Dan personally supported Romania’s policy at the state level, he also perceived it as a sign that Romania was looking to use citizenship as a strategy to exert greater geopolitical influence: And from a political point of view, I think there is part of that Romanian policy, of either assimilating or at least attracting people from Moldova to become closer with Romania and to identify themselves as Romanian. I don’t think it’s a situation like in the Caucasus, when Russia gave its citizenship. And then, it was one of the mechanisms for which it tried to claim independence, to recognize the independence of Abkhazia and Ossetia, after the war with Georgia. I don’t think this is the case with Romania. I don’t think it’s going to be that aggressively carried out. But still, it is definitely part of a policy, general policy. I don’t think assimilation is the right word, but let’s use it for the moment. And, well, it gave so many benefits and possibilities to Moldovan people, who are able to at least travel around the world without additional problems. Viorel drew a similar comparison:

ek: Why do you see Romanian citizenship as a tool for Romania? viorel: Why does Russia issue passports to residents of separatist regions in Moldova and Georgia? Same reason: if we have citizens there, at some point, you can claim your own influence, or your right to. Because I don’t think Romania will ever be as strong as sending messages like, we will defend our citizens with arms if necessary, because it’s about the lives of our citizens – no. But again, if you have, in fact, nobody knows how many passports were issued here in Chis¸ina˘u and, of those people, how many actually live here. Neither Viorel nor Dan agreed with Pavel that Romania’s policy amounted to territorial or post-territorial irredentism, and they did not see Romania as likely to undertake “aggressive” actions as in the case of Russia. But they did not shy away from viewing Romania’s actions under political and geopolitical lenses, demonstrating the Moldovan participants’ more skeptical appraisal of Romania’s motives over against the Romanian-oriented identification categories, members of which supported greater nesting with and dependency on Romania. In other words, the Moldovan participants’ posture suggests an inverse relationship between a symbolic attachment to, and a critical stance toward,

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Romania. Participants who identified more strongly as Romanian and with Romania (Organic Romanians and Cultural Romanians) lacked a critical distance vis-à-vis Romania and either ignored, or simply did not see, the same objects of criticism as those lacking Romanian identification (Moldovans). Meanwhile, because Moldovans did not frame Romania as a kin-state, they were willing to receive Romanian citizenship but also to criticize what this might signify about Moldova (a proxy for state weakness) and Romania (a desire to increase its bottom-up influence). Linguistic Moldovans and Romanian Citizenship as Neocolonialism

Finally, Linguistic Moldovans held a competing understanding of identification, not only identifying themselves separately from Romania but seeing Romanian identification as a threat to the Moldovan nation. As we might expect, they were neither engaged nor interested in reacquiring Romanian citizenship. Instead, Linguistic Moldovans firmly maligned the practice, especially when Moldovan politicians held Romanian citizenship. Thus, they were the only identification category with a competing understanding of Romanian citizenship, whereby they saw both Romanian identification and citizenship as colonizing threats to the Moldovan state and nation. As Victor explained, for Linguistic Moldovans, Romanian citizenship symbolized “something like a taboo,” framing Romanian and Moldovan citizenship as mutually exclusive. This understanding of Romanian citizenship as taboo and competing with Moldovan statehood echoes broader discourses emanating from leftist parties in Moldova, namely pcrm and psrm, which saw Romanian citizenship as facilitating neocolonial and “aggressive Romanianism” (bbc Monitoring – Former Soviet Union 2009b).17 romanian citizenship as a competitive, neocolonial threat Linguistic Moldovans could understand other identification categories’ material motivations – that many needed to work abroad as a financial necessity and were thus “forced” to apply for Romanian citizenship (Boris, Igor). As Victor explained, echoing the rationale of other categories, Romanian citizenship represented the “possibility to survive,” especially for Moldovans living in villages, because it provided a legal avenue to work abroad. Thus, even those who had no interest in Romanian citizenship understood how Moldova’s weakness pushed its citizens to apply for it. But Linguistic Moldovans wished to remain in Moldova

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rather than work abroad, and did not experience the same problems in acquiring visas as other identification categories, as they neither needed nor wanted them. Linguistic Moldovans especially maligned Moldova’s elites who reacquired Romanian citizenship – politicians, in particular – as well as the legal changes, in 2009, that made this possible.18 Specifically, Linguistic Moldovans saw the prevalence of dual citizenship among politicians as problematic because it placed their loyalty in question (Boris, Igor). As Igor argued, Moldova and Romania were “two different states,” meaning it was problematic that so many Romanian citizens should number among Moldova’s political elite: First, we have most members of the government, who are citizens of Romania. They have Romanian citizenship. That is, they swore allegiance to Romania, etc. And it is unclear how … being in power, occupying leading positions, whose interests they will comply with Moldova and Romania. They are two different states. Thus, Linguistic Moldovans resisted the nested relations that other categories endorsed, as well as the logic of legitimacy that underpinned such nesting. In particular, Linguistic Moldovans, paralleling Moldova’s leftist parties, framed Romanian citizenship as a neocolonial policy enabling Romania’s capture of the Moldovan state via its political elites.19 For example, Igor saw the prevalence and normalization of Romanian citizenship as signs that “Moldova is essentially transformed into a colony of Romania, by and large.” Similarly, Boris argued that the prevalence of Romanian citizenship among Moldova’s politicians indicated that Moldova was now under “occupation” by Romania: Now we are at a stage when the state has been captured. We are under occupation. Now, in our leadership … the fathers of leadership have Romanian passports. Imagine that [the British] Queen has a US passport. Is it even possible? Or, the court, or the Constitutional Court, right? Judges have Romanian passports. They gave an oath to the Romanian state – kneeling, kissing the flag. Whose state is this man’s? The state defends him? Whose state interests do they defend? Moldovan or Romanian? I have my doubts. Critically, Boris saw Romanian citizenship as competitive and mutually exclusive, and doubted the loyalty of those who represented Moldova

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politically yet had sworn an oath to another state. Both Igor and Boris considered this an exception in global politics – that other states would not allow themselves to be captured in this way by another state. Finally, Linguistic Moldovans saw Moldova’s capture by Romania as undermining the former’s geopolitical interests. While Cultural Romanians saw Romanian citizenship as creating a balance against Russia, Linguistic Moldovans disparaged such an orientation as they believed it curbed Moldova in advancing its relations with Russia. Boris explained:

boris: It’s obviously a problem. I come and say: which state’s interests does this person defend? It is the government in charge, they govern toward Moldova’s foreign policy interest, right? Or Romania’s interest? ek: Yes, yes, yes. boris: That! I mean, they basically tie their agents of influence. They were not independent in their decisions. I mean, if Bucharest says that it is not convenient that Moldova makes a treaty with Russia economically, it will not do it, as it did it. But in reality, it’s obvious that it is a huge market. The father wants to have free trade there, with Russia, as an export goal. Only Moldova, look, the neighbour with the richest country affords not to trade with Russia. Understand? Based on such reasoning, Linguistic Moldovans viewed nesting as undermining Moldova’s independent statehood and sovereignty vis-à-vis Romania. Instead, they denigrated Romanian citizenship as indicative of the capture and colonization of Moldova by Romania, underpinning their competing understandings of Romanian and Moldovan citizenship. Nested Citizens, Legitimate Citizenship

Most participants across identification categories, apart from Linguistic Moldovans, had reacquired, were reacquiring, or wished to reacquire Romanian citizenship (see Figure 7.1 and Table 7.1). What differed among participants was their understanding of and motivations for reacquiring citizenship. While all participants expressed material motivations, Organic Romanians emphasized symbolic motivations more than other identification categories. In turn, Organic Romanians and Cultural Romanians used Romanian citizenship’s symbolic value to assert themselves as the legitimate persons to acquire it. And Ambivalent Romanians, too, sought to distinguish themselves from illegitimate

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Table 7.1 | Practices of Romanian citizenship in Moldova Identification implication (from Chapter 5)

Engaged with Romanian citizenship

Rationale for Romanian citizenship

Citizenship implication

Organic Romanians

Nested

Most had

Symbolic, material, and legitimate

Nested with (and dependent on) Romania

Cultural Romanians

Cross-cutting

Most had or wanted

Material and legitimate

Nested with (and dependent on) Romania

Ambivalent Romanians

Cross-cutting, but uncertain

Most had or wanted

Material and legitimate

Cross-cutting with Romania

Moldovans

Separated, but not competing

Most had or wanted

Material and legitimate

Cross-cutting (mostly) with Romania

Linguistic Moldovans

Separated and competing

No intention

Malign

Competing with Romania

acquirers, such as “profiteers” and “opportunists,” who neither identified with Romanian culture nor spoke Romanian, and only desired Romanian citizenship for its material value. The scope of nested and cross-cutting understandings of citizenship was surprising. While only Organic Romanians held nested understandings of identification, they were joined by Cultural Romanians in holding nested understandings of citizenship. Moreover, Ambivalent Romanians were joined by Moldovans in having cross-cutting understandings of citizenship while also holding separated understandings of identification, such that they did not even consider Romania their kin-state. What was less surprising was the translation of competing identification into competing understandings of citizenship (Linguistic Moldovans). For Organic Romanians and Cultural Romanians, the legitimacy of Romanian citizenship was linked to its nested nature and did not compete with, but reinforced, their allegiance to Moldova. But across

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identification categories, many saw Romanian citizenship as legitimate because they framed it as a reparative and compensatory act, undertaken to reverse historical injustices following the unfair withdrawal of Romanian citizenship from their grandparents. This framework demonstrates the resonance of Romania’s kin-state discourse of restitution, which legitimized – and personalized – Romanian citizenship by linking the notion of restitution specifically to participants’ grandparents. Even if Moldovans neither identified as Romanian nor deemed Romania a kin-state, they did identify as having descended from those who had lost citizenship. This formed a basis for seeing citizenship acquisition in a normative light, demonstrating how injustice may be a powerful motivating factor for engaging in kin-state practices, even in the absence of kin-state identification, when accompanied by sufficient material benefits. Participants’ material motivations were also complex, and extended beyond access to increasing personal rights within the eu (cf. Heintz 2008a; Harpaz 2019a). Many saw Romanian citizenship as a source of individual and geopolitical security, and thus valuable as a supplement to Moldova’s weak state capacity to provide opportunities for its citizens. Becoming a Romanian citizen was not only about gaining the right to travel and work in the eu , but about equalizing their status with native Romanian and eu citizens and gaining a form of insurance against future uncertainties. Apart from Linguistic Moldovans, neither the popularity of Romanian citizenship nor its nested or cross-cutting nature signified support for irredentism or (re)unification. But Organic Romanians and Cultural Romanians did see themselves, and Moldova, as needing to be more dependent on Romania, socially, politically, and geopolitically. They also saw such dependency as necessary and legitimate because of the nestedness of their loyalty to Moldova and Romania. Indeed, the nested nature of Romanian and Moldovan citizenship, and most participants’ willingness that Moldova be dependent on Romania, almost superseded debates around irredentism and unification by eroding the significance of the barrier-like border separating them from Romania (and from the eu) in terms of rights, status, and opportunities. Nor did the popularity of Romanian citizenship and its nestedness signify the erosion of loyalty to Moldova. Nonetheless, for many, en masse acquisition of citizenship pointed to the enduring weakness of the Moldovan state. Romanian citizenship was both legitimate and a means of superseding, individually and collectively, the Moldovan state and what it could not (and in many ways was not willing to) provide

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for its residents, namely collective security – financial, geopolitical, and existential. Equally, many across identification categories identified depopulation as a cost of citizenship reacquisition and dependency on Romania, speaking to the ongoing contraction of Moldova’s population as well as its labour crisis.20 Turning to Romanian scholarships in the final part of this chapter, we see further evidence of a willing dependence on Romania, signifying the Moldovan state’s abiding weakness.

practi ces o f q uas i -ci ti z e n sh i p : ro m a n i a n s c h o lars h i p s Since the 1990s, many Moldovan residents have studied in Romania, some of them on scholarships provided by the Romanian government. Indeed, Moldova receives 74 per cent of Romania’s scholarship places, exceeding kin communities in Ukraine and Serbia (see Figure 3.8 in Chapter 3). Many of Moldova’s political elite, at least on the proEuropean side, have graduated from Romanian universities, as well as universities elsewhere in Europe and in the US; while many on the left have graduated from universities in Russia (Dogioiu 2014). Further, according to the State Chancellery database mentioned earlier in regard to civil servants’ citizenship status, many civil servants have studied in Romania (as well as in Russia; see State Chancellery 2020).21 I include this discussion of Romanian scholarships in Moldova for comparison with the level of engagement, or the lack thereof, with Russian scholarships in Crimea. I also include it because of how frequently participants raised the issue of Romanian scholarships in Moldova, the significance they accorded it in describing kin-state relations with Romania, and as an example of quasi-citizenship in contrast to the lower significance of Russian scholarships in Crimea. In Crimea, only beneficiaries and those in Compatriot networks had access to quasi-citizenship opportunities. But in Moldova, there were no such access issues regarding scholarships and no such intersections of beneficiaries endorsing the policy; rather, there was a wide-scale endorsement of, and engagement with, these benefits. In Moldova, engagement with scholarships is another lens, alongside citizenship, through which we may understand the significance and en masse penetration of Romania’s relationship with Moldova as a kin majority. Moreover, Romania’s scholarship policy may also help us to understand the legitimization, for Moldovan residents, of nesting and normalized dependency vis-à-vis Romania. But participants also alluded to the negative side effects of such dependency, whereby many

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Moldovans who leave Moldova do not return. Thus, similarly to citizenship, dependence on Romanian scholarships has advanced Moldova’s migration outflow and brain drain (Silaghi 2012). Organic Romanians and the Opportunity of a Romanian (Re)Education

Of all identification categories, Organic Romanians were the most positive about Romania’s educational opportunities, and several had studied in Romania, including on scholarships (Vasile, Oleg, Eugeniu). Specifically, Organic Romanians saw Romanian scholarships as signifying how Romania had “help[ed] us” for the last twenty years, by offering the “most scholarships for students” (Traian, Alina, Mihaela, Marina, Eugeniu, Sergiu, Vasile, Valeriu). Eugeniu, unprompted, framed Romania’s scholarships as “more important than regaining citizenship.” For Eugeniu, scholarships could “educate a generation” and “educate leaders,” affirming the significance of scholarships alongside the potential of citizenship. Similarly to how they framed Romanian citizenship as necessary, Organic Romanians also described Romanian scholarships as necessary and important. For Marina, scholarships offered a “better” education than in Moldova because “our government won’t make opportunities here.” In other words, Marina contrasted the deficiency of the Moldovan government with the willingness of Romania to offer better opportunities. Indeed, they saw previous Moldovan administrations as threatening and interfering in Romania’s scholarship program for “geopolitical” reasons. For example, Eugeniu recounted how in 2001, under the pcrm government, it became harder to study in Romania because the government deliberately tried to hinder the program: And it was a problem. They came when the Communists [pcrm ] quarreled with Romanians, and they reduced the number of scholarships. The collaboration between the ministries of education deteriorated … [It’s now] more liberal. Now it’s much simpler. There are many scholarships. It was my bad luck then. Before, there were still many scholarships. Only then it was a few years. And relations worsened so suddenly. Eugeniu’s experience underlines how in some instances, such as under the pcrm ’s administration, participants saw Romania as looking out for their interests better than their own government by offering opportunities, even when circumstances made this harder.22

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Organic Romanians were also mostly positive about the impact of Romania’s scholarship program, believing that a “lot [of students] came back” to Moldova following their studies in Romania (Alina, Traian). These positive impacts extended, they said, beyond material opportunities. Romanian scholarships encouraged recipients to identify more with Romania, as several Organic Romanians reasoned, including Traian and Valeriu from pnl :

traian: Well, this is the effect. Because we have a common culture, a common identity, and Romania knows this and says that yes, we are the same people, the same nation, offering over ten thousand scholarships to our students. The Romanian state pays so that our students – after finishing high school or college – to attend the bachelor, master, or doctorate in Romania. No other country in the world offers so many scholarships for Moldovan, as has Romania. valeriu: And already there, when they return there, it promotes the idea of a common culture and identity. traian: Yes, they are thinking there, they feel Romanian and come to understand that we are the same nation, the same people. Whether they remain there in work or they come back, they already promote the ideals and Romanian values. In other words, Organic Romanians supported Romanian scholarships for their Romanianizing potential vis-à-vis current and future generations of Moldovan students – an idea that later categories reiterated, albeit more critically. Indeed, Eugeniu wanted Romania’s scholarship program to go even further in reeducating and resocializing Moldova’s, and Romania’s, residents: Every student must go to Romania and vice versa, and everyone will understand what is going on both sides of the Prut because few people were in Moldova. They went back to Romania and did not realize that we are Romanian. And it works vice versa. Thus, Eugeniu wanted Romania to extend its scholarship program to strengthen its effectiveness in terms of identity, and bring Moldova and Romania closer. For Organic Romanians, this confirmed the positive impacts of Romanianization via education for developing ties and cultural nesting between Romania and Moldova. But Organic Romanians also explained some more negative realities of studying in Romania, realities alluded to more strongly by later

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categories. Some, like Eugeniu, had “a very good college experience” that “was really neat,” but also described the “many Bessarabians who say it’s hard in Romania” because of the experience of being treated as different, and finding it “hard to communicate” and “integrate.” Vasile, too, shared negative experiences, of feeling stereotyped and discriminated against by Romanians while studying in Romania: In Romania, unfortunately, there is a very large part of society that does not understand us, the Bessarabians. We don’t understand ourselves because no one in Romania is doing enough for each citizen in Romania to understand exactly what is happening in the Republic of Moldova. I’ve had situations where I was told that I probably speak Russian at home, and I told them that we speak only Romanian. The Romanian state must also work and make some effort: more programs on radio and television stations, newspaper articles, the twinning of towns so that each Romanian from the approximately twenty-two million inhabitants understand that we are the same. For Organic Romanians, it might have been especially difficult to experience such othering given how they imagined themselves as “the same” as Romanians. As Vasile commented, these experiences could leave those studying in Moldova with an “inferiority complex” which, in turn, could result in “frustration” toward Romania. In sum, Romanian scholarships reinforced the support and desire of Organic Romanians for nestedness with and dependency on Romania, by deepening cultural integration between the two states. Unlike in the case of Romanian citizenship, however, there was more space for a critique of the realities of studying in Romania, such as the negative experience of being framed as inferior outsiders while studying in a nation within which they imagined themselves to be nested. Cultural Romanians and the Benefits of a Romanian Education

Cultural Romanians, like Organic Romanians, were interested in and positive about Romanian scholarships. They saw Romania as creating the largest scholarship program for Moldovan students, a program that was still expanding and from which “our [Moldovan] students benefit” (Rodica, Viorica, Tudor, Ilie). Indeed, some Cultural Romanians had studied in Romania during the early post-Soviet period. As Tudor commented, it had been their “first chance to go somewhere outside of the Soviet Union … it was access to another world … it was unbelievable.” In other words,

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Cultural Romanians saw Romanian scholarships as a transformational experience that could boost their chances in life. They believed that Romania should continue, if not expand, its scholarship program because of the personal and educational benefits for them and their children (Ana). Like Organic Romanians, most Cultural Romanians were not concerned that these scholarships could undercut Moldovan educational institutions. Only Ilie scaled up the discussion beyond personal benefit, to criticize how Moldovan universities were “losing intelligent people,” which could lead to higher education in Moldova “collapsing” in future decades. Thus, Ilie identified a potentially negative side effect of depending on Romania to provide a “better education.” Cultural Romanians also noted that the scholarship program enabled Romania to pursue its interests and values, which they largely supported. As Petru explained:

petru: [Romanian scholarships] maybe [increase the] influence of Romania in Moldova, but also give this opportunity to promote Moldova in the European Union. But, also, Romania gives Moldova passports, citizenship of Romania. They also give five thousand scholarships each year. And this is a mechanism of promotion of Romania in Moldova. And also promotion of Romanian values here in Moldova. ek: Why do you think they want to promote Romania and Romanian values? petru: Because Moldova was a part of Romania, of course. Secondly, because Russia has a lot of interests here in Moldova, so it is a political [situation]. Petru’s comments demonstrate how Romania’s kin-state policy was viewed as politically, if not geopolitically, significant. Like Organic Romanians, who also supported reducing Moldova’s dependency on Russia, Cultural Romanians endorsed such mechanisms for the promotion of Romania’s interests, which contributed in turn to Moldova’s nesting within and dependency on Romania. However, the personal experiences of Cultural Romanians studying in Romania were not entirely positive, similar to Organic Romanians. As Tudor commented, while studying in Romania, he experienced being othered and judged as a “Bessarabian” for having a different accent: But after that, I went to Romania. Of course, it was totally different, a different tradition, a different approach to PhD research. And of course, the first year it was very hard. First of all, from my point

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of view, it was linguistic because we have studied in schools the so-called Moldovan language, Cyrillic alphabet. At the beginning of university, we have tried to learn the Romanian language, as it is, with the Latin alphabet, with the rules, but it was not enough. My writing, if I remember at the beginning, it was very … So, during my exams or my papers at the department, the history department at Ias¸i university – always my professor says, so you are like, you like finished our university [but] you are not from Bessarabia because of the accent, probably. It was not so influenced by Russian language or Slavic influence, because I studied in Moldovan school in the village area, which more or less preserved the language. While some Moldovans could romanticize Romania as a second home and a generous kin-state, Tudor’s experiences illustrate the realities of studying there. In particular, they point to the bitter emotions that arose from being made to feel different, because of how Romanian society viewed, and othered, “Bessarabian” students.23 Thus, like Organic Romanians, Cultural Romanians supported Romanian scholarships as a mechanism to deepen their nestedness, while noting the experiences of discrimination that could arise while studying in their kin-state. Ambivalent Romanians and the Ambivalence of a Romanian Education

Several Ambivalent Romanians had also studied in Romania (Andrei, Gheorghe, Stepan). For Gheorghe, studying in Romania in the 1990s “was the West for us.” Amid the embers of Communism, Romania offered a chance for a style of education different from the more restrictive and “isolated” Soviet and early post-Soviet education system (Gheorghe). At the same time, Gheorghe argued that the distance had narrowed between Romanian and Moldovan higher education since the 1990s; Romania was no longer such a relative educational opportunity compared to Moldova as it had been in the 1990s. Ambivalent Romanian participants then studying in Romania confirmed these sentiments. For example, Stepan did not hold Romania in the same kind of awe as those who had studied there in the 1990s. He described the chaos of applying for a Romanian scholarship place, having to queue “all night” and up to “two days” to receive a scholarship place because “we were so many.” And for Stepan, Romania was his “last choice,” behind universities in Western Europe. In other words, young people in Moldova – provided they had the financial resources – now had options further afield than Romania.

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Ambivalent Romanians saw Romanian scholarships as evidence that Romania is “our friend” because of the number of scholarships it granted (Mihai). However, they also criticized the reality of these scholarships, including the meagre amounts offered by Romanian bursaries. Both Stepan and Gheorghe argued that the bursaries “of fifty euros” per month were now no longer “enough” to live on in Romania.24 In turn, Ambivalent Romanians saw Romania’s policy not only as less generous than promised, but as deepening the state’s (already precipitous) brain drain and undermining even further the health of Moldovan institutions (Mihai, Stepan). For example, Gheorghe noted, “as a teacher,” that he was “not very happy” with Romania’s policy because “some of the best students are going” to Romania, which was undermining Moldovan universities. Relatedly, Gheorghe was also critical of Romania’s intentions and viewed its scholarships as a relatively cheap “instrument” of nationalism. Although he did not see Romanian scholarships as a unification strategy, Gheorghe nonetheless viewed them with skepticism, as a means to “help lost Romanian lands” by “creat[ing] a link” to “spread the national message,” via education in Romania, throughout whole sections of Moldovan society. But like other participants, Gheorghe believed this could have unintended consequences, as negative experiences and meagre stipends might encourage scholarship recipients to become “Romanophobes” when, or if, they returned to Moldova. In sum, Ambivalent Romanians saw scholarships as a cross-cutting practice of quasi-citizenship, but were more willing to criticize the logics and implications of Romania’s scholarship program than Organic Romanians and Cultural Romanians. Specifically, they were concerned about Moldova’s increasing reliance on Romania as a place for educating its young people. Moldovans and the Romanian Education Agenda

While previous categories endorsed Romanian scholarships and how they might contribute to Moldova’s nesting and dependency vis-à-vis Romania, Moldovans saw Romanian citizenship as a cross-cutting policy that had (mostly) positive personal benefits, but could also entail negative collective consequences for Moldova. In terms of personal benefits, several described Romania’s scholarship program as a “good option,” which offered “another level” of education beyond what was available in Moldova (Lilia, Viorel, Anton). They saw these benefits as beneficial, especially for “low-income

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families” in Moldova “because of everything that was provided by the university, by the [Romanian] government” (Lilia, Viorel, Anton).25 As Viorel added, Romanian universities were sometimes closer to Moldovan students’ hometowns, and more financially accessible, than universities in Moldova. Beyond these personal benefits, however, Moldovans dwelled on the negative collective consequences of Romania’s policy, such as contributing to Moldova’s depopulation and brain drain. A surprising exception was Anton, who was usually more critical of Romania as a kin-state. He viewed study in Romania as an opportunity for Moldova, because Moldovan students could reinvest “their knowledge” back into Moldova. Others, however, observed that students sometimes returned to Moldova simply owing to a lack of alternative opportunities. Although, as Viorel observed, “many of the graduates choose to stay in Romania,” also “many return” because they cannot find work in Romania and find life there difficult without Romanian citizenship. In other words, Romanian scholarships were not a panacea for individuals from Moldova, as they might still return to a peripheral and precarious position following their studies, by virtue of their inferior citizenship status. Finally, Moldovans were also quite critical of the identity implications of Romania’s scholarship program. Where Organic Romanians supported Romania in reeducating and resocializing Moldovan students to become more pro-Romanian, Moldovans were less supportive of this endeavour. For example, Dan saw the idea of “help” from Romania as a veil disguising Romania’s broader resocialization agenda: Oh, the bursaries, yeah, yeah, yeah. Well, it’s partly that policy, I guess, to attract Moldovan young people there. Certainly, that’s the way it is presented officially. It’s always presented as help from the Romanian state to Moldovan young people to get a good education. It might be true, as well. But I think it’s also part of their political agenda of attracting young people and make them identify themselves as Romanians, as pro-Romanians. Dan added that Romania was able, “to a great extent,” to use its education policy as a way of “attracting a lot of young people [from Moldova] on a cultural level,” so that they would begin to identify “as Europeans, pro-European people, pro-Romanian Romanians.” Romania, thus, was framed by Moldovans as wielding a strong soft power influence by cultivating ongoing kin-state support from below, among current

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and future generations, and thereby promoting identification as Romanian, pro-Romania, and pro-eu . As Viorel explained, he saw the reasons behind Romania’s actions through an instrumental political lens:

ek: Why do you think Romania offers so many bursaries? viorel: For political reasons. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not blaming Romania. I mean, I can only appreciate their government and what the government is doing for their people, what they think are the interests of their people. If I were the Romanian government, I’d do the same. It’s a moral, historical obligation. What makes Viorel’s response especially astute is how he identified – but did not identify with – the trope of a “moral, historical obligation” underpinning Romania’s political logic. In other words, it was as though Romania had instrumentalized such a reparative logic as a disguise for their genuine aim of Romanianization. Thus, Moldovans offered a perspective more critical than those of Organic Romanians and Cultural Romanians. Rather than praise Romania’s policy as necessary for Moldova’s residents and endorse greater nesting within and dependency on Romania, Moldovans were more actively cynical and dismissive toward the kinds of pro-Romanian resocialization that might arise from Romania’s policy. Linguistic Moldovans and Moldova’s Brain Drain

While Linguistic Moldovans maligned Romania’s influence elsewhere, and in relation to Romania’s competing citizenship policy, they neither criticized Romania’s scholarship policy nor even referred to it much, in contrast to previous, Romanian-oriented identification categories who raised the subject of Romanian scholarships often and without prompting. And, in contrast to the more Romanian-oriented categories, no Linguistic Moldovan had studied in Romania. Among Linguistic Moldovans, only Victor noted how the positive personal benefits of Romania’s scholarship policy could lead to negative collective effects for Moldova, namely the common concern of brain drain. As Victor explained: So, on scholarship studies, it’s very good. Why not? But what is the problem? When a student receives a scholarship, so … there in Romania, he goes to Romania, studying there. He gets a Romanian passport, he’s already a citizen of Romania, and already he does

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not want to return back. If he returns to Moldova, he’ll never find a better-paid job. Because he was educated, he worked, he had some conditions, sometimes better, sometimes worse. But it is his interest? He will not come! These are economic relations. It was problematic, Victor complained, that many did not wish to return to Moldova because there were but few incentives to do so, given the economic opportunities available to those who remained outside of Moldova. What is especially surprising is how Linguistic Moldovans neither viewed Romania’s scholarship program through a similar geopolitical lens, nor noted its Romanianizing potential, as did the more Romanianoriented categories. Instead, Linguistic Moldovans viewed Romania’s policy as something “very normal” and not as a source of deleterious influence, in contrast to leftist parties like psrm , which criticized Romania for advancing the Romanianization of Moldova’s population (see also Chifu 2016). Thus, in contrast to their denigration of Romanian citizenship as something politically competitive and geopolitically problematic, Linguistic Moldovans did not extend this critique to Romania’s scholarship program, which they instead framed as a separated, rather than competing, example of quasi-citizenship. Costs and Benefits of Dependency

This section reveals how engagement with Romania’s scholarship program, as a practice of quasi-citizenship, is an important but much overlooked kin-state “instrument” at Romania’s disposal, one that was far more effectual than Russia’s similar policy in Crimea. Most participants appreciated Romania’s investment in education in Moldova, and this appreciation did not deviate much according to how they identified. Like Romanian citizenship, participants framed Romania’s educational support as necessary for Moldova, given the difficult state of its higher education system and the lack of opportunities there. In other words, the same discourses reinforced – like Romanian citizenship for Organic Romanians and Cultural Romanians – the need to become more nested within and dependent upon Romania. At the same time, Linguistic Moldovans, who maligned citizenship as a demonstration of Romania’s undue influence, did not extend the same critique to its scholarships. Beyond Romania’s investment in Moldova’s human capital, participants saw Romania’s program as producing new generations that were more Romanianized and more favourable toward Romania. Specifically, participants framed Romania’s policy as a significant force

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Table 7.2 | Practices of citizenship and quasi-citizenship in Moldova Identification implication

Citizenship implication

Quasi-citizenship implication

Organic Romanians

Nested

Nested with (and dependent on) Romania

Nested with (and dependent on) Romania

Cultural Romanians

Cross-cutting

Nested with (and dependent on) Romania

Nested with (and dependent on) Romania

Ambivalent Romanians

Cross-cutting, but uncertain

Cross-cutting with Romania

Cross-cutting with Romania

Moldovans

Cross-cutting, but uncertain

Cross-cutting (mostly) with Romania

Cross-cutting (mostly) with Romania

Linguistic Moldovans

Competing

Competing with Romania

Separated from Romania

for Romanianizing, modernizing, and Europeanizing Moldova through its student body.26 Indeed, Titus Corla˘t¸ean, Romania’s former foreign minister, proclaimed that Romania is educating, investing in, and developing “the new elite of Moldova” (Agatu 2020). But many across the different identification categories also recounted negative experiences of being othered and discriminated against while studying in Romania. In turn, participants described how these experiences could produce unintended consequences, by creating individuals antagonistic to Romania. Finally, apart from Organic Romanians, participants across identification categories saw Romania’s policy broadly, as contributing to Moldova’s already incipient brain drain. There are inherent paradoxes in using scholarships for education abroad as a system of development, as many students studying in Romania do not return to Moldova, increasing Moldova’s migratory exodus (see Bouton, Saumik, and Tiongson 2011). This dependence on Romania as a means of modernizing Moldova’s workforce may undercut, in turn, Moldova’s ability and desire to provide education to those who choose not to be educated in Romania, by leading Moldovan institutions to reduce student intake. Puzzlingly, however, not only do Moldova’s (pro-European) political elites tolerate Romania’s mining of Moldovan students, they have “contributed to its

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consolidation” by appearing themselves to encourage such an “exodus of young brains” (Agatu 2020). Therefore, Romania’s scholarship policy provides a window on how it views and uses Moldova as a site of extraction, even as Romania faces its own migratory exodus to other eu member-states (ibid.). In other words, Moldova’s nesting and dependency has become a solution for Romania’s own demographic crisis.

c o nclus i o n Exploring Romanian kin-state practices of citizenship and quasicitizenship in terms of its scholarship program, this chapter has revealed Moldova as a case of en masse Romanian citizenship acquisition (see Table 7.2). Practices of quasi-citizenship were also surprising, indicating the importance of scholarships for improving individuals’ access to opportunities and in Romanianizing, modernizing, and Europeanizing new kin generations in Moldova at slight cost, financial or political, to the Romanian state. As well as en masse practices, this chapter explores the legitimacy of practices of Romanian citizenship, which demonstrate, in turn, Moldova’s nesting within, and sense of legitimate dependency upon Romania at the personal, collective, and elite levels. Although this chapter relates the story of such bottom-up discourses of nesting and dependency, we also see Moldovan politicians endorse these discourses and practice dual citizenship themselves. Moldova’s former prime minister, Iurie Leanca˘, used his Romanian citizenship to run for political office in Romania. Meanwhile, Moldova’s former president, Nicolae Timofti, declared that it would be appropriate to grant Moldovan citizenship to Traian Ba˘sescu, a former president of Romania, because of how many citizens Romania had created within Moldova (bbc Monitoring – Former Soviet Union 2015). Returning to a bottom-up perspective, identification affords us some ability to hone in on where this nesting is taking place and also where it is deproblematized. The scope of nesting vis-à-vis Romania is also intriguing, extending beyond nested forms of identification (i.e., only Organic Romanians) and encompassing some participants with cross-cutting forms of identification (Cultural Romanians). Cross-cutting forms of citizenship also extended beyond those with cross-cutting identification (Ambivalent Romanians) and encompassed those with separated identification (Moldovans). Moreover, Moldovans were interesting because they did not view Romania as a kin-state, and yet were actively practising and legitimizing Romanian citizenship and quasi-citizenship.

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Elsewhere, scholars have discussed the extent to which rival institutions of citizenship have hollowed each other out. For example, eu citizenship has been criticized as hollowing out national citizenship and leaving it an empty shell (Vink 2004). In this case, however, it was surprising that engaging with Romanian citizenship and quasi-citizenship neither signified a loss of loyalty to Moldova nor hollowed out the meaning of Moldovan citizenship. Only those with competing forms of identification and understanding of citizenship saw Romanian citizenship as indicating a loss of loyalty (Linguistic Moldovans). Instead, the nesting of practices between the two states showed how Romanian citizenship and quasi-citizenship complemented, or even mutually reinforced, loyalty to Moldova. At the same time, Romanian practices of citizenship and quasi-citizenship – whether nesting or cross-cutting – contributed to the undercutting of competency within the Moldovan state by endorsing its dependency on Romania. Moreover, this chapter exposes the willingness of Moldovan political elites effectively to outsource key aspects of the provision of public goods, from opportunities to security, via the benefits of Romanian citizenship and education. Even if it is true that this dependency has exacerbated Moldova’s problems – chiefly the crisis of emigration – Romania has certainly become an easy avenue by which superior rights and security may be legally accessed, via both citizenship and education. What is both intriguing and concerning is how Moldovan political elites have willingly outsourced these state functions, not only to another state but to a kinstate. In turn, such willingness points to, and further entrenches, Moldova’s weakness as a state, and makes visible its continued social, political, and geopolitical dependence upon Romania. Ultimately, Romania may extract what it needs from Moldova in the semblance of a benevolent, rather than coercive, kin-state – one which, moreover, is almost beyond critique except among Moldova’s leftist parties, which see Romania as practising a form of geopolitical competition in a manner similar to Russia. This chapter demonstrates that kin-states need no longer be irredentist in discourse or practice; they may also aim to resocialize and extract social capital from a home-state, while arguing that kin-state policies are facilitating the home-state’s modernization and Europeanization from within. In the concluding chapter, I bring together the analyses of Crimea and Moldova. Thinking comparatively, I focus on what we can learn about the different intersections of identification and citizenship, in terms of narrow, niche, and organizational engagement in Crimea in the absence of Russian citizenship, and the broad, nested, and dependent engagement of Moldova with the strong presence of Romanian citizenship and quasi-citizenship.

8 Identity, Citizenship, and Kin Majorities “For Russia, Crimea is a paradise, acquired in the 18th and lost in the 20th century … For Europe, Crimea is a half-abandoned periphery of the world.” A. Mashchenko (2013)

“The earth does not particularly care whether Celts or Slavs inhabited Bohemia, whether Romanians or Russians occupy Bessarabia.” Milan Kundera (1994, 197)

This book focuses on Moldova and Crimea from the bottom up, to ask how, why, and if kin majorities identify and engage with kin-states via citizenship and quasi-citizenship. These questions of everyday politics are precisely what scholarship on kin-state politics has lacked. Outside of extraordinary events, such as elections or periods of violence, political scientists often ignore the ordinary moments in everyday politics, which rarely make the headlines (Scott 1987). These mundane activities and identities are harder to observe and measure. But ordinary moments in everyday life are consequential for kin-state politics, and for politics more broadly, and analyzing them is crucial for understanding the role of these often obscured moments, meanings, and practices. Specifically, questions of everyday political meanings and practices are themselves consequential questions of politics, as they provide a chance to explore phenomena such as kin majorities and en masse acquisition of citizenship, as well as the impacts of these politics which might otherwise remain obscured. Using a bottom-up, comparative perspective, this book explores which categories of people kin-states construct as the objects of co-ethnic claims and unpacks how these objects, namely kin majorities, construct themselves in relation to kin-states. To understand whether kin-state citizenship appeals to kin, this book engages with kin majorities directly to understand their practices, because their agency

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and choices matter in demonstrating the perplexing variability of these practices. Finally, this book looks beyond what states do and what institutions exist. Instead, it explores how citizenship is practised and given meaning to examine how practices vary within and across Crimea and Moldova, a subject that this chapter tackles directly. For some, political science may not concern itself with these everyday meanings, practices, and experiences, so much as pursuing parsimonious and reproducible explanations of state-centric political phenomena. But, as Donna Haraway (1988, 579) argues, “feminists have to insist on a better account of the world.” Political scientists also must insist on, and strive toward, a better account of the world. Such an account must challenge, rather than reproduce, the structures of power, politically, socially, geopolitically and geographically. It must bring forward the voices of those who participate in our states and societies each day, but are often overlooked in our study of politics. Methodologically, as a bottom-up and comparative study, this book adds to a growing movement within the field of political science that endorses and encourages such a combination. Research design matters, because how we design research affects the questions we ask and the questions we deem worthy of being asked. Combining a bottom-up, sociological approach with the rigour of a comparative framework helps to ask, and answer, questions that venture beyond the idiosyncrasies of a single case while maintaining the richness of research projects that place individuals, their agency, and their role in politics at front and centre (Simmons and Smith 2019; see also Collier, Brady, and Seawright 2004). The later sections of this chapter call for more specific research agendas in relation to identity and citizenship. But, methodologically, this book also calls for a future research agenda in political science that commits to more integration of bottom-up and comparative work to complement the top-down, state-oriented focus more typical of political science. Comparative work does not need to fall into the trap of methodological nationalism; and it should also focus on those who participate in, subvert, and negotiate politics at all levels of analysis – state, sub-state, city, village – including the “tranquil” spaces of nationalism or citizenship struggles that do not make the headlines (Maleševic´ 2019, 279). What was most constructive in this bottom-up and comparative approach was learning more about each case as an individual unit while having a framework with which to compare and contrast these insights. The comparison becomes more than the sum of its parts by teasing out the similarities and differences between the cases, moving beyond viewing these differences as mere idiosyncrasies and, instead, considering what

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might explain such areas of similarity and difference. Specifically, the bottom-up, comparative lens leads us toward the surprising finding that Moldova was and remains a case of en masse acquisition of Romanian citizenship; and, equally, that Crimea was not a case of en masse acquisition of Russian citizenship prior to its annexation by Russia in 2014. Thinking comparatively, this chapter explicates these different practices, as well as the striking similarities in meanings of identification, at least in terms of fracturing. What might explain how two similarly fractured cases, when it comes to the meaning of identification, translated into such different practices of citizenship? How and why do citizenship and quasi-citizenship practices differ, between narrow and niche engagement in Crimea and wide and mass engagement in Moldova? As this chapter argues, the answer lies in the broader theoretical framework that explores the plurality of meanings and practices in both cases. In Moldova, Romanian citizenship was not only widely accessible but constructed as a legitimate practice. For many, Romanian citizenship was a nested practice, extending beyond those who held a nested form of identification. Even those who did not conceive of Romania as a kinstate viewed Romanian citizenship as a cross-cutting practice, and few saw it as undermining the Moldovan state or loyalty to it. In Crimea, in sharp contrast, Russian citizenship was neither legitimate nor desirable in the eyes of most, and was perceived as unnecessary and in competition with participants’ affiliations to Ukraine. For the minority who sought it, Russian citizenship was desirable because it would deepen nesting and opportunity vis-à-vis Russia – yet even so, it remained inaccessible. Finally, this chapter discusses four broader, emerging theoretical implications of this book, which, in turn, set out a number of future research agendas. The first, concerning the study of identity and identification, is the need to move beyond mutually exclusive categories of identification and toward an understanding of majorities as internally diverse. This perspective is fundamental, for example, to understand how identity and citizenship intersect by exploring how a diversity of meanings may relate, or not, to a diversity of citizenship practices. The second, pertaining to studying citizenship, is the need to study practices of citizenship and quasi-citizenship by examining how citizenship is used and acquired, thereby shifting beyond the dichotomy of sociological and institutional approaches of citizenship (per Chapter 2). Looking beyond this dichotomy, citizenship practices help us to understand the interactions between institutional contexts and the discourses that inscribe these institutions as potentially legitimate and desirable, factors that may elucidate why practices can vary across contexts like Crimea and

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Moldova. The third implication is the need to consider citizenship practices in terms of how they intersect with identification in varying ways – for example, by studying how fracturing forms of identification may or may not map onto different citizenship practices, to understand the role of identification for understanding practices of citizenship. Fourth, and finally, concerning studies of post-Soviet politics, is the need to move beyond identity politics. Kin-state politics in these two cases show how identification plays a role, though not the only role, in explaining identification and engagement with kin-states. At least in these cases, the story of kin-state politics that emerges is one of state weakness (Moldova) and nepotistic networks of corruption (Crimea). The remainder of this chapter brings together the cases of Crimea and Moldova in a bottom-up and comparative study, and weaves in a discussion of these four theoretical implications which look beyond a mere comparison of these kin majorities.

meani ngs o f i d en t i f i c at i o n This book ventures beyond mutually exclusive categories and explores how identification is fractured and contingent. This fracturing and contingency emerged inductively over the course of the research process, with identification in both cases appearing messier and more contested than expected. Indeed, I did not anticipate that kin majorities would not really be majorities at all, when viewed from the bottom up, so much as assemblages of different meanings with fracturing across generations. While most existing literature focuses on inter-ethnic dynamics and competition, some explore intra-ethnic forms of competition, including in kin-state politics. As Caspersen argues, we should not assume that kin communities are “monolithic” (Caspersen 2010, 10), nor should we “assume unity” and be “blinded by the shared ethnicity” (Caspersen 2008, 369–70). Instead, Caspersen emphasizes attention to the “fluidity” of kin communities by exploring “intra-ethnic divisions” (370). But Caspersen’s lens is one of intra-ethnic elite and party competition; her call to examine intra-ethnic division and fluidity thus is a case of focusing on elite actors within kin communities rather than kin communities more broadly, as this book explores. This book focuses on the concept of kin majorities as an unexplored phenomenon in kin-state literature. Kin majorities are sites of potential en masse citizenship acquisition but likely need citizenship less than kin minorities, who are more discriminated against. This book also challenges the idea that majorities are coherent and singular actors, not only

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Table 8.1 | Fractures of identification in Crimea and Moldova Identification

Crimea

Moldova Organic Romanians

Nested Cross-cutting

Ethnic Russians Crimeans

Cultural Romanians Ambivalent Romanians (but uncertain)

Separated

Political Ukrainians

Moldovans

Competing

Politicized Russians (with Ukraine) Ethnic Ukrainians (with Russia)

Linguistic Moldovans (with Romania)

at the elite level but also from the bottom up. Taking a bottom-up perspective in regard to Crimea and Moldova, we learn how kin majorities can be more complex, diverse, and fractured than expected, when we focus on how forms of identification – vis-à-vis the kin majority, kinstate, and home-state – are articulated and given meaning. In both cases, even the kin majority’s existence was contested in terms of its “content” (see Abdelal et al. 2009). Few subscribed to a form of identity that situated them as co-ethnic, in simple terms, vis-à-vis their respective kin-state. Instead, examining identification through the lenses of nested, cross-cutting, separated, and competing forms of identification, we see a surprising variability within and across cases (Table 8.1). As a whole, we observe the varieties of partial and localized forms of identification, which combine articulations of Russian/Crimean/ Ukrainian identification in Crimea and Moldovan/Romanian identification in Moldova. Although Crimea and Moldova were similarly fractured, we see important differences between the cases. In particular, those who identified most strongly with the kin-state in each case had different configurations of identification: competing in Crimea (Politicized Russians) and nested in Moldova (Organic Romanians). In both cases, it was useful to understand how this strongest identification was articulated through the experience of discrimination in Crimea, with Ukraine, the home-state, viewed as a threat. In contrast, in Moldova, Organic

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Romanians rendered pluralism unproblematic, blurring boundaries between Romanian and Moldovan forms of identification through primordial and biological logics. Those with weaker identification with the kin-state, in both cases, had cross-cutting forms of identification, a perspective that also helped to unpack the questions of co-ethnic identification and identification with the kin-state. Neither in Moldova nor in Crimea did co-ethnic identification necessarily, or often, align with identification with the kin-state. In fact, in both cases, some categories identified co-ethnically but, expressing cross-cutting forms of identification, did not identify strongly with the kin-state (Cultural Romanians) or did not identify with the kin-state at all (Ethnic Russians, Crimeans, Ambivalent Romanians). Previously, scholars and observers have elided such differences, especially vis-à-vis Russia, assuming that those identifying as ethnically Russian, outside of Russia, necessarily identify with Russia and demonstrate support for Russia. Whether in Ukraine or in the Baltic states, being a Russian speaker is often taken as a proxy of support for Russia. Implicitly, this has left little space for local and co-ethnic forms of identification that are not necessarily political, in the sense of demonstrating an identification with or affiliation to a kin-state. But, in both cases, participants in these cross-cutting categories directly opposed such an elision of co-ethnic identification and kin-state identification or affiliation, and expressed specific, localized Romanian and Russian ways of identifying that did not translate to identification with Romania or Russia. Similarly, in both cases, some participants identified in singular ways that separated them from the kin-state, such as Political Ukrainians in Crimea and Moldovans in Moldova. Indeed, in both cases, a significant number avoided expressing themselves via ethnic identification; Political Ukrainians and Moldovans preferred instead to express themselves through political and civic forms of identification. Such participants typically belonged to the post-Soviet generation. What was striking was how these participants could articulate, without prompting, this generational shift, which differentiated how they and their parents identified. Finally, in both cases, a minority resisted kin-state claims through competing forms of identification (Ethnic Ukrainians, Linguistic Moldovans). In these categories, participants imagined themselves by way of a mutually exclusive ethnic category and viewed the kin-state as a threat. Moreover, thinking comparatively within Crimea, we also see how competing identities can be configured with different referents: Ethnic Ukrainians vis-à-vis Russia and Politicized Russians vis-à-vis Ukraine. In Moldova, by way of contrast, competing identities were only articulated by those opposing the kin-state.

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Building on Brubaker’s (2004) notion of identity “without groups,” the blurring and fracturing of identification in Moldova and Crimea problematizes the notion of distinct and cohesive ethnic “groups” as bounded and visible organizing units. Forms of identification do not present themselves as discrete, singular compartments (groups) or even as forms of identification that intersect only with ethnic or civic criteria. Rather, forms of identification are expressed in ways that appear both multidimensional and blended. By multidimensional, I mean that identification is articulated via assemblages of different dimensions: historical, political, ethnic, cultural, linguistic, and territorial. By blended, I mean that forms of identification do not have discrete edges: it is unclear where one form of identification begins and another ends. For some, being Ukrainian and Russian, or Moldovan and Romanian, are completely separate, and separable, identifications, or competing identifications. Others merge parts of one identification with parts from another, as cross-cutting or nested understandings. The point is that these assemblages vary, as the organization of identification into nested, cross-cutting, separated, and competing categories helps to tease out (Table 8.1). The fracturing of identification also suggests important implications for understanding what these categories mean for political and territorial preferences. Without understanding how meanings of identification do not translate neatly into territorial preferences, we might assume that kin majorities that identified co-ethnically would express a territorial preference for irredentism. Or, we might think that the stronger, prokin-state constituents of kin majorities were expressing a preference for irredentism. In fact, in neither case did kin majorities understand co-ethnic identification in this way. For many, we return to the idea of cross-cutting identification, which separated co-ethnic identification and kin-state affiliation (with participants expressing a stronger form of the former than the latter). But even participants with nested forms of identification that blended Romanian and Moldovan identification did not necessarily seek political or territorial change. Rather, nested identification was about negotiating blurred boundaries of identification over and above, rather than challenging, the borders separating Romania and Moldova, a process encouraged by Romanian citizenship policies (which were themselves framed as a nested practice). Given the problems in identifying a unitary and homogeneous kin majority, is the concept of the kin majority redundant? On the contrary, the concept of the kin majority remains useful, but as a category of analysis rather than practice, and one that reflects “everyday social experiences.”1 As a category of analysis, the concept of the kin

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majority remains useful by teasing apart, empirically and analytically, the phenomenon itself from other, related concepts, such as kin minority. Politically, too, kin majorities exist as a category of analysis because kinstates make claims upon them, even if those kin-states sometimes do not treat them as local majorities (e.g., by portraying them instead as “at risk” kin minorities). In terms of citizenship, kin majorities remain a useful category of analysis for understanding potential en masse acquisition of citizenship, at least in Moldova, as well as en masse patterns of dependence, vis-à-vis the kin-state, that cut across fracturings of identification. At least in this study, however, kin majorities appear less valid as a category of practice because most of those who the kin-state would deem to be part of the kin majority did not articulate themselves as such. Showing this mismatch between the kin majority as a category of practice and one of analysis is useful, in and of itself, as it underlines the contradictions existing between what we can analyze, which groups kin-states may claim as kin majorities, and the experiences of those on the ground. Fracturing, Political Generations, and Contingent Forms of Identification

Although this book demonstrates the variable fracturing of kin majorities in Crimea and Moldova, previously scholars have conceptualized ethnicity through myths of common ancestry, with ethnicity presumed to be visibly “sticky” across generations because of such myths (Chandra 2006, 416; see also Smith 1991). Instead, this study shows how myths of common ancestry are politically contingent across generations. Identities can take on different meanings, generation by generation; myths may be appropriated in different ways; and ethnonyms may change even if the meanings of myths remain more fixed. Thus, political generations represented a critical point of intersection, underpinning how kin majorities were observed as fractured and contingent in Crimea and Moldova (see also Beissinger 1986; Luecke 2013). These different intergenerational meanings arose, at least in Crimea and Moldova, because of the territorial and political flux brought about by the formation and dissolution of the Soviet Union. These processes of state formation and breakdown created certain state-sanctioned versions of history that have been reconfigured in the post-Soviet period and infused with new national narratives (some of them opposed to the Soviet narratives) through which individuals are socialized institutionally, via education, and ideationally, via intellectual and public discourse. Participants from the post-Soviet generation identified – and

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gave meaning to their identification – in ways were different from their Soviet-generation parents. These generations had different experiences of education, having been schooled in different interpretations of history within different political cultures. These differing experiences disrupted myths of common ancestry across generations and within families. The finding of contingency also challenges Chandra’s (2006, 416) notion that ethnicity is “visible,” because this implies a clear, stable, and observable boundary across groups that are imagined as internally cohesive. Instead, the fracturing of kin majorities, in both cases, demonstrates how boundaries do not map onto neat, mutually exclusive categories or even onto consistent boundaries between individual participants. The evidence from Crimea and Moldova shows how individuals blurred the boundaries between the mutually exclusive ethnic census categories of Russian and Ukrainian (e.g., Political Ukrainians and Crimeans) and Moldovan and Romanian (Cultural Romanians and Ambivalent Romanians). Thus, participants located and gave meaning to these boundaries across both kin-majority cases, albeit in different ways. These meanings could be assembled into ideal-type inductive categories, but these would be far from the mutually exclusive census categories that previously had been guiding, yet also blinding, our analysis. A possible conclusion is that identification is individual; each individual assembles and gives meaning to their forms of identification in personal and idiosyncratic ways. However, in Crimea and Moldova, assemblages cohered to enable the formation of ideal types. In turn, these ideal types are theoretically helpful for the insight they lend into how plural identification might be understood as nested, cross-cutting, separated, or competing, by different constituents of the kin majorities discussed. These ideal types may not be, nor should be assumed to be, unchanging over time, but relate to tropes within society that connect individual meanings, collective meanings, and social discourses together in ways that help us to understand the depth and breadth, as well as the multidimensional, blended nature, of identification. A Future Research Agenda for Studying Identification

The implication of this study regarding kin majorities is that we should look beyond our socialization within majoritarian societies that positions minorities as a source of diversity against homogeneous majorities (see also Caspersen 2010; Caspersen 2008). For example, in understanding sources of diversity, we often pit minorities against a majority that is perceived as homogeneous and unitary. Whereas we problematize

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the diversity of minorities, rarely do we look within majorities for how they may also contribute to our understanding of diversity. As this book shows, in consequential ways that are often overlooked politically, majorities can also be internally diverse, contested, and dynamic, and the boundaries between minorities and majorities may be fuzzy and contested. In other words, future research needs to take forward the idea of majorities as internally diverse and contested. These two points, concerning the need to look beyond majoritarian and mutually exclusive categories, are mutually reinforcing. Conceptualizing, operationalizing, and measuring ethnic forms of identification through mutually exclusive categories hardens the divide between minorities and majorities, by creating the idea that these two entities exist as separable objects of analysis, and normalizes the idea that majorities are not sources of diversity in their own right. Specifically, following scholars of everyday nationalism, future research should more concretely look beyond operationalizing identification – empirically, methodologically, and theoretically – through mutually exclusive categories such as census categories (Brubaker et al. 2006; Fox and Miller-Idriss 2008). Holding on to such mutually exclusive categories, we can miss the nuanced and consequential meanings of identification, such as the politicized identity of marginalization and discrimination as expressed by Politicized Russians. We can also miss what identification, and specifically ethnic identification, means as a concept and category of practice in the first place. This finding has broader implications for how we think about, measure, and analyze identity in political science, beyond the study of kinstate politics. Namely, we need to rethink the mutually exclusive and majoritarian categories that structure our study of identity, and of ethnic forms of identification in particular. This discussion links to debates that consider ethnic diversity as an explanatory variable capable (or not) of explaining, and often hindering, political outcomes such as public goods provision, conflict, or democratization (Alesina et al. 2003; Collier and Hoeffler 2004). Within the literature on ethnicity is a growing movement committed to looking beyond notions of diversity as exogenous and prepolitical. For example, Wimmer calls for “endogenizing diversity,” because ethnic diversity is not exogenous like climate or topography but a “consequence of the history of state formation and nation-building” (Wimmer 2016, 1408). Others have argued that ethnic categories themselves – critical for measuring diversity – are also endogenous to politics, rather than prepolitical or exogenous, because data collection exercises like censuses “make what they appear to reflect,” in terms of mapping

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ethnicity within particular contexts, as they are little more than tools for nation-building (Singh and vom Hau 2016, 1305).2 This book and its findings speak to this broader theoretical debate by showing that mutually exclusive census categories do not cohere with how individuals experience and articulate ethnic identification. Rather than considering ethnic identification as “visible” and “sticky” (i.e., unchanging; see Chandra 2006, 416), future research needs to consider how fracturing, fuzziness, and contingency are essential for understanding identification. The boundaries between, and understandings of, identification can shift over time and within political contexts, depending on the meanings and myths ascribed to these boundaries and understandings. These findings resonate beyond the contexts of Crimea and Moldova as kin majorities, and even beyond the post-Soviet context. The reasons we may observe this fracturing, fuzziness, and contingency – reasons such as territorial flux, regime change, and politicization of ethnicity – are factors that extend beyond the post-Soviet context; for instance, to postcolonial contexts in South Asia, the Middle East and North Africa, sub-Saharan Africa, and Latin America, or to Western contexts of “superdiversity” arising out of migration (Vertovec 2007, 1025). These findings also have methodological implications: to theorize identification better, beyond mutually exclusive “experience-distant” categories, future research needs to continue collecting data that is “experience-near” (see Geertz 1983, 57–8; Schwartz-Shea and Yanow 2012, 49; for more on this distinction, see note 12, above). The aim of this discussion should not be merely to promote qualitative research as the way to achieve this, but also to begin a conversation that works across methods and enables quantitative approaches, to consider more seriously how we can conceptualize, operationalize, and measure identification beyond such categories. For example, surveys in Ukraine are already doing this to some extent, by asking participants not to align themselves with individual categories but to rank their identification among or across these categories (Onuch and Hale 2018). But future research could leverage more from surveys by providing, for example, more space for open-ended responses. Methods of structured and unstructured text analysis could then be used to analyze the volume of text, potentially quite a large volume, that might be gathered.3 Further projects could also combine surveys and interview research to allow for inductive insights, to examine how identification is articulated rather than merely seek verification for our suppositions. However, to understand identification, we need to analyze the meaning of identification and the context in which such meanings are articulated by those

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who experience and negotiate these identities every day; and we need to understand this bottom-up work as a meaningful part of a political science research agenda.

kin majo ri ti es and pr acti c e s o f c i t i z e n sh i p When it comes to expanding policies of kin-state citizenship, we can often assume that policy means practice. But just because kin-states make citizenship available, and home-states make dual citizenship accessible, does not mean that kin-state citizenship is desirable or legitimate to kin. This book moves beyond the intellectual silos that view citizenship through sociological or institutional lenses and instead examines citizenship practices. On the one hand, studying practices of citizenship and quasi-citizenship helps to clarify not merely which institutional varieties of citizenship exist but how these forms of citizenship are used. On the other hand, this study moves beyond viewing citizenship, sociologically, through the lens of struggle. In this study, those choosing to acquire citizenship, or not, or to engage with practices of quasi-citizenship, were not necessarily participating in a struggle as these rights were, in part, extra-territorial. Studying practices of kin-state citizenship and quasi-citizenship, particularly in sites of potential en masse acquisition, provide a hard case for studying the intersections of identity and citizenship, especially because of how deeply these policies are rooted in notions of enduring ties of belonging. Kin majorities also provide a fascinating angle for studying identity and citizenship, because, as they already enjoy the protection of the state or sub-state of which they are the majority (Chapter 1), they do not need to access citizenship from an external state by virtue of ethnicity. If we are to understand how kin majorities, homes-states, and kin-states are being transformed, then it is crucial to study how kin-state policies of citizenship and quasi-citizenship are used and negotiated. This section moves from meanings to practices, and to how meanings intersect with practices; and it also discusses how and why practices of citizenship differ in Crimea and Moldova. This comparison helps to tease out how citizenship practices concern not only the actions and policies of kin-states, but are also constructed, and quite differently, within home-state contexts: as desirable and legitimate in Moldova, or undesirable and illegitimate in Crimea. The first such difference is the scope of the appeal of practices. We might well conceive of Crimea as a most likely case of engagement with Russian policies such as passportization and the Compatriot policy; yet, empirically, this turned out not to be the case. In Crimea, most participants were disinterested in Russia’s kin-state policies of citizenship and

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Table 8.2 | Intersecting identification and citizenship Identification

Citizenship

Nested

Cross-cutting

Organic Romanians

Cultural Romanians

Separated

Ambivalent Romanians

Moldovans

Separated

Crimeans

Political Ukrainians

Competing

Ethnic Russians

Organic Romanians

Cultural Romanians

Linguistic Moldovans Ethnic Ukrainians

Politicized Russians

Cross-cutting

Ambivalent Romanians

Moldovans

Separated

Ethnic Russians Crimeans*

Political Ukrainians*

Competing

Competing

Politicized Russians

Cross-cutting

Nested Quasi-citizenship

Nested

Linguistic Moldovans Ethnic Ukrainians

* Except for beneficiaries nb: Crimean categories are italicized while Moldovan categories are underlined.

quasi-citizenship, signalling their narrow appeal. Rather, Russia’s policies appealed only to those with nested understandings of identification and citizenship (Politicized Russians) or to beneficiaries of the Compatriot policy. Meanwhile, in Moldova, practices of Romanian citizenship and quasi-citizenship had mass appeal to a broad audience, across meanings of identification. The second difference relates to whether practices of citizenship and quasi-citizenship intersected with identification, which they did in Crimea more than in Moldova (see Table 8.2). The only commonality between Crimea and Moldova concerning identification intersecting

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with citizenship was among participants with competing forms of identification, who, in both cases, also perceived kin-state citizenship and quasi-citizenship as competing. Following the broad base of interest in Romanian citizenship and quasi-citizenship in Moldova, practices did not intersect with identification. Those with nested, cross-cutting, and separated understandings of identification all engaged with Romanian citizenship in Moldova. By contrast, in Crimea, it was predominantly the pro-Russian minority of participants – Politicized Russians, who were already engaged with Russian practices of quasi-citizenship – who would have engaged with citizenship practices had they been available. In Crimea, only this minority viewed citizenship and quasi-citizenship as nested and as deepening their integration vis-à-vis Russia. Moreover, as Table 8.2 shows, Romanian citizenship and quasi-citizenship were perceived as nested, not only by those with nested understandings of identification (Organic Romanians and Cultural Romanians), and as cross-cutting, not only by those with cross-cutting understandings of identification (Ambivalent Romanians and Moldovans). While in Crimea, Russian citizenship and quasi-citizenship did not appeal to those with cross-cutting or separated forms of identification, with all participants (except beneficiaries) viewing these Russian citizenship practices as separate. The third difference concerns participants’ rationales for engaging with practices of citizenship and quasi-citizenship. In both cases, the rationale to engage with citizenship practices intersected with identification; however, there were also subtle differences worth emphasizing. In Moldova, those with nested understandings of citizenship (and, even more so, nested understandings of identification) imbued Romanian citizenship with the most symbolic significance (Organic Romanians, Cultural Romanians); other categories, with more cross-cutting understandings of citizenship, explained their practices of citizenship according to more pragmatic and material motivations (Ambivalent Romanians, Moldovans). However, participants in Moldova did not always align on this symbolic-material spectrum. Across identification categories and understandings of identity and citizenship, many participants framed Romanian citizenship as something legitimate (Organic Romanians, Cultural Romanians, Moldovans). For them, Romanian citizenship was something reparative – an act of recovering something that had been wrongly taken from their ascendants. That Moldovans, who did not identify as Romanian or with Romania, still saw Romanian citizenship within this legitimacy framework is important to remind us of how and why Romanian citizenship did not intersect with identification to the extent that it did in Crimea.

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In Crimea, no such discourses of citizenship or quasi-citizenship as legitimate or reparative were evident. Instead, citizenship and quasi-citizenship were about gaining, or desiring, leverage vis-à-vis Russia, and appealed only to those who wished to be more nested within the kin-state (Russia) or who sought leverage from their kin-state against a home-state (Ukraine) which they saw as deliberately marginalizing them (Politicized Russians). Most other categories framed Russian citizenship and quasi-citizenship as separate and irrelevant. They neither shared the concerns of Politicized Russians nor articulated them as reasons to engage with Russia, because they saw no need nor had any desire to engage with Russia via kin-state practices. Equally, for Politicized Russians, the rationale to engage with Russia was not only about identification; rather, Russia’s Compatriot policy functioned in a networked manner, via pro-Russian organizations, with Politicized Russians having access to these networks. Therefore, in Crimea, engagement with the kin-state was more niche and organizational, relating to claims that spanned identity and politics. In Moldova, however, there was broadbased engagement with Romanian citizenship; for many, reacquiring citizenship held real legitimacy, rather than being merely a political claim or even an identity claim. Overall, in Crimea, identification helps to explain who was most interested in engaging with citizenship and quasi-citizenship practices, and who was dissatisfied with the available opportunities for engagement – namely those, and only those, who identified strongly as ethnically Russian, pro-Russia, and marginalized within and by Ukraine (Politicized Russians). More significant than how participants identified was how their understandings of identification (as nested, cross-cutting, separated, or competing) intersected with understandings of citizenship (as nested, cross-cutting, separated, or competing) in varying ways across the cases. In Moldova, citizenship was seen as nested or cross-cutting by more participants than saw identification as nested or cross-cutting. But in Crimea, citizenship was seen as separated by those who saw identification as cross-cutting as well as those who saw identification as separated, underlining how citizenship held narrow, niche appeal in Crimea and broad appeal in Moldova. Why Did Practices of Citizenship Differ in Crimea and Moldova?

While the institutional context surrounding citizenship practices differed between Crimea and Moldova, it is worthwhile to understand why this institutional context matters – specifically, how the availability and accessibility of kin-state policies led, respectively, to broad citizenship

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practices (Moldova) or narrow ones (Crimea). Not only does the institutional context matter in this comparison; the cases also differ in terms of the legitimacy and desirability of citizenship practices, and of kin-state policies more generally. The first dimension of the institutional context, for purposes of explaining differences between these cases, was the availability of practices of citizenship. Not all kin-states provide equal access enabling individuals to engage with kin-state practices of citizenship and quasi-citizenship. Kin-states determine whether or not such practices are available. They determine the basis on which individuals are eligible to practise, the routes via which they are informed of their eligibility and ability to access, and the kinds of rights and benefits conferred as a result. For example, although Romania made Romanian citizenship widely available in Moldova, acquisition of Russian citizenship was restricted in Crimea (before 2014). If anything, Romania made the possibility to reacquire citizenship too accessible, as the demand for Romanian citizenship exceeded Romania’s capacity to process applications (Chapter 7). The second dimension of the institutional context in explaining differences between Crimea and Moldova was the accessibility of citizenship practices. Home-states play a crucial role in determining access to kinstate citizenship, by restricting citizens’ access to acquire citizenship from kin-states. Ukraine legislated against holding dual citizenship, specifically to restrict individuals from acquiring Russian citizenship (although Ukraine lacked the capacity to determine or limit who in fact held it). But the atmosphere – the generalized understanding that it was wrong and illegal to be a dual citizen in Crimea – was nonetheless pervasive. For example, participants indicated their willingness, across identification categories, to abide by the law and not to seek out Russian citizenship. In contrast, in Moldova there was a different atmosphere, wherein dual citizenship had been legal since 2003 and applying for Romanian citizenship had become a banal practice. Participants in Moldova knew that acquiring Romanian citizenship was not only something that they practised as individuals but a prevalent activity among everyday citizens and even politicians. Romanian citizenship, and dual citizenship in general, was not only legal in Moldova; the atmosphere was of tolerance and acceptance (if not tacit encouragement) to acquire Romanian citizenship, both as a right and a form of security against the future. These institutional dimensions are important gate-keeping factors, but they are not the entire story. What matters also is how individuals interact with these practices in the contexts of their lives, and the meanings they ascribe to these policies.

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First is the role of desirability in explaining differences. Some kin-states offer policies that provide rights that are superior (or at least beneficial) and in situ compared to those provided by home-states (Romania), while others provide equivalent or inferior rights that may only be accessed outside the home-state, in the kin-state (Russia). In terms of desirability, it is not just the ability to acquire superior rights, objectively, but how these rights are articulated as beneficial by individuals engaging with citizenship practices. The comparison between Crimea and Moldova shows how desirability is consequential. For participants in Moldova, Romanian citizenship offered rights and benefits that were desirable because they added to the rights which they already enjoyed as Moldovan citizens in a meaningful way; in this way, Romania acted as a gatekeeper to the rights and benefits appendant to eu citizenship. The rights attached to Romanian citizenship were relevant in situ, within Moldova, and did not require residency in Romania (but could facilitate entrance to Romania or elsewhere in the eu , if desired). In Moldova, the desirability of Romanian citizenship as a practice did not intersect with identification, as I discuss above. Participants agreed on the appeal of Romanian citizenship, regardless of whether or not they identified as Romanian or with Romania, and several saw Romanian citizenship as a form of “insurance,” in case something should go wrong in Moldova at a future date. By contrast, in Crimea, neither citizenship nor quasi-citizenship were deemed desirable, partly because Russia did not offer such rights in situ, within Crimea. For example, the Compatriot policy offered the right to resettle in Russia; however, regardless of how they identified, participants in Crimea did not wish to move to Russia, let alone to locations on its cold periphery. Politicized Russians also did not want to leave Crimea, as this was perceived as undermining the strength of the Russian community within Crimea, but sought to increase their leverage within Crimea and Ukraine via citizenship. Thus, Russian practices failed to be desirable, either to those most engaged with Russia (Politicized Russians) or to the constituency of Compatriots, which extended beyond this minority with which Russia sought to engage. Second, after desirability, is the role of legitimacy. Some kin-state citizenship and quasi-citizenship policies are conceived as normal and a natural right by those who practise them, while others are not. This is another striking difference, which helps to explain citizenship’s breadth of appeal in Moldova compared to its narrow appeal in Crimea. In Moldova, Romanian citizenship was framed as legitimate – across identification categories – because it was perceived as overturning injustices

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of the past. This sentiment was a collective one, affecting those who had lost their citizenship when the Soviet Union annexed Bessarabia from Romania; but it was also personal, arising out of family histories that articulated this process as an injustice. Again, irrespective of the strength of their identification as Romanian and with Romania, participants in Moldova saw engaging with Romanian practices of citizenship as the recovery of a status that had been lost by their grandparents. Thus, Romanian citizenship was legitimate, normal, and natural because it was an act of reparation for individuals – a view that also reflected official Romanian state discourse per the wording of its policy as one of citizenship reacquisition (redobândire) rather than simply acquisition (dobândire), a nuance whereby eligibility was predicated on descent, and one’s ability to prove descent, from interwar Romanian citizens. In Crimea, by way of contrast, only Politicized Russians saw Russian citizenship as legitimate (though illegal). Only Politicized Russians wanted Russian citizenship to be accessible through legal means, because of their sense of injustice at being separated from Russia and marginalized by Ukraine. All other participants rejected this idea of injustice and had no interest in lobbying Russia for citizenship. Similarly, in terms of quasi-citizenship, only Politicized Russians (along with those who benefitted from Compatriot policy) saw legitimacy in being a Compatriot of Russia and having rights as Compatriots. All other participants in Crimea saw no legitimacy in being Compatriots and, instead, viewed Ukraine as their domain of legitimacy, politically speaking at least, rather than Russia. Although Russia has used discourses of legitimacy to express its claims to Crimea, especially in 2014, Russia also actualized these claims by annexing the peninsula (President of Russia 2014e). At least before 2014, these claims did not resonate among many within Crimea, where the pull of legitimacy was absent for most, while in Moldova the appeal of legitimacy was strong, and disentangled from co-ethnic and kin-state identification. Practices Matter

This study is bottom-up and sociological, but the implications for politics, and kin-state politics specifically, are worth discussing. Engagement with kin-state policies is not automatic; it is a choice that intersects with what rights and benefits kin-state policies offer, how kin-states offer these policies, and how this resonates within social contexts in terms of desirability and legitimacy. In the past, states like Romania and Russia have been portrayed as though they “give out passports” in Moldova

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and Crimea, and kin communities as passive recipients of these policies. This study shows this not to be the case. Engaging with kin-state policies takes effort and interest. Not only were individuals exercising agency, they did so in ways that were meaningful and challenge our assumptions. For example, this study has explicitly and empirically challenged the assumptions that Crimea was a case of passportization before 2014 or a likely case of engagement via the Compatriot policy. Instead, Romania appears as the more active kin-state, vis-à-vis Moldova. Those within Moldova were actively engaged with Romania, not because of identification but because of an atmosphere that tolerated, and indeed necessitated, engagement with Romania. We can see how Moldovans increasingly engaged with an external state (Romania), seeking to access what their own was unable to provide: access to the outside world and insurance against potential future instability at home. Comparing citizenship practices in Moldova and Crimea cannot provide an exhaustive explanation as to why citizenship practices might vary more generally. Instead, it provides a set of explanatory factors – availability, accessibility, desirability, and legitimacy – and a theoretical framework for identity and citizenship, and their intersections, which help to unpack the differences between these two cases, and which might be useful for teasing out practices of citizenship in other cases (and even beyond the issue of kin-state citizenship acquisition). While availability and accessibility relate to the institutional context – in which it does matter that Romania is more generous than Russia, and Moldova more accepting than Russia of dual citizenship – desirability and legitimacy show directly that the meaning and resonance of citizenship also matter as factors explaining variation in practices. If kin-state citizenship is not framed as legitimate or desirable, as it was not in Crimea, we should not expect it to be practised, at least by a large constituency of kin, because it is not useful or relevant to their lives. Kin are not passive entities but active agents making choices about what to acquire, what to engage with. Thus, in 2019, while Russia made citizenship more available to Ukrainians, as a means of baiting Ukraine’s administration, that did not mean Ukrainians would engage with it or become passportized; they must see kin-state citizenship as desirable and/ or legitimate before they will make an effort to acquire it. A Practice-Oriented Research Agenda for Studying Citizenship

Amid this variety of citizenship practices, we cannot understand the differences within and across the cases of Crimea and Moldova simply by studying the institutional context. The broader implication of this finding

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is that future research needs to examine how institutional contexts intersect with what practices of citizenship, and thus policies, mean for those who can or do engage with them. The broader point running through this book is that individuals within kin majorities have and make choices that are consequential – choices which, in and of themselves, need to be the object of analysis. How citizenship is practised has been overlooked in existing studies of kin-state politics and of transformations in citizenship more broadly. Thus, discussing practices of citizenship and quasi-citizenship, and how these practices vary, is important for a broader discussion of what citizenship means in the twenty-first century. We know that citizenship occupies the role of a gatekeeper that is consequential for our experience of life. From refugees crossing the Mediterranean or the Rio Grande, to the Windrush generation in the UK, we see struggles relating to citizenship. Often, discussions of citizenship is reserved for questions of migration. As such, we focus more on how citizenship is becoming transformed by migration than on how it might be transformed by kin-state policies, which, through citizenship, translate into the post-territorialization and transnationalization of nationalism and irredentism (Joppke 2019). Thus, future research needs to keep broadening the range of actors being studied through agency-centred approaches to citizenship – beyond migrants and citizenship struggles – to engage with those who acquire citizenship without residence as well as other potential actors engaging with citizenship who might be obscured by a strictly migrant-centred focus. Moreover, future research needs to focus concretely not only on institutions of citizenship but how citizenship is practised, acquired, and given meaning. The point is not that the institutional context does not matter; it is, however, by studying how practices intersect with or subvert the institutional context that we may challenge the assumptions that only institutional or state policies matter. Rather, the practices of individuals may shed light on the consequential choices, practical and political, via which an individual engages with and acquires citizenship, or not. More broadly, citizenship and nationalism studies need to engage with each other more. In this book, I discussed the peculiarity of how kinstate politics are essentially using citizenship for nationalist ends; rarely, however, do literatures on citizenship and nationalism really speak to one another. For example, we know that nationalism ebbs and flows – from the top down and from the bottom up – but we also know that citizenship is becoming more, not less, consequential for people’s life outlooks. Future research needs to interrogate the relationship between citizenship and the politics of nationalism. For example, is nationalism

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perpetuating or separate from the political forces operating within and between nation-states, forces that are hardening the boundaries between states and transforming the salience of citizenship? This book addresses one slice of the question, namely the use of citizenship by nationalist kinstates. But many other facets of the link between citizenship and nationalism are also emerging, which also need to be addressed, bottom-up and top-down. These include, namely, the relationship between the commodification of citizenship by states who now sell citizenship (are these linked to nationalism and, if so, how?) and the intersecting dynamics and incentives of nationalism and citizenship policies in states underdoing demographic change and demographic crises. For example, many kin-states, like Hungary, Romania, and Russia, are experiencing severe demographic decline; how does this intersect with politics and experiences of nationalism and citizenship? As dual citizenship, if not multiple citizenship, proliferates, the boundaries of citizenship are also hardening rather than softening, just as the politics of nationalism appear to be on the rise. Addressing these intersections will be critical to understanding both the practices and the institutions of citizenship.

a future research agenda for post-soviet politics: beyond the blinkers of identity politics Finally, I want to reflect on a broader implication of this study concerning what I call the “blinkers” of identity politics when studying postSoviet (and Eastern European) politics. Identity, and contentions derived from identity, have been viewed by scholars as holding much leverage for explaining post-Soviet politics and, in particular, the problems conceived as endemic to post-Soviet politics, such as slow, or hybrid, forms of democratization.4 But identity politics can also function as a mask, casting a veil over regimes of corruption and democratic backsliding in post-Soviet space and Eastern Europe.5 Rarely have we stopped to think about what this focus on identity politics is doing: what knowledge are these blinkers creating? What knowledge is being obscured by this focus on identity politics? Does identity actually provide the analytical leverage to explain politics in the postSoviet region? In other words, I argue not only for revising the mutually exclusive categories and approaches that we use to examine and theorize identity, as I describe above, but also the very emphasis that we place on identity politics. This book could well be seen as an example of such blinkered thinking. That is why I want to illustrate the reflexive process through which

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I came to conclude that we need to look beyond these identity blinkers. I do not suggest abandoning the study of identity politics. Instead, to understand the role of identity politics, we need actually to study questions of identity and how they intersect with aspects of politics, including citizenship. But future research must adopt a more critical approach, when studying post-Soviet politics through the lens of identity. When I first visited Crimea, I expected to find what the literature had suggested I would: a hotbed of Russian nationalism, separatism, and support for Russian citizenship. I even asked participants about “the Russian question.” I quickly learned that for most participants, this question made no sense; there was no Russian question that impacted their lives in a meaningful way. By listening to and learning from those in the field, in Moldova and Crimea, I became more critical about what the lens of identity politics can and cannot explain. Take, for example, Russia’s annexation of Crimea. While the annexation is not a puzzle that this book sets out to solve, my research does provide unique data that prompt questions regarding some of the foundational assumptions about Crimea used to explain (or explain away) the annexation through identity politics. Many authors have used the strength and mobilizing capacity of Russian nationalism within Crimea to explain annexation.6 Indeed, annexation represents the securitization of many of the discourses that run through this book: Compatriots, russkii mir, and Russia’s role as a kin-state acting, in post-Soviet space, to protect Compatriots residing in the “Russian world.” Russia used each of these three components to legitimize its annexation of Crimea (Wanner 2014; Laruelle 2015). As scholars, the knowledge produced about annexation becomes a story of ethnic instability, the salience of Russian identification and language, and the trope of discrimination. But this book shows that more caution is required in considering identity and nationalism as sufficient explanations; future research must also consider other explanations, at least to test them against the role of nationalism. While the 2014 referendum might be used as evidence of support for annexation,7 this study captures the more varied experiences of Crimean residents on the eve of annexation. As I show, it is consequential that only a minority in Crimea identified as Russian and discriminated against. Who identified in this way was also consequential: those who lived and moved in networks that linked them, and their resources, to Russia. Upon examining Russia’s annexation of Crimea, we can see that the status of these same discourses of discrimination – and of the individuals who espoused them – was raised by annexation. These discourses shifted from peripheral to agenda-setting vis-à-vis our

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(and Russia’s) understanding of Crimea, and thus have provided the lens through which we understand annexation. Rather than ethnic instability, we should consider how Crimea’s annexation should also be viewed through the lens of political fragility: of corrupt practices within marginal pro-Russian organizations and clientelist relations with a Russian patron-state. In other words, identity and identity politics might not provide as much analytical leverage as assumed in explaining Russia’s annexation of Crimea. To make these claims, we should analyze the work that identity is and is not performing; and future research should do so through a more critical lens. That we are overstating the strength and role of Russian nationalism in explaining Crimea’s annexation is a controversial argument. After all, a good deal of discourse has legitimized annexation on the basis that Crimea was coming “home.”8 Much as we have studied kin-state politics in the past, we hear the voices of those launched into power, amplifying sentiments espoused by Politicized Russians and by Russia, as the kin-state. But Politicized Russians were a minority among those I interviewed in Crimea and the voices of the heterogeneous majority – beyond Politicized Russians – were not a part of annexation. In annexation, we did not see a fractured kin majority. Instead, we saw a quick and relatively painless coup from within, Russian special forces locking down the peninsula and a swift (though illegitimate) referendum. The individuals who participated in the coup had been the losers for twenty years. If annexation of Crimea resulted from the “dog that failed to bark,” then that dog was the voice of Politicized Russians. But even if these claims of identity are significant, they should not crowd out the role of other factors, such as links to Russia perpetuated as much by networks of power and resources as by identity claims. In Moldova, we see a fusion of identity politics and geopolitics that is hard to look beyond. This fusion has maximized the role of Russia in Moldova while minimizing that of Romania. The extent to which Romania’s citizenship policy is about restoring the citizenry of an interwar fascist state – though not necessarily its territorial borders – is often obscured by the West’s struggle with Russia over Moldova. But Moldova’s status as a weak state should also not be ignored or underplayed, especially given the extent to which Romania has invested in Moldova via citizenship. And Romania’s extraction from Moldova via its investment in human capital is rarely a part of this discussion. Critically, what remains obscured is how Moldova has become a state dependent on Romania – for individual security via citizenship and for investing in its human capital as the Moldovan state seems unwilling or

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unable to do so. Take covid -19 and vaccine programs; it was Romanian citizenship that made it possible for Moldovans to cross into Romania to be vaccinated (Diac 2021). It was also Romania that was the first state to donate some of its own vaccines to Moldova, in addition to medical supplies before vaccines became available.9 This is explained in part by the inequalities of redistribution between the eu and the peripheral states outside its boundaries, but it continues to illustrate Moldova’s willing, and to some extent necessary, dependence on Romania. Indeed, studying the intersection of covid -19, vaccine diplomacy, and citizenship is a worthwhile area of future research in its own right. More broadly, we may also scrutinize further the kinds of dependency exhibited by Moldova vis-à-vis Romania. Elites have not problematized this within Moldova because they see, and themselves reap, the opportunities provided by Romania, which benefit Romania and individual Moldovan citizens even as this dependency may also be hollowing out the Moldovan state. Romania becomes the means through which ordinary and elite Moldovans alike may ensure a more prosperous and secure future. Romania’s actions, as well as Moldova’s dependence, are thus left unscrutinized, with greater focus on Russia’s actions. While previous research has alluded to how kin-state politics can create systems of dependency (Pogonyi 2017b, 189; Waterbury 2018), the focus has been on kin minorities and kin-states. For kin majorities, especially those which are sites of en masse citizenship acquisition, like Moldova, the consequences of dependence are not marginalization within the homestate but mass endorsement, and elite buy-in, to the outsourcing of state competencies, such as security and public goods like education, to the kin-state. In other words, the implications for kin majorities of such dependency are more profound, because kin majorities represent larger constituencies within home-states than kin minorities and, in Moldova’s case, may signal penetration and reorientation of the home-state. This study of Crimea and Moldova illustrates the need for future research that goes beyond understanding post-Soviet politics through the lens of identity politics, even on questions of kin-state politics. Rather, future research needs to pluralize the study of post-Soviet politics beyond the blinkers of identity politics. Namely, we need to unpack more critically how identity politics may be a strategy to disguise the more nefarious politics of fragility, nepotism, and kin-state dependence. (Such a veiling of corruption and nepotism by regimes that strategically mobilize nationalist ideologies has also occurred in the US, under the Trump administration, and in the UK, under post-Brexit administrations.) This blinkering simply lets regimes, including post-Soviet regimes,

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off the hook. Future research needs to address practices and regimes of corruption, not only as elements to be explained but also as phenomena that may themselves explain or unpack state policy (e.g., kin-state politics of irredentism and annexation, and beyond) and the actions of political actors (e.g., engagement with kin-state politics). More than ever, we also need to continue to diversify the cases through which we study the region and move away from top-down focuses on centres of power toward regional politics and less-studied cases like Moldova, which remain peripheral yet integral to understanding post-Soviet politics and the peripheralization of processes like Europeanization. This endeavour, however, is also structural and requires training (and potentially retraining) as well as investment in language skills and allowing ourselves to see language skills as worthy tools alongside methodological expertise.10 Finally, this structural shift is also about collaborating with, and integrating, more scholars from the post-Soviet region (and not only within the more financially resourced centres of power with greater social capital).

c o nclus i o n In concluding, I return to Milan Kundera (1994, 197), who once suggested that few care “whether Romanians or Russians” occupy territories like Bessarabia (see epigraph at top of chapter). Peripheral to centres of power, Crimea and Moldova may also seem peripheral to us, as scholars and observers (and as citizens). This book’s intended audience stretches beyond scholars and students with interest in the post-Soviet world, because we can learn from debates over identity and citizenship in Crimea and Moldova, from experiences of how citizenship is becoming multiplied in Moldova, and from the fracturing of identity in both cases. We can learn from these “Siberias of the West,” as Bessarabia was known in the tsarist empire, as well as from those who reside in these seemingly peripheral spaces (King 2000). Polities such as these produce interesting concepts like kin majorities and practices like en masse citizenship acquisition, all of which demand that we question what we take for granted as scholars and citizens, from the rights we enjoy and the seeming shift to post-national states. Kin-state politics – especially in kin majorities and with the shift to post-territorial policies of citizenship that allow en masse acquisition – demonstrate that, in states that are not post-national but post-territorial, access to desirable and legitimate rights matters, especially to persons who find themselves peripheral to the rights afforded by Europeanization.11

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Moreover, we should understand that a rigorous study of politics goes beyond what we can observe and what makes the headlines. We have to interrogate politics more deeply, from the bottom up and even at the personal level. For example, in the domain of kin-state politics, we need to analyze how the nexus of kin-state politics operates from the perspective of the communities who are objects of these claims. Doing so may help us question why kin majorities have been overlooked as an object of analysis – principally, that kin-states have little interest in drawing our attention to their engagement with local majorities, which might not need their help to the same extent as local minorities. To ignore kin majorities means that we have been merely following politics rather than interrogating the bases upon which such politics are built. By focusing on majorities, this book moves us beyond the common-sense approach, which sees diversity as a question of minorities. As persons socialized within majoritarian societies, it is understandable that we emphasize, and accept as an object of analysis, diversity that occurs outside of the majority group. In terms of rights, it is often minority communities that face the brunt of exclusion. Yet, we must also challenge this understanding of diversity. In considering kin majorities, which appear unitary from the perspective of kin-states’ claims toward them, I show how these communities are fractured in consequential ways. Diversity such as this will not appear in censuses because of how censuses reproduce, rather than question, the politics of which they form a part. Only by focusing on what identification means and how citizenship is practised, from the perspective of those experiencing and articulating these practices, may we learn how identification and politics intersect. One finding that I hope travels beyond this book, beyond its cases and beyond the study of identity and citizenship, is that political scientists ought to play a stronger role in deconstructing their common-sense assumptions. Rather than take the politics we seek to study for granted, we must begin by deconstructing the foundational assumptions that constitute these politics – from the categories we employ to the blinkers created by the knowledge we (re)produce. This change is not only about using interpretive methods to deconstruct politics; challenging our common sense is not methodologically specific. Until we begin to do so, we will not challenge how power operates within the states and societies we seek to study, but uncritically reproduce it – for one example, by taking census categories for granted. We have to step beyond the visible domains of politics that make the headlines, which are easily observable and measurable, by approaching politics instead from the bottom up. The role of ethnicity in politics entails much more than merely the

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instances – moments – in which people take to the streets or take up arms. In everyday life, ethnic identification has meanings that are consequential and can help us challenge the common-sense assumptions that constitute extraordinary events, like Russia’s annexation of Crimea.

a p p e n di x

A Note on Methods and Methodology

This appendix describes my methods of data collection and analysis, and does so in greater depth and detail than as I presented it in Chapter 2. Specifying these methods and unpacking my research choices is fundamental for readers to understand how I produced this study and how it transformed over the course of the research process. Unpacking and justifying the process by which research was conducted, especially for an approach that combines comparative, interpretive, and bottom-up elements, are also important as social science practices, and may allow others to learn from the challenges I faced and the mistakes I made, as well as what worked for me. Below, I sketch the reflexive and iterative nature of the research process to implore others to be more open in dissecting and discussing their own research processes beyond narrower discussions of data access and research transparency (e.g., the da-rt initiative).1 As Christine Cheng (2018, 286) argues, we need to expose the “scaffolding” on which research is based, as existing norms may encourage us to hide such scaffolding from view. I focus on opening up the research process, its choices, and the emergent challenges of research design, including ethical and personal challenges, from which political scientists of the past may have shied away (Yanow and Schwartz-Shea 2008). As many qualitative researchers and scholars of violence and authoritarianism have argued, research transparency is not a simple matter of sharing and depositing transcripts in open repositories, but comprises, in fact, some profound ethical and interpretive challenges (Cramer 2015; Parkinson and Wood 2015). One such ethical challenge concerns how to share information in the public domain so as not to de-anonymize participants. Similarly, an interpretive challenge is the assumption, often unrecognized in the sharing of raw data, that making sense and meaning of such data will occur similarly for all researchers (as if replicability is possible in the

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first place); and, concomitantly, that a research process (and thus the researcher) is somehow misguided or simply wrong if such sense-making occurs in a different manner. Qualitative forms of data collection and analysis, being grounded in reflexivity and positionality, will occur differently for different researchers, such that one researcher may not glean the same findings, from raw data, as another (or even co-generate the same knowledge with the same participants). Given challenges like these, transparency should focus on documenting the research process and its choices, so that the reader may evaluate. Exposing the iterative stages of research is not equivalent to seeking replicability of findings. Instead, “reflexive openness” is about ethical and pedagogical forms of transparency that shed light on the iterative stages of the research process and how data is transformed into interpretation. Such openness also calls for humility in the face of alternative explanations and interpretations (Pachirat 2015).2 Finally, reflexive openness involves locating ourselves within the research enough to understand how we ourselves may have influenced the research process and its outputs (Pachirat 2015; MacLean et al. 2017).

pri o r fi eld expe r i e n c e This iterative nature of this research began to emerge even before the field visits, where I collected data for the project. By the time I conducted my PhD research in Moldova, I already had some experience of researching Moldova on two separate research trips to Chis¸ina˘u (in 2008 and 2010). These prior experiences motivated my interest in the puzzles of identity hybridity and contestation that were taking place within post-Soviet societies and, within Moldova, the question of Romanian citizenship acquisition. Already in 2010, I observed how puzzlingly normal the acquisition of Romanian citizenship appeared, both at the everyday and elite levels. While I had knowledge and experience of Moldova, in Crimea I had none. Initially, I had envisioned this project as comparing Moldovan and Romanian communities within Ukraine, around the city of Chernivtsi/ Cerna˘ut¸i. But after visiting Chernivtsi in 2010 during a scoping trip, and deciding to abandon it as a case,3 I noticed – while staring at a map in my advisor’s office – that Crimea might be a commensurate case of what interested me about Moldova: a local majority claimed as co-ethnic by a nearby state. From that beginning, the concept of a kin majority was born. This comparison would later come to seem more fruitful, when I learned that Russian citizenship was neither dominant nor observable in Crimea.

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In 2011, I made an initial research trip to Crimea. Shifting from reading about Crimea within the confines of my university library to arriving in Simferopol was a shock, as though I had been reading about a completely different place. It took me a while to understand that the slogans through which we understand Crimea, and which I critique in the empirical chapters, offered a narrow and superficial, if not cliché, image of the peninsula. Visiting Crimea before fieldwork was also fundamental to shifting my research direction and refining the questions I was asking. As discussed at various points in the book, I intended, initially, to study engagement with Russian citizenship. Finding no one who held Russian citizenship, and remarkably few who were interested in getting it, I was fortunate in realizing early on that I had to tinker the direction of the research toward examining the Compatriot policy as an example of quasi-citizenship. I also shifted away from asking participants about the “Russian question,” which, I realized, was not a fruitful way to engage with what it meant to be Russian or to engage with Russia. Instead, I had to adjust my questions to be more subtle and open-ended, to elicit the nuances and contestations of these meanings and practices. These prior experiences were critical to designing and refining the direction of the project. They helped me to shift my focus toward exploring, in an open-ended way, meanings of identification and citizenship practices – and, as I came to realize, practices of quasi-citizenship as well.

data co llec t i o n I made two research trips to each case, staying one month in each location – once in 2012 and again in 2013. During these trips, I conducted interviews in both cases: fifty-five in Chis¸ina˘u, Moldova’s capital city, and fifty-two in Simferopol, Crimea’s administrative centre – more than one hundred interviews in total. I also conducted a few additional interviews in secondary cities (Yalta in Crimea and Ba˘lt¸i in Moldova). In both Chis¸ina˘u and Simferopol, I focused on engaging with a diverse group of participants and gatekeepers (discussed below). But limiting the data collection to these two political and administrative centres had implications for the study. For example, the story told in this book is more urban than the greater whole in Crimea and Moldova. In Crimea, 63 per cent of the peninsula’s two million residents live in urban settlements, with 18 per cent residing in Simferopol (population 363,000). By contrast, Moldova is more rural, as 34 per cent of its 2.9 million residents live in urban settlements, 17 per cent of them (representing 40 per cent of the urban population) in Chis¸ina˘u (National Bureau of

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Statistics 2017). Since annexation, it has become harder to access the kinds of statistics that might be useful for making more nuanced socioeconomic inferences about how similar or different Simferopol is to the rest of Crimea’s population, urban and rural. However, in Moldova, we have enough data to acknowledge that, first, Chis¸ina˘u is wealthier than other places in Moldova. For example, as of 2016, 72 per cent of Chis¸ina˘u households owned computers, compared to 51, 42, and 39 per cent in Moldova’s southern, central, and northern regions, respectively (ibid.). Since perestroika, Chis¸ina˘u has also been the centre of Moldova’s Romanian cultural movement. Equally, as Moldova’s main urban centre, Chis¸ina˘u is a city of diversity, with more Russian (and Romanian) speakers than other urban centres.4 In conducting comparative and multisite work, you gain breadth from multiple cases but may sacrifice some depth in each one by focusing on two cases through two cities (rather than a broader analysis of each case’s regional variation). I could have overcome this issue by sacrificing depth by using a different method of data collection – such as a survey. However, I chose not to conduct a survey (instead of interviews) because this data would have been less immersive and less rich in terms of the questions that interested me, regarding meanings and practices. Interviews provided an avenue for learning about the cases in ways that could not be anticipated, focusing on the interaction and co-construction of knowledge between researcher and participant (Chabal and Daloz 2006, 15–16; Fujii 2017). A survey would have likely required using the mutually exclusive categories of identity, which, as I had learned, could not reflect the diverse reality of the meanings that I explore in this book. In both cases, I combined informal semi-structured interviews regarding everyday activities, such as protests and festivals, conversations, and participation in everyday life. As part of an immersive project, I also tried to stay with local families (except in Moldova in 2012) to acquire a sense of everyday life and the salient issues in everyday repertoires and conversations. The typical political scientist might not think much about where or with whom they stay in the field. For me, this was a crucial part of the research process, to gain a more “from within” perspective. Where I stayed was also significant in establishing my credentials as a researcher, in part because I did not conform to participants’ stereotypes of Westerners. Participants and gatekeepers were interested in where I was staying, as a means of placing me, and the resources I had available, within their context. As a Western researcher, people frequently assumed that I had a great deal of financial capital to draw upon in completing the research, and would thus be staying in a local hotel. Staying with local

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people not only fell within my budget, which would not have stretched to weeks in a hotel, but localized me to participants in setting me against the grain of the rich Western researcher that they might have imagined. For example, during my second trip to Moldova in 2013, I stayed with a host family in Codru, a small village on Chis¸ina˘u’s outskirts. Codru was also the name of an expensive hotel in central Chis¸ina˘u. To those who asked where I was staying, we often had to play the game of clarifying which Codru I was staying in: the village or the fancy hotel. Many assumed I was staying in the fancy hotel, not the village. That I was, in fact, staying in the village was important for setting the tone of the exchange that followed. Semi-structured interviews, lasting thirty to ninety minutes each, provide the bulk of the formal data that I analyze in this study. I conducted the interviews in Russian or English (in Crimea) and in Romanian, English, and occasionally Russian (in Moldova) depending on participants’ preferences. At the point of first contact with each participant, as well as before beginning the interview, I informed participants about who I was, my role in the field as a researcher and political scientist, and, in vague terms, my areas of interest. For example, in contacting potential participants, and to start off an interview on a (relatively) neutral ground, I indicated my interest in local culture and politics. Primarily, I wanted to examine what participants considered significant before broaching the topics of identity and citizenship that were more central to the research. In the interview, I also provided specific written information as to my academic affiliation and contact details. Informing participants about who I was, and about the project’s intentions, fed into how I gained informed consent. I also informed participants that what they would tell me would be confidential and anonymous, and thus unlikely to cause them harm or benefit. I sought oral consent but ruled out written consent, as signed consent forms can create an overly official atmosphere and undermine the desired interview conditions of seeming voluntary, anonymous, and confidential.5 In negotiating oral consent, one challenge was participants’ nonchalance about the formality and relevance of gaining consent. This nonchalance suggested to me that most participants did not see the information they were discussing as overly risky. But it was important, nonetheless, to be open about the aims and process of the research, and to ensure participants were made aware of their right to voluntary consent whereby they could withdraw their participation. Fundamental to the design and conduct of interviews across the two cases was consistency in terms of the topics that I raised and the types

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Table A.1 | Interview topic guide 1. Basic introductory questions

•

What do you do in [fieldwork site]? What does your organization do? • Where were you born? What about your parents family?

2. Culture and politics

•

3. Self-identification

•

•

What do you think about politics in [fieldwork site]? • What do you think about culture in [fieldwork site]? For ethnicity, how do you feel yourself? What makes you feel [ethnicity]? • What about language? Culture? •

Do you think that there are differences between [different groups] in [case]? • Do you feel near or far to [kin-state]? How do you feel in [kin-state]? • What do you think about relations between [kin-state] and [fieldwork site]?

4. Kin-state relations

•

5. Kin-state policies

•

What do you think about the policies of [kin-state toward [fieldwork site]? Crimea-specific:

What do you think about the Compatriot policy? • Do you feel like a Compatriot of Russia? • What do you think about dual citizenship? • What do you think about Russian citizenship? •

Moldova-specific: What do you think about reacquiring Romanian citizenship? • Have you applied for Romanian citizenship? • When did you apply? When did you receive it? • Why did you apply for Romanian citizenship? • Has Romanian citizenship changed how you feel about Romania? • What can you do as a Romanian citizen? •

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of participants that I approached. I used a conversational style, so that participants would feel at ease. I tried to develop an approach to the interview whereby it flowed across different topics of interest, without too obviously using my prepared interview topic guide. Thus, the guide merely sketches out the interview topics as well as typical questions that might emerge from these topics within the interview context (see the “interview topic guide” in Table A.1). I began with icebreaker topics, such as asking about participants’ professions and opinions on politics and culture, before broaching the specific areas of interest: how participants conceptualized their identity and ethnicity, and how they used kin-state policies. The icebreaker questions were useful to determine whether participants would discuss (or not), without prompting, the specific areas that I was interested in, such as language rights and inter-ethnic relations, to situate participants in terms of the importance that they ascribed to these issues. At the same time, the interviews were not without fault. Rather, they were spaces of iterative developments, affecting myself as a researcher and the interview structure as a site of knowledge co-production. You do not turn up to the field – at least not as a graduate student – as a perfect researcher (Mosley 2013). Instead, you learn from the field and from the process of field research – from listening, developing the questions you ask, and the approach you take in asking them. For example, for some participants, asking introductory questions about politics and culture in Moldova/Crimea was too general. For others, asking direct questions about identity (e.g., “how would you identify yourself in terms of ethnicity?”) proved difficult. Given the approach to questions, and to categories, that I use in this study, the issue was not so much what terms participants used to identify themselves but the rationale behind these forms of identification. The follow-up questions were important, as I used them to dig further into the stories and meanings that lay beneath the participants’ initial responses. I also had to work iteratively to decentre myself from my assumptions and my reading of the field, a process that began by listening to and learning from (while questioning) the participants. For example, when I first travelled to Crimea, I had expected, based on the literature I had read, that everyone would identify as Russian in ways that were less contested than what I observed. Indeed, I did not expect to find people who subverted the idea of being Russian by identifying instead as politically Ukrainian. Over time, I realized that I had to change my understanding of identity to adapt to how the participants expressed themselves in their own ways.

272

Kin Majorities

Table A.2 | Participants in Crimea and Moldova by gender and age By gender

Moldova

Men

Total

18–29

30–39

40–49

50–59

60+

Total

Organic Romanian

4

18

22

15

5

2

0

0

22

Cultural Romanian

8

7

15

11

2

2

0

0

15

Ambivalent Romanian

0

5

5

2

1

2

0

0

5

Moldovan

5

5

10

6

2

0

2

0

10

Linguistic Moldovan

0

3

3

2

1

0

0

0

3

17 (31%)

38 (69%)

55

36 (65%)

11 (20%)

6 (11%)

2 (4%)

0 (0%)

55

Politicized Russian

2

8

10

2

3

3

1

1

10

Ethnic Russian

7

9

16

9

3

2

2

0

16

Political Ukrainian

9

6

15

12

0

3

0

0

15

Crimean

2

3

5

4

0

0

1

0

5

Ethnic Ukrainian

2

4

6

2

1

1

1

1

6

21 (40%)

31 (60%)

52

29 (56%)

7 (13%)

9 (17%)

5 (10%)

2 (4%)

52

Total

Crimea

By age (years)

Women

Total

As a bottom-up study, my focus was on meanings and the everyday as opposed to expert perspectives. Since everyday meanings and engagement with kin-state practices were the objects of my analysis, as such, I could cast the net more widely than a specific group of elite or expert actors (see my participant lists in Tables A.3 and A.4). Rather than aim at a “representative” sample, which is not appropriate to research with a

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273

small number of participants, I sought instead a breadth of diverse perspectives (Small 2009; Schwartz-Shea and Yanow 2012). I purposively contacted many individuals in Crimea and Moldova via organizations, university networks, and my existing contacts. Others I contacted and recruited via means outside these networks – for example, by locating their details online, meeting them, and establishing contact. I also used my existing networks to broaden my contacts in the hope of interviewing a diverse range of residents in Simferopol and Chis¸ina˘u. In terms of identity characteristics, I did not select participants based on ethnic identification or citizenship status, as this information was unknown until I asked it of them during the interview. While I did not exclude anyone from the analysis based on citizenship status, I did exclude persons whom the kin-state would not claim as co-ethnic.6 While not a deliberate strategy from the outset, most participants were men (69 per cent in Moldova and 60 per cent in Crimea; see Table A.2). Moreover, in terms of age, many ended up being from what I describe as the “post-Soviet generation” – namely under forty years old in 2012–13, when data was collected (85 per cent in Moldova and 69 per cent in Crimea; see Table A.2). It became evident that these individuals were more accessible, as I could access organizations and university networks via social media and the Internet, and more approachable from an outsider perspective. However, older participants were still somewhat accessible and comprised a minority of participants (4 per cent in Moldova and 14 per cent in Crimea were over fifty years old). In both cases, jokes about me being a “spy” were more common among older (Soviet generation) participants. Thus, it was easier to build a trusting rapport with my peers – the younger, post-Soviet generation – in these cases and maintain contact within and beyond the field (e.g., via email and social media).

data a nalysi s Returning from the field having conducted more than a hundred interviews, which became thousands of words in transcripts, I was confronted by a wealth of messy data to trawl through. A critical part of social science is explaining and justifying how data was generated and transformed through analysis and writing. Honesty is important. For me, data analysis was largely an intuitive process, following the logic of the interviews and guided by the questions I asked. This approach does not fit inside the neat boxes of grounded theory, thematic analysis, or discourse analysis (as if these were mutually exclusive approaches). Analysis is about being immersed in the data and seeing nothing but

274

Kin Majorities

Discriminated Russians Ethnic Russians Crimeans Political Ukrainians Ethnic Ukrainians Self/ other

Home- Kin- Territory state state

Self/ other

Home- Kin- Territory state state

Figure A.1 | Example of two-dimensional coding of data.

mess and contradiction, until something begins to fit together over many (not several) iterations of reading, coding, and pattern assembly; this process also extended into the process of drafting and redrafting the empirical chapters. I began analysis – as most do – by reading (and rereading) the interview transcripts. In the initial stages, I did not know what I was doing and lacked the conceptual tools to bring clarity, organization, and coherence to the data. I developed these tools over the course of the process, to see within the data what I needed. Next, I began coding the data openly and flexibly, looking for themes and patterns, much as in a grounded theory approach (Corbin and Strauss 1990). Of course, this was not grounded theory per se, as my process was informed by literature in locating concepts like ethnicity and engagement with kin-state practices (e.g., with nested, cross-cutting, separated, competing implications). Working through this open coding, and over several iterations, I started to observe coherences within the data by locating areas of similarity and difference between participants in terms of meanings. Inductively, I began grouping participants into identification categories based on areas of similarity and pulled apart groups based upon significant differences. As Figure A.1 demonstrates visually, I coded in two dimensions and two stages, seeking similarities in the positioning of self/other boundaries,

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and vis-à-vis kin-state, home-state, and construction of homeland, to construct the inductive identification categories discussed in Chapters 4 and 6, and those used to understand engagement with citizenship described in Chapters 5 and 7.

e th i cs , po si ti o nali ty, a n d r e f l e x i v i t y This appendix aims to expose the reflexive openness of my research practices, including the choices, challenges, and learning processes that were critical in developing this project. But I also wish to reflect more explicitly on certain reflexive moments that have guided this research (see Alejandro 2016). In political science, the author is typically an absent figure, as though a researcher’s identity and situatedness vis-à-vis knowledge creation are irrelevant and inconsequential. In turn, researchers articulate neat narratives that are far removed from the messy morass of research – a more common experience than we generally credit.7 But without understanding the basis on which knowledge is derived, including who participates in co-constructing such knowledge, we remain uncertain as to its rigour (Guillemin and Gillam 2004). The post-Soviet context, or at least the parts of it that I experienced in Simferopol and Chis¸ina˘u, offered an interesting setting in terms of positionality. Initially, it felt easy to conduct research, as participants were willing to discuss my topics of interest. These two cities were also easy places in which to live and operate, with widely accessible Internet, at least in the urban spaces (even if twenty-four-hour water service was not always guaranteed). These settings – Simferopol and Chis¸ina˘u – also felt cosmopolitan, with abundant cafes, even if they only catered to a socially mobile minority. As a young, lone British woman, I entered into more patriarchal environments in which it was uncommon for a young woman to travel, let alone conduct research, alone. My peculiarity in the field, in this regard, made conversation easy via the sharing of comparative experiences; however, I was also regularly posed questions about my age and marital status that were unexpected and uncomfortable. In both sites, I came to recognize how I stood out, from the way I dressed (e.g., flat shoes, not high heels) to how I treated public space (e.g., sitting on a street curb). I even had a noticeably paler complexion: as I learned on my first trip to Moldova (2008), people there rarely have freckles. The case sites were also more close-knit than I was used to – rather like “big villages,” where common connections were easy to identify, and in which contacts would discuss their encounter with me without my knowledge and/or without knowledge of mutual connections.8

276

Kin Majorities

I was clearly neither a native speaker nor a participant in these settings. While I needed to work hard to contact and engage with participants, they were surprisingly open about their experiences, positive and negative: of their home-state, kin-state, acquisition of citizenship, hardships faced in navigating post-Soviet life, and the experiences of their relations during the Soviet and pre-Soviet periods. My status as a foreigner offered certain benefits: for example, participants often framed me as an “objective” outsider, even though I resisted such labelling. I also used my outsider status as a strategy of naivete – for instance, in encouraging participants to teach me about history and, thereby, share their interpretation of the history. While being out of place, I was able nonetheless to gain access to diverse groups of participants, from members of the youth wings of political parties to diverse cohorts of students, who were willing to discuss their lives in detail. I also formed associations and friendships that I have maintained out of the field, which has afforded me unique insights in terms of follow-up information (e.g., how participants behave when they finally receive Romanian citizenship). In the field, I encountered some resistance from participants regarding my object of analysis and my approach. Sometimes, participants wanted to refer me to their boss, believing them better equipped to answer my questions. I insisted that my interest was not knowledge per se, but experiences and insights. But some did not consider their opinions to be a valid object of analysis because they were too subjective. In both cases, these (male) participants advised me to focus less on them and their views and more on statistics or official documentation, as this exchange with Anton, in Moldova, demonstrates: A suggestion for your work would be for you to analyze not based on comments of policy but based on based on normative acts, on legislation. In this respect, I try to take everything that was official. Regarding Romania, Moldova, Russia – if you follow the normative approach, it will be easier, but if you follow the historical issue, things get complicated … So, every historical approach is an interpretive matter, and this why I believe that your tools should be: 1) normative acts, 2) sociological studies – the expressions of the population (the barometer of public opinion is most credible), and 3) official positions. Ironically, the norms of political science would privilege the kinds of knowledge that Anton suggested I prioritize. The point is that even in this kind of interpretive work, resistance can be found not only within

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the academy but also among participants. We have to be prepared to explain and justify our research lenses to our participants as much as our peers. Most of my fieldwork was a positive and enjoyable experience. I also encountered a few incidents with male participants that made me uncomfortable. I had not expected these kinds of interactions, in part because I was naive but also because they are rarely discussed. While these experiences were not incidences of physical, psychological, or sexual harm, harassment, or violence, they were still important moments for reflecting on what it means to be a woman in the field. For example, upon meeting me, one participant asked me to hold his hand. Somehow, I managed both to refuse and to carry out the interview. When you refuse to hold someone’s hand at the beginning of the interview, it does not always have the best implications for the quality of the data you might glean from the discussion. This participant also asked me to his house, as a better space to ask questions and eat cherries. I declined the invitation. Another participant brought me flowers. While there was little that seemed overtly dangerous about these experiences, as women scholars in the field, we place ourselves out there in ways that are unfamiliar and out of the ordinary, in contrast to the day-to-day repertoires of behaviour that we are used to at home or within our institutions. In my day-to-day life, I do not cold-call strangers to meet me as though my life (and career) depended on it. In the field, however, this was a part of my day-to-day life. We also commonly expect that researchers hold greater power and have more resources than participants. As a result, we are told to pay for our participant’s coffee if we meet in a café, to be courteous. Even as a graduate student, I had access to greater financial resources than many of the participants with whom I interacted; nonetheless, I rarely paid for coffee with male participants. In the patriarchal post-Soviet societies in which I researched, there was simply no way for me to pay for a male participant’s coffee. It would have been against local norms. But it also disingenuous to suggest that the relations I developed with participants were those of a constantly and consistently empowered researcher versus a consistently disempowered participant. Instead, power was negotiated as knowledge was co-produced in the interview context. To this extent, participants often had superior knowledge to me on the topic of discussion, which was the reason for seeking such interviews in the first place. To conclude this section, I have already discussed some of the ethical questions that I navigated in the field to inform and gain consent from participants. Many of the ethical challenges of this research, particularly

278

Kin Majorities

in Crimea, arose beyond the field because of how Crimea changed after I left, with its annexation by Russia in 2014. These included questions about maintaining relationships with participants, how I would and could write about the field, and deciding whether to return to the field. Such aspects may not reflect how we typically think about, or indeed regulate, the ethics of field research, which usually pertain to the period of data collection occurring in the field where interviews, ethnography, or surveys are conducted. Yet, these questions – which elsewhere I refer to as “beyond the field” (Knott 2019) – raised the greatest ethical dilemmas for me. Indeed, even publishing a text like this makes me nervous in regard to participants’ possible exposure to the perspectives contained in it (not to mention my own exposure, given that the ideas I discuss herein comprise narratives opposed to a powerful state like Russia). Therefore, I have written this book in such a way as to honour my promise to all the participants – anonymity – so that the identities and ideas they shared are disguised within a text that discusses aggregate-level perspectives more than those of individuals.

Table A.3 | List of participants in Moldova

Category

Pseudonym

Year of interview

Gender

Age

Place of birth

Organic Romanians

Adrian

2013

Man

40–49

Edinet¸

Alina

2013

Woman

18–29

Chis¸ina˘u

Aurel

2012

Man

18–29

Chis¸ina˘u

Constantin

2012

Man

18–29

Chis¸ina˘u

Corneliu

2013

Man

18–29

Ungheni

Cristina

2012

Woman

18–29

Chis¸ina˘u

Dumitru

2012

Man

30–39

Ialoveni

Eduard

2012

Man

18–29

Chis¸ina˘u

Eugeniu

2013

Man

30–39

Chis¸ina˘u

Ion

2012

Man

30–39

Singerei

Iulian

2012

Man

18–29

Tighina/Bender

Iurie

2013

Man

18–29

Chis¸ina˘u

Marina

2013

Woman

18–29

Chis¸ina˘u

Maxim

2012

Man

18–29

Chis¸ina˘u

Mihaela

2013

Woman

18–29

Chis¸ina˘u

Mircea

2012

Man

18–29

Chis¸ina˘u

Oleg

2013

Man

40–49

Chis¸ina˘u

Sergiu

2013

Man

18–29

Chis¸ina˘u

Traian

2012

Man

18–29

Chis¸ina˘u

Valeriu

2012

Man

18–29

Anenii Noi

Vasile

2012

Man

30–39

Anenii Noi

Vitalie

2012

Man

30–39

Basarabeasca

Alexandra

2012

Woman

18–29

Chis¸ina˘u

Alexandru

2013

Man

18–29

Ungheni

Ana

2013

Woman

40–49

Calarasi

Cristian

2013

Man

18–29

Chis¸ina˘u

Diana

2013

Woman

18–29

Chis¸ina˘u

Elena

2012

Woman

18–29

Chis¸ina˘u

Ilie

2012

Man

18–29

Ba˘lt¸i

Cultural Romanians

Table A.3 | List of participants in Moldova (cont.)

Category

Ambivalent Romanians

Moldovans

Linguistic Moldovans

Pseudonym

Year of interview

Gender

Age

Place of birth

Maria

2012

Woman

18–29

Chis¸ina˘u

Marian

2012

Man

18–29

Chis¸ina˘u

Petru

2012

Man

18–29

Chis¸ina˘u

Radu

2013

Man

30–39

Chis¸ina˘u

Rodica

2013

Woman

30–39

Chis¸ina˘u

Tudor

2012

Man

40–49

Chis¸ina˘u

Violeta

2013

Woman

18–29

Chis¸ina˘u

Viorica

2013

Woman

18–29

Telenes¸tii

Andrei

2012

Man

30–39

Chis¸ina˘u

Gheorghe

2012

Man

40–49

Chis¸ina˘u

Mihai

2012

Man

18–29

Chis¸ina˘u

Stepan

2013

Man

18–29

Chis¸ina˘u

Vlad

2012

Man

40–49

Chis¸ina˘u

Anton

2012

Man

18–29

Chis¸ina˘u

Dan

2013

Man

30–39

Abkhazia

Lilia

2013

Woman

18–29

Ba˘lt¸i

Ludmila

2012

Woman

50–59

Ba˘lt¸i

Natalia

2012

Woman

18–29

Ba˘lt¸i

Nicolae

2013

Man

18–29

Chis¸ina˘u

Nina

2013

Woman

18–29

Orhei

Pavel

2012

Man

50–59

Ba˘lt¸i

Valentina

2013

Woman

18–29

Chis¸ina˘u

Viorel

2013

Man

30–39

Chis¸ina˘u

Boris

2013

Man

30–39

Criuleni

Igor

2013

Man

18–29

Cahul

Victor

2013

Man

18–29

Chis¸ina˘u

Table A.4 | List of participants in Crimea Category

Pseudonym

Year of interview

Gender

Age

Place of birth

Politicized Russians

Aleksei

2012

Man

40–49

Crimea

Artiom

2012

Man

18–29

Crimea

Dmitrii

2012

Man

18–29

Crimea

Evgenii

2013

Man

40–49

Crimea

Mikhail

2012

Man

30–39

Moldova

Olga

2012

Woman

50–59

Crimea

Svetlana

2012

Woman

40–49

Crimea

Vitalii

2013

Man

30–39

Crimea

Yurii

2013

Man

30–39

Crimea

Aleksei

2012

Man

40–49

Crimea

Anastasia

2013

Woman

18–29

Crimea

Anatolii

2012

Man

18–29

Crimea

Anna

2012

Woman

18–29

Sevastopol

Denis

2012

Man

40–49

Sevastopol

Ekaterina

2013

Woman

18–29

Sevastopol

Irina

2013

Woman

30–39

Crimea

Konstantin

2012

Man

18–29

Crimea

Leonid

2013

Man

18–29

Russia

Maksim

2012

Man

18–29

Crimea

Nadezhda

2012

Woman

30–39

Crimea

Natalia

2012

Woman

18–29

Crimea

Dinara

2013

Woman

30–39

Crimea

Roman

2012

Man

50–59

Kazakh ssr

Sergei

2012

Man

18–29

Crimea

Vadim

2013

Man

40–49

Crimea

Ethnic Russians

Table A.4 | List of participants in Crimea (cont.)

Category

Political Ukrainians

Crimeans

Ethnic Ukrainians

Pseudonym

Year of interview

Gender

Age

Place of birth

Vladislav

2012

Man

50–59

Russia

Aliona

2013

Woman

18–29

Crimea

Alla

2013

Woman

18–29

Crimea

Artur

2012

Man

18–29

Crimea

Daniil

2012

Man

40–49

Crimea

Daria

2013

Woman

18–29

Russia

Gennadii

2012

Man

40–49

Crimea

Grigorii

2013

Man

18–29

Donetsk

Inna

2013

Woman

18–29

Crimea

Nadia

2013

Woman

18–29

Kherson

Oksana

2012

Woman

18–29

Crimea

Tamara

2013

Woman

18–29

Crimea

Timur

2013

Man

18–29

Crimea

Vera

2012

Woman

18–29

Crimea

Viktor

2012

Man

18–29

Crimea

Vita

2013

Woman

40–49

Crimea

Larisa

2013

Woman

18–29

Crimea

Nina

2012

Woman

18–29

Crimea

Ruslan

2013

Man

50–59

Crimea

Stanislav

2013

Man

18–29

Crimea

Tatiana

2012

Man

18–29

Crimea

Bohdan

2013

Man

60+

Elsewhere in Ukraine

Hanna

2012

Woman

18–29

Kherson

Iulia

2012

Woman

18–29

Dnipropetrovsk

Petro

2013

Man

30–39

West Ukraine

Taras

2013

Man

50–59

Elsewhere in Ukraine

Viacheslav

2013

Man

40–49

West Ukraine

Notes

c ha p t e r o n e 1 However, acquisition of Croatian citizenship in Bosnia is not an example of a kin majority, as such citizens are not territorially confined within a politically auontomous unit (even if it may be reasonably assumed that these new Croatian citizens are territorially concentrated in HerzegBosnia, Bosnia’s ethnic Croat region). 2 While I describe the event of annexation as bloodless, the occupation since has been far from nonviolent, with Crimean Tatars facing continued human rights abuses in the years since (see Chapter 3). 3 These elections took place in the context of fraudulent parliamentary elections in December 2011, which spurred protests alongside the protests that followed the 2012 presidential election and concern about Putin seeking a third term in office. See Lankina and Skovoroda (2016) and Koesel and Bunce (2012). 4 By 2015, more than 70 per cent of states had become tolerant of dual citizenship; see Ganohariti (2020, 175). For original data, see Vink, de Groot, and Luk (2015). For arguments of dual citizenship as inclusionary and democratizing vis-à-vis immigrants, see Lafleur (2015). 5 Indeed, Poppe and Hagendoo (2003) consider all instances of ethnic Russians in post-Soviet space as communities that have lost their status, power, and demographic dominance due to Soviet collapse. 6 For discussion of securitization of minorities across east and central Europe, see Liebich (2019), Pogonyi (2017a), and Kymlicka (2004). For conceptualization of “trapped minorities” drawing on Palestinians in Israel, see Rabinowitz (2001).

284

Notes to pages 6–12

7 For a counterargument, see Aurescu (2011, 72), who argues that an individual’s right to citizenship cannot be denied because of fear of en masse citizenship conferral. 8 Developments in 2020 suggest that the eu is seeking to clamp down on citizenship by investment schemes, but makes no mention of clamping down on the expansive citizenship policies of kin-states like Romania and Hungary; see European Commission (2020). 9 For the Bolzano recommendations, see osce hcnm (2008). On “genuine link,” see Nottebohm Case (1955) and Dumbrava (2013). 10 See Sarajlic´ (2012) and Štiks (2015) for discussion of same in the former Yugoslavia. See also echr (2009), which identified en masse conferral of citizenship by Russia (also known as “passportization”) as the trigger of conflict in South Ossetia and Abkhazia. 11 For regimes of discrimination in cases of kin-minority Russian speakers in Estonia and Latvia, see Hughes (2005) and Khrychikov and Miall (2002). 12 For further discussions of this rhetoric in Hungary, see Csergo˝ (2007); and for Estonia and Latvia, see Schulze (2010) and Alijeva (2017). 13 By contrast, ethnic Russians form a local majority neither in Donetsk nor Luhansk oblast (see Table 3.1 in Chapter 3 for discussion of ethnicity in Crimea compared to Donetsk and Luhansk oblasts, where ethnic Russians comprise a narrow minority), nor in Transnistria and, thus, are not kin majorities. Transnistria’s 2004 census reported 32 per cent ethnic Moldovans, 30 per cent ethnic Russians, and 29 per cent ethnic Ukrainians; see Kramarenko (2005). 14 I frame this in the past tense not to legitimize annexation but to recognize that, de facto, Crimea’s status is now contested. 15 For example, Caspersen (2008) discusses the popularity of Hungary as a case in outlining exploration of Serbia as a kin-state. Since then, and in part because of the comparative leverage of post-Yugoslav cases, a good deal of kin-state and citizenship research has focused on cases such as Serbia and Croatia and their nearby kin communities; see Džankic´ et al. (2015) and Štiks (2015), among others. 16 Implicit in the phrase “most likely case” is the expectation is that Crimea is a case where Russian engagement should not only exist but be high, and, if it is low or absent, the theoretical implication is that it is likely absent elsewhere too; see Gerring (2016). 17 For discussions of interpretive approaches in political science, see Schwartz-Shea and Yanow (2012), Schatz (2009), and Yanow and Schwartz-Shea (2006).

Notes to pages 12–18

285

18 This difference might be critical in a comparison of two kin majorities from the top down, in terms of state-level policies emanating from the home-state or kin-state, or in terms of group-level mobilization capacity for supporting secession or irredentism. A top-down analysis would need to engage with how these claims would have different potential for a state and sub-state. But, as a bottom-up comparison, the focus is how the co-ethnic claims that emanate from the kin-state (and which I map in this chapter) manifest from the bottom up in terms of meanings of identification and engagement with citizenship practices. 19 For a wider discussion of the ethical challenges of conducting research on Crimea before and after annexation, see Knott (2019). 20 Sevastopol is a separate administrative unit – within Ukraine before 2014 and within Russia after 2014. Therefore, I focus on Simferopol, Crimea’s administrative capital.

c h a p t e r t wo 1 For example, Romania’s claims to Moldova/Bessarabia mostly subsided during the Communist period, marking a sharp difference between Romania’s interwar expansionism and reinvigorated claims to Moldova in the post-Communist period; see Chapter 3, especially the section “Moldova: From Soviet Republic to Independent State.” 2 For a discussion of links between post-Communism, state-building, and nationalism, see Hobsbawm (1992), Bunce (2005), and Tismaneanu (2009). For a discussion of links between post-Communism and revival of kin-state politics, see Tóth (2006) and Agarin and Karolewski (2015). 3 After 2010, Hungary began offering citizenship for kin. 4 See Soysal (1994) and Tambini (2001) for a more critical approach on how citizenship is becoming de-ethnicized (but also re-ethnicized). See also Joppke (2003). 5 For example, in late 2017, Austria outlined its plans to offer citizenship acquisition rights to individuals in South Tirol to much consternation from Italy; see Valchars (2017). Austria is also extending the residency requirement for refugees wanting to naturalize demonstrating that the right to belong is more ethnicized than about residency or need; see globalcit (2018). 6 Both Batt (2002) and Fowler (2004) have argued separately that kin-state politics had become “fuzzy,” cosmopolitanized, and de-ethnicized.

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7 For example, Romania and Slovakia saw Hungary’s Status Law as a “veiled form of dual citizenship” and a challenge to their sovereignty (Kovács 2006, 435). 8 Though territorial irredentism is neither a likely nor an inevitable consequence of irredentism by other means; cf. Grigas 2016. 9 See also Harpaz (2019a) and Pogonyi (2017a) for bottom-up approaches. 10 See Yanasmayan (2015) for similar discussion regarding absence of identity change for Turkish migrants engaging with citizenship. 11 See also Joppke (2019, 13) who describes how “eu citizenship is notoriously a citizenship without identity.” 12 See also Balta and Altan-Olcay (2015) and Balta and Altan-Olcay (2020), who discuss US citizenship as a form of “just in case” insurance for wealthy Turkish citizens. 13 For a discussion of experience-near concepts within interpretive approaches to political science, see Soss (2015). See also the debate within the ir “practice turn” considering the relevance of experience-near concepts; see Adler-Nissen (2016) and Pouliot (2007). 14 The point of departure from Allan (2016) here is the use of texts, rather than interview discourses, to study identification. 15 As Wedeen (2002, 724) argues, measures such as the Ethnolinguistic Fractionalization Index (elf ) assume, in essentialist ways, that people inherently “are Hutu or Tutsi, Slavs or Germans” and then use this data to explain political outcomes. See also Laitin and Posner (2001) and Beissinger (2008). 16 On problematizing categories of identification, see Abdelal et al. (2009). See also Todd (2018), who criticizes focusing on ascription to categories and suggests moving to meanings and content to understand identity. 17 For the framing of practices, I am drawing on work within the “practice turn”; see Adler and Pouliot (2011), including the focus on disaggregating individual agency that I describe below. 18 On empirical approaches studying rules of citizenship acquisition and ethnic/civic approaches, see Brubaker (1992) and Vink and Bauböck (2013). On normative approaches studying who should be granted access to citizenship and whether these criteria of access should be expansive or inclusive, see Joppke (2010b). 19 As work on marginalized and minority communities shows, Roma communities in Europe do not have the same capacity to exercise rights – such as mobility – as those who are within the majority and/or have more access to power; see Aradau et al. (2013) and Atger (2013). Equally, before

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full enfranchisement, women and people of colour (and, indeed, the working class) in states like the US and UK did not have the right to vote, even if they were formal citizens.

c h a p t e r t h re e 1 Prince Vasilii Mikhailovich Dolgorukov-Krymskii was a general of the Russian Empire whose forces took the Crimean Khanate during the Russo-Turkish war (1768–74). Aleksandr Nevskii was a medieval prince and an Orthodox saint. 2 Incidentally, Yanukovych has also referred to Crimea as Ukraine’s “pearl.” 3 Ukraine had some independent representation before 1991, as the Ukrainian ssr was a founding member of the UN in 1945. However, this provided the Soviet Union with additional representation at the UN more than it gave the Ukrainian ssr an independent voice, which the latter state gained in 1991, as an independent state. 4 Russia also argued that the transfer did not include Sevastopol as the base of the Black Sea Fleet; see Pikhovshek (1995). 5 These agreements also settled Ukraine’s sovereignty over Donbas; see Herrschel (2011). 6 The Kharkiv accords were controversial, particularly among Western commentators; Sherr (2010), for example, compared it to “mortgaging” Ukraine’s independence. 7 A program to modernize Black Sea Fleet and militarize Crimea has taken place since annexation in 2014, in part to aid Russia’s operations in Syria; see Gorenburg (2018). 8 That is why I consider Crimea to a be a kin majority set apart from Donetsk and Luhansk, where ethnic Russians are kin minorities. Compared to Donetsk and Luhansk, Crimea is also home to a large and growing community of Crimean Tatars, who have been permitted to return from exile since the 1980s. 9 Crimea’s different political status, alongside its demography, is another reason I conceive of Crimea as a kin majority, but not of Donetsk and Luhansk. 10 The number is a slight increase since the mid-1990s, when there was only one Ukrainian-language school; see Bocale (2016). 11 For example, the speaker of Crimea’s parliament, Vladimir Kostantinov, argued in 2013 that the 2012 Ukrainian Regional Language law made little impact in Crimea because the right to speak Russian was already protected by the Crimean constitution; see Ukrainskiy Pravda (2013).

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12 Ukrainian and Crimean Tatar language movements appealed for greater recognition from the 2012 Regional Language Law; see Abibula (2012) and Bocale (2016). 13 This contrasts to the quasi-frozen conflicts around the Donetsk and Luhansk regions, where local rebels, across large swathes of territory and with significant Russian sponsorship, have engaged in a civil war with Ukraine which has cost more than ten thousand lives, and where long-lasting peace remains illusory with repeated upticks of violence between rebels and Ukrainian forces. 14 Official figures put turnout at 83 per cent in Crimea, with support for annexation at 97 per cent; see State Council of the Republic of Crimea (2014). However, the Presidential Council on Civil Society and Human Rights website has also questioned the results reported by Crimean authorities and suggested a much lower turnout (30–50 per cent) and lower support for unification with Russia (50–60 per cent); see Bobrov (2014). 15 In the absence of international observers, the osce , the eu , and the US, among others, declared the referendum illegal because it contradicted the Ukrainian constitution and was held during a Russian military occupation of the peninsula; see White House (2014) and osce (2014). Finally, the question was also confusing, with no obvious status quo option. 16 Dzhemilev was a child during the 1944 deportation and sent to Uzbekistan. 17 To some extent, like the Russian question, this is a useful ambiguity which provides Russia flexibility to modify who they deem to be a Compatriot (Shevel 2009; 2011). 18 Rossotrudnichestvo is the Federal Agency for the Commonwealth of Independent States, Compatriots Living Abroad and International Humanitarian Cooperation; see Rossotrudnichestvo (n.d.). 19 This centre opened in a building that previously had been the Russian Culture Center (rcc ), established and funded by Iurii Luzhkov, a former mayor of Moscow. The rcc was relocated to a building in the same complex, but behind the Rossotrudnichestvo centre. Following annexation, the Rossotrudnichestvo office in Simferopol closed on 1 August 2014. 20 Fond Russkii Mir resembles the cultural institutes of other states, such as the British Council, Alliance Française, the Confucius Institute, and the Romanian Cultural Institute, among others, more than Rossotrudnichestvo’s language centres.

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21 The rmf was established by presidential decree, by Putin, in 2007, as a joint mission between Russia’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Ministry of Education and Science, funded by both private and public sources; see Russkii Mir (n.d.) and Bogomolov and Lytvynenko (2012). 22 Russkaia Obshchina Kryma was formed in 1993 by Sergei Tsekov out of the embers of Crimea’s failed secessionist movement such as the Republican Party of Crimea. Tsekov later founded re as a political party, which Sergei Aksenov came to lead in 2010. 23 Kuznetsova (2020) estimates this given the hundreds of thousands of refugees who claimed asylum in Russia through the Compatriot program. 24 Russia differentiates between places for Compatriots and for titular national groups – i.e., those who would not be considered Compatriots, such as people whose native language is not Russian; see Ministry of Education and Science for Foreign Citizens (Russia) (2010). 25 mgu has opened other branches – in Astana (Kazakhstan), Tashkent (Uzbekistan), Dushanbe (Tajikistan), and Baku (Azerbaijan), but Sevastopol remains the largest; see Filial mgu imeni M.V. Lomonsova (2014). 26 Indeed, this occurred in May 2008, before Russia’s war with Georgia in August 2008. Yanukovych then lifted the ban in 2010; see bbc Monitoring Newsfile (2008) and bbc Monitoring – Former Soviet Union (2010). 27 Or, more precisely, the Bessarabian Gubernia. The remaining territory of the Moldovan Principality eventually joined with Wallachia to form the first iteration of the modern Romanian state, in 1862. 28 This is a bit oversimplified: Moldova’s local government, the Sfatul T¸a˘ri, voted first to cede from Russia and then, under some pressure from Romania, voted to unify with Romania in March 1918. For more discussion of the complexities of this period, see King (2000). 29 Co-ethnic ties might have existed at the minority level too, such as between Romania or Hungary and ethnic Romanians or Hungarians in the Ukrainian ssr , as may claims by titular groups such as the Azerbaijani and Uzbek ssr s toward minorities outside of Soviet borders, in Iran and Afghanistan. However, the mssr was the only Soviet republic where these claims existed at a potentially majority level vis-à-vis Romania. 30 For discussion of Soviet nationalities policy, see King (2000) and Martin (2001). 31 Eminescu is typically described as a Romanian poet but, as a poet born in the Principality of Moldova, just fifty kilometres from the border with

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Bessarabia and present-day Moldova, he is also an important local cultural hero. Like Yugoslavia, Romania also had a fractured relationship with the Warsaw Pact and condemned the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968. Previously, key positions had been filled by ethnic Ukrainians and Russians, or by individuals from Transnistria; see Cas¸u (2012). Following the 1990 elections, deputies from Transnistria and Moldova’s south (Gagauzia) left the parliament in protest. Transnistria, though no longer violent, remains a secessionist, de facto state. Meanwhile, Gagauzia has some degree of autonomy from the Moldovan central state; see Kolstø (2008) and Zabarah (2012). Suveica (2017) explains how this dichotomy among Moldovan scholars remained in the post-Soviet period, as pan-Romanian scholars aligned with Romanian historiography and sources while Moldovanist scholars continued to use Soviet-era sources – and each ignored (consciously and unconsciously) the sources of the other. I describe these parties as so-called leftist because it is debated whether their ideology and policy – more neo-Soviet, but also conservative in character – align with more typical left-wing programmatic policies (see March 2007). Meanwhile, their political opponents – in the past, pldm , and today the Party of Action and Solidarity (pas ), led by Maia Sandu – are framed as right-wing simply because they are the main opponents of pcrm and psrm, and without attention to whether their policies align, socially and economically, with those we would expect of right-wing parties. Linguistically, however, Romanian and Moldovan are analogous; the difference is political at least, and a question of dialect at most; see Dyer (1999). The quasi-referendum asked Moldovan citizens to answer yes or no to the following proposition: “You support the Republic of Moldova developing as an independent, unitary, and indivisible state in the borders since becoming sovereign (23 June 1990), promoting a policy of neutrality, to maintain mutually beneficial cooperation relations with all the countries of the world, and guaranteeing equal rights to all its citizens in accordance with international law”; see Basiul (2016). Romania declared, first, in support of those within Moldova who “support the unification of the two states as a natural continuation in the process of development and affirmation of the Romanian nation” and, second, that “Romania and its citizens are and will always be prepared to

Notes to pages 55–63

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meet any organic event of reunification by the citizens of the Republic of Moldova as an expression of their sovereign will”; see Parliament of Romania (2018). A public opinion survey conducted in Romania in 2015 put support for unification at 68 per cent compared to 15 per cent who opposed; see inscop Research (2015). The monument is a temporary one – more of a proposal for a monument than a final monument in its own right. The temporary monument’s plaque reads: “In this place a monument to the memory of the victims of Soviet occupation and the totalitarian communist regime will be built.” Romania’s development ministry offered one hundred million euros (in instalments of twenty-five million euros between 2010 and 2013). This is a significant amount, given the size of Moldova’s economy, and equivalent to 18 per cent of the eu ’s multilateral assistance. However, the funds were never fully allocated. As Ghinea, Dinu, and Ivan (2010) explain, Romania lacked a “mechanism” for implementing these funds and bridging the gap of expectations between Romania and Moldova concerning how this money would be bid for and allocated. The pipeline now provides one third of Moldova’s gas; see Całus (2013). This was first established as the Council for the Problems of Romanians Abroad, in 1995, before becoming a government department in 2001. On Hungary, see Waterbury (2018). In Moldova, there are two local Orthodox churches: the Moldovan Orthodox Church, aligned to the Russian Orthodox Church, and the Bessarabian Orthodox Church, under the patronage of Romania. The Bessarabian church’s ties to Romania presented them with difficulties for registering in Moldova before 2002, due to Russian Orthodox Church leverage; see Turcescu and Stan (2003). Dual citizenship in Romania was forbidden by Communist-era legislation. Naturalization requires four years of residence in Romania. This was the case, at least for 2014, as the only year for which data is available from the anc . We can infer that it is likely Moldovans are the bulk of those applying for and becoming Romanian citizens in other years. I use anc data rather than data that Romania supplies to Eurostat because the latter does not break down applications for citizenship by article. Given that anc data suggest many more acquired (or reacquired) Romanian citizenships than Eurostat, it is possible, though hard to confirm, that Eurostat data might include only naturalization figures (Article 8) rather than restitution figures (Articles 10–11).

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51 University level means for scholarships in universities, pre-university means for high school baccalaureate institutions, and advanced means for higher university study, such as PhD scholarships. 52 Calculated based on figures from the National Bureau of Statistics (2014). 53 Those studying in Romania receive full (€65 per month) or partial (feesonly) scholarships from Romania; see Ghinea, Dinu, and Ivan (2010). 54 For example, Romania has created institutional links between universities in Galat¸i (Romania) and Cahul (Moldova), and between Ias¸i (Romania) and Ba˘lt¸i (Moldova). 55 The exception is Žilovic´ (2012, 4, 10), who criticizes Romania’s policies as a “veiled form of facilitated naturalization based on collective ethnic ties” and considers the policy, on the whole, a “silent” form of irredentism.

c ha p t e r f o u r 1 For example, Pop-Eleches and Robertson (2014; 2018) ask participants about their relationships to different homelands: Ukraine, the Soviet Union, Russia, or the participant’s own region. 2 For example, Shulman (1998; 2004) has focused on elite understandings of loyalty, competition, and complementarity between Ukrainian and Russian forms of identification. Onuch and Hale (2018) explored rankings of Ukrainian versus Russian forms of identification to understand plural as well as singular, and civic as well as ethnic, forms of identification in Ukraine; see also Kulyk (2018). Finally, Wilson discussed the “middle ground,” in Ukraine, of Russian speakers who identify as “RussoUkrainian”; see Wilson (2002, 32–3). 3 Oleg Sentsov was one of Crimea’s most prominent participants in the Euromaidan and Avtomaidan protests (the latter being a car protest held concurrently to Euromaidan) that swept Ukraine in late 2013, following Yanukovych’s decision to suspend Ukraine’s participation in an eu Association Agreement and free trade agreement. Later, Sentsov offered support to Ukrainian troops during the blockade that took place during the early days of Russia’s annexation; see Amnesty International (2018). In a 2015 show trial, Sentsov and Kolchenko were sentenced to twenty and ten years in prison, respectively, but were released in September 2019 during a prisoner swap between Ukraine and Russia. 4 By inductively, I mean immersing oneself in the data, focusing on elements of cohesion and disagreement between participants in developing categories which, primarily, represent the nuance of participants’ identification (see Appendix).

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5 For a discussion of interviewer effects in Ukraine using Ukrainian and Russian native-language interviewers, see Onuch and Hale (2018). 6 These categories leave out participants who identified as Crimean Tatar, and other minority groups such as Armenian, since they do not align with the kin-majority typology. Ethnic Ukrainians are considered, to disentangle the difference between political and cultural/ethnic identification as Ukrainian. 7 See the Appendix, and in particular Table A.2, for a breakdown and discussion of the participants by age and gender. Here, I define the postSoviet generation as being under forty years old (as of 2012–13, when data was collected). 8 For example, re won just 4 per cent of votes in Crimea’s 2010 elections (Parties and Elections in Europe 2021). 9 Here, “left bank” refers to the portion of Ukraine east of the Dnipro river. 10 Shuvaynikov was leader of the pro-Russian Congress of Russian Communities (obshchini) of Crimea, as well as of the Russian Party of Crimea until it was banned in 1996. 11 Gumeniuk also describes how in the wake of annexation, individuals in Sevastopol celebrated that they no longer needed to use a dictionary “so as not to get poisoned and die from medicines” (Gumeniuk 2020, 35). 12 Russia’s foreign minister, Sergei Lavrov, similarly argued in 2011 that “any responsible politician and any normal person living in Russia or any other country should understand that the resuscitation of the issue of sovereignty over Crimea will lead to bloodshed, and nobody needs this” (bbc Monitoring – Former Soviet Union 2011). 13 Salo, a popular Slavic food, is a kind of cured pork fat. It is considered Ukraine’s national dish. 14 Soviet passports contained an ethnic (natsionalnost’) category, the so-called “fifth point”; see Simonsen (1999) and Polese (2014). 15 For further discussion of connected rather than external homelands, see the subsection “Politicized Russians,” above. 16 “EK” refers to the author, Eleanor Knott, who conducted the interviews. 17 This trope of Ukraine’s status as a “young state” is also repeated by scholars and commentators; for examples, see Zhurzhenko (2002) and Janmaat (2010). 18 Batkivshchyna, Ukraine’s second-largest party after p or , was led by Yulia Tymoshenko and was in favour of Ukraine’s Europeanization. 19 For a discussion of ethnographic observations on the use of khokhly, as against moskali, in the Kuban region of Russia between the Black Sea, the Caucasus, and the Volga delta, reasonably near to Voronezh, see Moncada

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(2016, 70). In particular, Moncada notes the use of these terms among Cossack groups and in relation to the dialect of Russian spoken in Kuban on the Ukrainian-Russian border. Before coming to Crimea, Dzharti had spent his entire political career in and around the Donetsk oblast, as oblast governor and mayor of Makiivka, before dying in office in Yalta in 2011. With Russian annexation in 2014, Crimea shifted to Moscow time. Russia also abandoned winter time in 2014, so that it remains in the same time zone throughout the year. For an example of frequent use of the term, simply to refer to Crimea’s residents, see Gumeniuk (2020). The Scythians were a nomadic people who ranged across the Pontic steppe, including Crimea, between the ninth and third centuries bc . Tsekov has been on the eu sanction list for his role in Russia’s annexation of Crimea. Since annexation, he has been deputy chairman of the State Council of the Republic of Crimea and a member of the Federation Council, Russia’s upper legislature. Shulman (2004; 1998) makes similar arguments using population surveys across Ukraine and interviews with elites in Lviv and Donetsk. For discussion of narratives of Russified Ukrainians elsewhere, see also Wilson (1997) and Magocsi (2010). A further reason for this lack of minority identification can be explained by Ethnic Ukrainians’ argument that ethnic Russians in Crimea are not “really” Russian but are instead Russified Ukrainians. For a particular discussion on the role of Russian nationalism as a mobilizing force in support of annexation, see Hughes and Sasse (2016).

c ha p t e r f i ve 1 For reports of up to one hundred thousand, see Kuzio (2008). However, there is scant evidence to support the numbers reported by Kuzio, even as his work has come to be cited as an original source by others; for examples, see Hedenskog (2008) and Grigas (2016). 2 For discussion of recent passportization efforts by Russia in the conflict regions of Donetsk and Luhansk; see Burkhardt (2020). 3 Later news reports continued to discuss how queues and problems in obtaining Russian passports were ongoing (Moscow Times 2015). The ohchr noted that those who refused Russian citizenship lacked equality before the law, being able to access pensions, free health insurance, social allowances, and right to employment in jobs that did not require Russian

Notes to pages 108–29

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citizenship, yet denied the rights to own agricultural land, vote and be elected, register religious communities, hold public meetings, re-register a private vehicle, and hold employment in public administration. The ohchr (2017) estimates that around nineteen thousand persons employed in municipal and government jobs before the referendum were also forcibly required to renounce their Ukrainian citizenship, a breach of the Geneva Convention. Putin repeated the same line to the French and US presidents; see President of Russia (2014b; 2014c). Rossotrudnichestvo is the governmental agency in charge of the Compatriot policy. For example, Ukrainian central authorities called for more passport checks of Crimea’s residents to monitor their citizenship status, a measure that Russian media described as a “witch hunt” (Steshin 2008); see also Zozulia and Shevtsov (2008). Ultimately, Ukraine had limited capacity to perform such checks (Petukhova 2008; bbc Monitoring – Former Soviet Union 2008e). Svetlana explained, for example, that you can still get a flat and job as a Russian citizen in Crimea; but, of course, you cannot vote in Ukrainian elections. Indeed, Russia’s protracted domestic conflict in Chechnya is often suggested as the reason why Russia did not support Crimean separatism or irredentism in 1994 (Motyl 1998). While it is possible that participants were lying about their citizenship status, interviews are not prone to this kind of preference falsification because of the extent to which participants are asked to express their “feelings and opinions” on a topic and to offer a rationale for their actions, making consistent fabrication more difficult (Schaffer 2006, 160). This nexus matches how the Compatriot policy was conceived in Russia. For example, Russian media described it as a policy designed to protect “the rights and freedoms of compatriots living abroad” (Kubanskie Novosti 2010). This discourse of “professional Russians” existed within Crimea before 2014; see NovoRoss.info (2012). For Crimea after 2014, see atr (2014) and Stel’makh (2017). For Estonia and Moldova, see Makarychev (2011) and Klenskii (2015). For a discussion of similar concerns by Hungarian kin-state activists who, before the Status Law, sought in situ support for Hungarians outside of Hungary to prevent emigration, see Waterbury (2018). As I describe above, Kosachev was head of Rossotrudnichestvo, the governmental agency in charge of the Compatriot policy.

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14 I attended and observed one such event on 5 May 2013, when four representatives from Yuzhnyi Federalnyi Universitet (Southern Federal University) in Rostov-on-Don, one of the towns in the Russian Federation nearest to Crimea, presented to about fifteen students and their parents. 15 This compares to the Party of Regions (49 per cent), Ukraine’s Communist Party (7 per cent), and the Crimean Tatar party, Qurultai-Rukh (7 per cent). In 2006, Russian Unity’s predecessor, Russian Bloc (Russkii Blok), stood in an electoral block with the Party of Regions in Crimea’s parliamentary elections; and, in 2002, won just 4 per cent of the vote, matching Russian Unity’s limited success in 2010 (Parties and Elections in Europe 2021). 16 This article mentions the use of money from construction of Black Sea Fleet facilities. 17 For example, Mikhail corroborated the Russian Consulate’s suggestion that the money they received and spent was for specific activities such as the Great Russian Word Festival, held each June across Crimea. 18 The fsb , the Federal Security Service, is Russia’s security agency. It is the successor of the Soviet-era kgb . 19 In 2008, for example, the Russian Front wrote an open letter to Dmitrii Medvedev, then Russia’s president, urging him to protect the rights of Russian nationals in Ukraine (bbc Monitoring – Former Soviet Union 2008f). 20 For discussion of “ethnic parallelism” in Hungary, see Kiss (2015) and Keller-Alant (2020). 21 The Central Black Earth Region is one of the Russian regions nearest to Crimea and an area of higher agricultural productivity due to its fertile “black earth” (chernozem) soils. It was also a region of much industrial development during the Soviet period; for examples, see Allina-Pisano (2008). 22 Saki is a town on the west coast of Crimea. 23 While this is an unsubstantiated accusation in specific terms, as a political party and to follow Ukrainian law, re should not have been accepting foreign money (Protsyk and Walecki 2007). 24 Grigas (2012) makes the same argument regarding the creation of Kremlin-friendly networks of loyalty in Estonia via the Compatriot policy. 25 To some extent, this is, like the Russian question, a useful ambiguity which provides Russia flexibility to modify who they deem to be a Compatriot (Shevel 2009; 2011). 26 For discussion of such developments in Hungary, see Kiss (2015) and Keller-Alant (2020).

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chapter six 1 Moldova was the site of separatist conflicts in the early 1990s, in Transnistria and Gagauzia, due to fears over the rising dominance of Romanian language and nationalism; see Chapter 3. 2 Linguists no longer dispute that the language spoken in Moldova is Romanian; see Dyer (1998). Politically, however, the question of the language spoken remains contested: Moldova’s official language has switched between Romanian (1989–94), Moldovan (1994–2013), and back to Romanian (2013–present). The latest change followed a ruling by Moldova’s constitutional court, which struck down the language clause in the state’s 1994 constitution and reverted to the 1991 declaration of independence, which labelled Moldova’s official language as Romanian. 3 Romania ignores these distinctions and claims, from a pan-Romanian perspective, that Moldova’s majority (78 per cent) is simply Romanian; see Ministry of Foreign Affairs (Romania) (2011). 4 For example, Moldova’s first post-Soviet census was conducted in 2004 by the Moldovanist pcrm government (2001–09), amid evidence that census takers pressured or assumed individuals to identify as Moldovan, rather than Romanian, to bolster the size of the Moldovan population (Protsyk 2007). For discussions of censuses as political nationalization projects rather than straightforward enumeration exercises, see Brubaker (2011, 1795) and Goldscheider (2002). 5 For example, in the 2005 Ethnobarometer designed by Petrut¸i et al. (2006), participants selecting into the categories of Romanian and Moldovan were enumerated and analyzed together. 6 Eyal and Smith (1996) argued, for example, that “no one considered the Bessarabians as anything but Romanians” (225). 7 Bessarabia is often used by those with pan-Romanian perspectives to describe Moldova and affirm its connections to Romania, as this was the territory that was annexed to Greater Romania from the Russian Empire in 1918. 8 Actiunea 2012 was established to commemorate the two hundred years since the Russian Empire annexed Bessarabia. 9 The slogan “we are Moldovan and therefore Romanian” has been used by the pro-Romanian organization Act¸iunea 2012; see also Dungaciu (2009). 10 Oltenia is a historical region of Romania in western Wallachia, on the present-day border with Bulgaria and Serbia. The name Ardeal refers to Transylvania. 11 Muntenia is a historical region of Romania in central Wallachia.

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12 Dobrogea is a historical region of Romania in eastern Wallachia. 13 Ias¸i, Romania’s second-largest city, is situated in the state’s Moldovan region. 14 For instance, the Dacian “state,” created during the first century bc , was seen as anticipating the creation of Greater Romania in 1918, which in turn was portrayed as a “pre-ordained” and “historically inevitable” event of national unity for the Romanian nation (Deletant 1991, 76). 15 Here I describe it as “(re)unification,” to express how the notion was contested between those who might view it as a reunification, given the Soviet annexation, and those who would disconnect it from the past and instead view it just as unification. 16 For discussion on how up to 36 per cent of Moldova’s gdp has been provided by remittances and of the impact of family labour migration on young people in Moldova, see Abbott et al. (2010). 17 The Prut river forms the current border between Romania and Moldova. 18 Tens of thousands were deported to Siberia and Kazakhstan en masse during Stalin’s regime of terror, in several rounds of deportations both prior to the Second World War (from the massr ) and after it (from the mssr ). Deportations focused on punishing well-to-do peasants (kulaks), those with ties of loyalty to the Romanian regime, and religious minorities such as Jewish people and Jehovah’s Witnesses (Cas¸u 2019). During this period, Soviet-induced mass famine also killed more than a hundred thousand in the massr (1932–33) and mssr (1946–47). 19 The school was founded by writer and psychologist Aurelian Silvestru, who is a member of the Democratic Forum of Romanians from the Republic of Moldova and editor of the radio station Vocea Basarabiei. 20 A gubernia (e.g., the Bessarabian Gubernia) was a major administrative subdivision of the tsarist empire. 21 For many of the post-Soviet generation – both Russian and Romanian native speakers – their second language is likely to be English. So far, however, available data on this is scant; which is why, in 2019, as part of a team working on Moldova’s second post-Soviet Ethnobarometer (the first was conducted in 2005), we advocated for collection of information on English as a second language. At the time of writing, such data is yet to be collected. 22 pdm ’s former president – Vlad Plahotniuc – is Moldova’s richest oligarch and is among the dirtiest figures in Moldovan politics, using pdm as a governing party to engage in state capture (Knott 2018). In 2019, Plahotniuc fled Moldova and faces criminal charges for his involvement, in 2014, in a $1 billion bank fraud scandal.

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23 In its 2014 parliamentary manifesto, pdm states that the party believes “in the future of the Republic of Moldova. We respect the past, the traditions of Moldova and the way of being of Moldovans. pdm will promote the culture and traditions of this land, because they are a bridge between people, regardless of language spoken or ethnicity”; see Democrat Party (2014). See also Democrat Party (2010). 24 In 2012, however, Lupu reversed his position; see Unimedia (2012). 25 Viorel’s grandmother’s brothers were recruited at different times during the war, in relation to when Moldova (or Bessarabia) was occupied by Greater Romania (before 1940, 1941–44) and the Soviet Union (1940–41, after 1944). 26 In this section, I refer to the participants’ language as Moldovan to respect their preference. 27 See note 36 to Chapter 3, on why I describe these parties as so-called leftist. 28 The use of î in sînt (rather than sunt) is notable here and speaks to a wider debate between the characters of â and î. In post-Communist Romania, î has been deliberately replaced by â to shift away from the legacy of the Cyrillic alphabet. In Moldova, the shift has been purposefully slower, as Ciscel (2005, 111) describes, to “reflect an anti-Romanian, pro-Russian ideology, because it preserves an element of the Slavic appearance and eschews the Latinate.” 29 Romanian etymological dictionaries do include grai and point to its Slavonic origins in Bulgarian and Serbo-Croat (i.e., not Russian) (Dict¸ionarul explicativ al limbii române 2020). 30 Linguistic Moldovans also aligned themselves, geopolitically, with Russia and a Eurasian Union, while maligning Europeanization.

c h a p t e r s e ve n 1 From Ma˘tcas¸’s 2004 poem “Român Mi-I Neamul, Românesc Mi-I Graiul” (Romania is my nation, Romanian is my language/dialect). 2 In 2014, alongside citizens in Georgia and Ukraine, Moldovan citizens (at least those with biometric passports) gained visa-free access to the eu – years later than citizens in western Balkan states, who gained access between 2009 and 2012. 3 Four individuals also held citizenship from Bulgaria, Belgium, Canada, and Russia; in total, forty-six (68 per cent) held dual citizenship; see State Chancellery (2020).

300

Notes to pages 192–215

4 At least three psrm deputies held Romanian citizenship while running on a platform, in 2014, to renounce Romanian citizenship if elected (Publika 2019). For details regarding pcrm , see Publika (2014). 5 For discussion on the legal concept of the “genuine link,” see Chapter 1, note 9. 6 Further, in 2020, the eu Commission called on member states to phase out citizenship-by-investment schemes but not kin-state citizenship schemes (European Commission 2020). 7 Several mep s from far-right parties in older eu member states criticized Romania for “making a mockery” of eu rules, notably freedom of movement, and for flooding the eu labour market with (what they described as) poor and unskilled workers from Moldova; refer to questions by Austrian mep Andreas Mölzer, Freedom Party of Austria (fpö) (European Parliament 2013) and UK mep Roger Helmer, UK Independence Party (UKIP)/Europe of Freedom and Democracy (efd ) (European Parliament 2014c). 8 On Moldovan state weakness, see Abbott et al. (2010) and Heintz (2008b). For discussions of the importance of accounting for state weakness when analyzing the context of acquisition of citizenship, see Štiks (2015), Krasniqi (2019), and Spaskovska (2010). 9 As evidenced by the ongoing separatist threats both in Gagauzia and since Transnistria’s de facto secession in 1992. 10 For further articulation of these remedial logics from the top down, see Liebich (2009). 11 Romania also has a large embassy in Chis¸ina˘u, but citizenship, visa, and scholarship applications must be filed at the consulate. 12 In 2015, Romania moved to allow online applications for citizenship reacquisition rather than requiring in-person applications (bbc Monitoring – Former Soviet Union 2017b). 13 See Chapter 6, note 18. 14 While Cultural Romanians and Organic Romanians might conceive of Romania’s need to atone for such actions of the Second World War, it is worth bearing in mind that not all participants (notably Linguistic Moldovans and some Moldovans) agreed with such an interpretation of history. 15 While this assertion is correct, the UK and France predominantly grant citizenship only to those residing in the state, whereas Romania also grants it to those residing in Moldova. 16 Visa liberalization was agreed just twelve months after this interview.

Notes to pages 219–34

301

17 For example, Igor Dodon, when he was Moldova’s president, criticized the politicization and ideological basis of the constitutional court because of the great number of judges that held Romanian citizenship (bbc Monitoring – Former Soviet Union 2017a). 18 Prior to 2009, dual citizens could not hold public office. Mihai Ghimpu (pl ) cancelled the law prohibiting dual citizens from holding public office, as one of his first acts as Moldova’s interim president, in 2009. This also coincided with the European Court of Human Rights case pursued against Moldova by Chis¸ina˘u’s then-mayor, Dorin Chirtoaca˘, and Constitutional Court judge Alexandru Tanase; see Chapter 3. 19 But leftist politicians had also engaged with Romanian citizenship while promising (but failing) to renounce Romanian citizenship; see note 4 to this chapter. 20 While migration statistics are largely unreliable, Moldova’s population declined by 578,531 (17 per cent) between the two censuses, with the greatest declines among those aged ten to twenty-four and forty to forty-nine (National Bureau of Statistics 2004b; National Bureau of Statistics 2017). 21 Fourteen of the candidates (19 per cent) attended university in Romania, compared to eight candidates (11 per cent) in Russia, three in Belgium, and two each in Poland, Sweden, France, the UK, and the US (State Chancellery 2020). 22 For discussion of how pcrm refused to cooperate with Romanian government between 2002 and 2007 because of objections of over the quality of Romania’s higher education and concerns about brain drain, see Chifu (2016) and Silaghi (2012). My thanks to Nicu Popescu for recommending and finding these sources. 23 Tudor’s experience of being labelled as different due to being Bessarabian is also interesting because the nomenclature of Bessarabia is often used in Moldova and Romania to emphasize nested connections to Romania. 24 Further research conducted in Romania corroborates the financial insufficiency of Romanian full scholarships, with recipients relying on parental and familial support to survive, demonstrating the reality of studying in Romania in contrast to the discourse of generosity that Romania has promoted; see Silaghi (2012). 25 For further discussion on Romania being a more affordable choice than studying elsewhere, see Agatu (2020). 26 See above for discussion of how Romanian analysts have endorsed such a modernization and Europeanization from within. See also bbc Monitoring – Europe (2007) and Ghinea (2010).

302

Notes to pages 243–61

chapter eight 1 Following Bourdieu, and Brubaker and Cooper, I distinguish between “categories of analysis” and “categories of practice” for ways of understanding concepts like identity to show the leverage gained from thinking about how academic concepts and constructs work, or not, in the context of everyday life for those we study; see Brubaker and Cooper (2000, 4). Following Geertz, and Schwartz-Shea and Yanow, I distinguish between “experience-near” concepts, akin to categories of practice, and “experience-distant” concepts, akin to categories of analysis; see Geertz (1983, 57–8) and Schwartz-Shea and Yanow (2012, 49). 2 For argument that enumeration of ethnic groups can lead to conflict, see also Lieberman and Singh (2016). On critiques of censuses, see Brubaker (2011, 1795) and Goldscheider (2002). 3 I focus on surveys because they are the dominant method, at least in the post-Soviet context, of collecting data from individuals. 4 As discussed previously (Chapter 6), identity has been viewed as the electoral cleavage in Moldovan elections since the first multi-party elections in 1994; see Danero Iglesias (2015). Way (2016) also emphasizes the role of ethnic identity in maintaining hybridity, and thus hindering democratization, in Moldova and Ukraine. 5 Similarly, in the mobilization of identity politics and “culture wars,” this mask can also veil corrupt practices in established democracies, such as the US and the UK. 6 For example, Hughes and Sasse (2016) argue that annexation was caused by a wave of Russian nationalist mobilization that until then had lain dormant for two decades. 7 In Chapter 3, I caution further how far we should see these results as meaningful, let alone valid; see Chapter 3, note 15. 8 For example, a documentary titled Krym. Put’ na Rodinu (Crimea. The way home) was released in 2015 and distributed by Russia’s main (staterun) television channel, Rossiia 1; see Krym. Put’ na Rodinu (2015). 9 On medical supplies, see who (2021); on vaccines, see Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty (2021). 10 PhD programs increasingly invest in training graduate students in methodology but, at least in the UK, do not invest financially in or allow time for language training. 11 Indeed, the rights of ordinary Moldovans were curtailed by Romania’s accession to the eu (see Chapter 7).

Notes to pages 265–75

303

a p p e nd i x 1 For endorsements of da-rt by qualitative scholars, see Elman and Kapiszewski (2014) and Moravcsik (2014). 2 For some, this iterative process is a more honest account of the messiness of research; see Cheng (2018). For others, iterative research offers a different kind of logic between inductive (theory-building) and deductive (theory-testing) approaches, as a recursive practice that goes back and forth between data and theory; see Tavory and Timmermans (2014). I consider both approaches to be fruitful when using iterative research practices. 3 I abandoned Chernivtsi as a case for reasons at once conceptual and personal, following a bad experience staying in a local hostel. The hostel owner was a friendly man from Yorkshire who liked to socialize with the hostel’s guests. But he was also an entrepreneur keen to start a marriage agency bringing over British men to meet, and marry, Ukrainian women. I did not wish ever to go back to that hostel, and I decided not to return to Chernivtsi. This may not be a good reason to transform a PhD project, but it is an honest reason and one that shaped the research process of a female student in her early twenties. 4 Excluding Ba˘lt¸i, which is more a centre of Russian speakers; see National Bureau of Statistics (2017). 5 Researchers working in authoritarian and quasi-authoritarian regimes, including the post-Soviet space and the mena region in the wake of the Arab Spring, and those working with vulnerable populations such as sex workers, have all voiced concerns regarding written consent; see Hemming (2009), Gentile (2013), and Wackenhut (2018). 6 In Crimea, I exclude individuals who identified as Crimean Tatars or as another ethnic minority (e.g., Armenian) and include those who identified as Ukrainian, Crimean, and/or Russian. In Moldova, I exclude anyone who identified as ethnically Russian or Ukrainian but include anyone who identified as Romanian and/or Moldovan (including those who identified as Russian language speakers). 7 As Cheng (2018) writes, she wants to “disrupt the fiction of tidy research” (306). 8 A “big village” is a common trope used to describe Chis¸ina˘u – but it also describes Simferopol well.

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Index

Aksenov, Sergei, 112, 289 Ambivalent Romanians: and ambivalence of Romanian education, 229–30; ambivalence toward Romania, 173–5; cross-cutting citizenship, 211, 213–14, 222, 230, 234, 249–50; cross-cutting identification, 171–2, 175, 189, 194, 211, 222, 234–5, 241–2, 249–50; kinstate identification, 242; language, 154, 172–4; reluctance toward Moldova and being Moldovan, 172–3; and Romanian citizenship, 197, 211–13, 222; study participants, 171–2, 280 Andreev, Vladimir, 78 Ba˘sescu, Traian, 235 Bessarabia: “Bessarabian Romanian,” 155, 174, 200; difficulties in Romania, 227–9; historical context, 50–3, 55–7, 59, 66, 188–9, 285, 289, 297–8; Orthodox Church, 59, 291; as peripheral to centres of power, 261; Romania engaged with kin residing in, 62 Brubaker, Rogers, 3, 7, 12, 17, 23, 75, 82, 243, 246, 286, 297, 302 Bukovina, northern, 51, 59, 62, 207

Bulgaria, 3, 9, 18, 52, 137, 145, 153, 193, 299 censuses: Crimea, 36; limitations, 23, 26, 73, 81–2, 94, 152, 245–7, 262, 297, 302; Moldova, 152–3, 297, 301; Transnistria, 284 Chandra, Kanchan, 73, 93, 106, 166, 189, 244, 245, 247 citizenship: as an act, 27; en masse acquisition/conferral of, 6–7, 11, 28, 30, 42, 58, 63, 66–7, 192–3, 209, 223–5, 239–40, 244, 260–1, 284; versus ethnicity, 87–91; extra-territorial politics of, 3, 6–7, 16–17, 19, 66, 157, 248; identitycitizenship nexus, 20–30; and kin majorities, 6, 8, 26–9, 248–57; legitimacy of, 22, 30, 170, 193–4, 199, 202–3, 207–8, 210–11, 213–14, 216, 221–4, 239, 248, 250–5; material value of, 21–2, 114, 117–18, 121–2, 193–4, 202–3, 205, 207, 211–12, 214–16, 221–3, 250; practices, 26–9, 248–57; strategic, 21, 193–4; symbolic, 21–2, 27, 114–15, 193–4, 199, 201–2, 205–8, 211–12, 216, 221–2, 250. See also

346

Index

competing citizenship; cross-cutting citizenship; dual citizenship; European Union (eu): citizenship; kin-state citizenship; nested citizenship; passportization; quasi-citizenship; Romanian citizenship; Russian citizenship; separated citizenship Compatriot concept, 43–4, 47, 125, 149 Compatriot organizations: as active in Crimea, 125; as corrupt and irrelevant, 136–8; and Crimeans, 141; irritating Ethnic Russians, 137–8; lobbying Russia, 132–3; as nefarious and quarrelsome, 139–40, 144–5; as nepotistic gatekeepers, 129–32; network of, 45–6; and Politicized Russians, 149; taking interest in Compatriot policy, 150 Compatriot policy: ambiguity over who Compatriots are, 43; beneficiaries, 119–20, 122–3, 126–7, 129–30, 139, 141–3, 148, 249; as corrupt and irrelevant, 136–8, 140–1; and Crimea, 41, 108–9, 125, 146, 191, 248–9, 253, 255; and Crimeans, 140–3; in Estonia, 296; and Ethnic Russians, 133–8, 148–9; and Ethnic Ukrainians, 143–5; as form of quasicitizenship, 18, 27, 41, 107, 267; impact of, 149–50; nature of, 44–6; and Political Ukrainians, 138, 148; and Politicized Russians, 109, 125–31, 133, 146, 251, 253–4; Russian media’s conception of, 295; Russia’s focus on, 32; soft power and geopolitics, 49–50; tension encountered by, 43–4

Compatriot resettlement, 41, 44, 46–7, 109, 125–6, 128–9, 135–6, 138, 140–1, 143–4, 146, 149 Compatriot scholarships, 41, 44, 47–9, 109, 119–20, 127, 129–31, 135, 139–40, 142–3, 146 competing citizenship, 23, 25, 28–9; in Crimea, 111, 116, 118–19, 125, 147–8; intersecting, 249–51; Moldova and Romania, 200, 219, 222, 232, 234, 236, 241–2 competing identification, 22, 24–5; blended, 243, 245; in Crimea, 72, 76, 85, 99–100, 103, 105, 111, 116, 148, 241–2, 249; intersecting, 249–51; Moldova and Romania, 154, 184, 189, 194, 234, 236, 241, 249 competing quasi-citizenship: in Crimea, 126, 148–9; intersecting, 249–50 Crimea: 1954 transfer, 33–5; annexation, 4, 33–4, 37, 39–41, 49–50, 69–70, 74–5, 79–80, 106–8, 125, 258–9, 263; autonomous sub-state of Ukraine, 9, 12–13, 31, 34–7; Black Sea fleet, 34, 36, 48, 110, 287, 296; comparison with Moldova, 11–13, 67–8, 135, 146, 237–61; comparison with other Ukrainian regions, 36–9; identification in, 69–73, 241–5, 249–51; identity-citizenship nexus, 29–30; as kin majority, 3, 11, 31–2, 105–6; learning from, 261–3; as local majority, 10; map, xv; position of Russian language, 36–9, 46, 76–7, 84, 88, 101, 104, 121, 138, 140, 287–8; practices of citizenship, 25, 107–25, 147–50, 249–55; practices of quasi-citizenship, 125–50,

Index 249–54; and Russian citizenship, 4–5, 110–25, 191; Russian majority, 70, 105, 147; and Russian self, 33–41; Russia’s kin-state policies in, 41–50; separatism in 1990s, 35–6, 39, 79, 83, 89, 98–9, 295; Soviet history, 31–41; study rationale, 11–14; tsarist history, 31–3, 40, 43. See also Crimeans; Ethnic Russians; Ethnic Ukrainians; ethnicity; passportization; Political Ukrainians; Politicized Russians Crimean Tatars: effects of Russia’s occupation on, 39–40, 283; identification with Crimea, 33; large and growing community of, 287; Mejlis as representative body, 42; versus Politicized Russians, 79–80; against renaming of streets, 32 Crimeans: cross-cutting identification, 72, 93, 99, 105, 110–11, 120, 123, 126, 140, 146, 148, 241–2, 249; as disinterested in Compatriot policy, 140–3; hybrid identification, 94–6, 120, 172; kin-state identification, 242; Russia, identification with, 72, 93–7, 99, 110–11, 126, 148; separated citizenship, 111, 120–3, 125–6, 147–8, 249; separated quasi-citizenship, 126, 140, 148, 249; study participants, 93–4, 282; Ukraine, identification with, 72, 93–4, 96–9, 123 cross-cutting citizenship, 23, 25, 28–30; Ambivalent Romanians, 211, 213–14, 222, 230, 234, 249–50; intersecting, 249–51; Moldovans, 214, 222, 230, 234–5, 249–50

347

cross-cutting identification, 22, 24–5, 29; Ambivalent Romanians, 154, 171–2, 175, 189, 194, 211, 222, 234–5, 241–2, 249–50; blended, 243, 245; complexities and contestations of, 81–2; Crimeans, 72, 93, 99, 105, 110–11, 120, 123, 126, 140, 146, 148, 241–2, 249; Cultural Romanians, 154, 164, 167, 169, 171, 189, 204, 222, 234–5, 241–2, 249; Ethnic Russians, 72, 80–2, 86, 105, 110–11, 116, 126, 133, 138, 140, 146, 148, 241–2; intersecting, 249–51; kin-state identification, 242; Moldova and Romania, 189–90; Moldovans, 234, 250 cross-cutting quasi-citizenship, 230, 234, 249–50 Csergo˝, Zsuzsa, 8, 11, 19, 25, 58, 66, 284 Cultural Romanians: and benefits of Romanian education, 227–30; cross-cutting identification, 154, 164, 167, 169, 171, 189, 204, 222, 234–5, 241–2, 249; on Europeanization, 170–1; identification with Moldova and Romania, 164–71, 173–4, 176–7, 179; kinstate identification, 242; language, 154, 165–9, 207–8, 229; nested citizenship, 194, 204–5, 207, 210, 214, 222–3, 229, 233–4, 249–50; nested quasi-citizenship, 234, 249–50; and Romanian citizenship, 197, 204–10; study participants, 163–4, 279–80 Deletant, Dennis, 51–2, 54, 159, 298 Department for Relations with Romanians Abroad (dprrp), 31, 58–9

348

Index

discrimination: Compatriot organizations, 132–3, 149; discourse legitimizing Russia’s actions in Crimea, 71, 258–9; dual citizenship seen as solution to, 112–13; against ethnic Russians, 71, 73–4, 76, 101; Ethnic Ukrainian dismissal of, 101; kin minorities as victims of, 5–6, 7, 240, 284; Political Ukrainians, 88; Politicized Russians, 74–80, 112, 115–16, 125–7, 146, 149, 241, 246; Russia aligning with project of, 69–70; Ukrainians identifying as victims of, 74; while studying in kin-state, 229 Dodon, Igor, 184, 301 Donetsk, 10, 34, 36–9, 90–1, 106, 126, 284, 287, 294 dual citizenship: broken promises of, 112–14; and citizenship practices, 26, 257; Crimean stance on, 120–3; Ethnic Russian stance on, 116–19; Ethnic Ukrainian stance on, 123–4; exponential rise of, 3; as geopolitical risk, 123–4; home states making accessible, 248; intersection with identity, 20–1; Linguistic Moldovan stance on, 220; Moldovan acceptance of, 252, 255; Political Ukrainian stance on, 119–20; Politicized Russians wanting, 113–16; in Romania, 59, 291; shift from prohibiting to tolerating, 18; states preventing, 19, 44, 252; states tolerating, 283 Dumbrava, Costica, 3, 19, 62, 193, 284 Eminescu, Mihai, 51, 289–90 ethnic Russians: “beached,” 17, 34; in Crimea, 8, 36, 66, 69, 71, 75–6,

284; discrimination against, 71, 73–4, 76, 101; in Donetsk and Luhansk, 287; Ethnic Ukrainian stance on, 102–3, 105, 294; Politicized Russian stance on, 114– 15, 129; in post-Soviet space, 283 Ethnic Russians: competing citizenship, 148, 249; in Crimea, 72, 80–6; cross-cutting identification, 72, 80–2, 86, 105, 110–11, 116, 126, 133, 138, 140, 146, 148, 241–2; as dissatisfied/disinterested Compatriots, 133–8, 140–1, 144, 146, 149; kin-state identification, 242; Russia, identification with, 72, 80–4, 86, 111, 126, 148; on Russian citizenship, 116–19, 125; separated quasi-citizenship, 148, 249; study participants, 80, 281–2; supporting legal status quo, 118–19; Ukraine, identification with, 72, 83–6, 93, 98–9, 148 Ethnic Ukrainians: and Compatriot policy, 139, 143–7, 149; competing citizenship, 111, 125, 143, 147–8, 249; competing identification, 72, 111, 123, 126, 148, 241–2, 249, 293; competing quasi-citizenship, 126, 148–9, 249; geopolitical risk of dual citizenship, 123–4; normative, singular citizenship, 124; Russia, identification with, 72, 101–5, 111, 126, 148, 241–2, 294; and Russian citizenship, 123–4, 143; study participants, 99–100, 282; as supporters of Ukrainian statehood, 143–7; Ukraine, identification with, 72, 99–105, 143, 293 ethnicity, 24–6; categorization, 246– 7; as conceptualized through myths

Index of common ancestry, 244; in Crimea, 13, 37, 71, 81, 87–8, 93–5, 106, 145; Moldovan/Romanian, 13, 54, 62, 151–2, 157–8, 165–6, 183, 189; role in politics, 262–3; visibility of, 245 European Commission, 192, 284, 300 European Court of Human Rights (echr), 284, 301 European Parliament, 192, 300 European Union (eu): at-risk kin minorities, 5; citizenship, 6, 18, 21–2, 62–3, 163, 192–3, 213, 236, 253, 284, 286; inequalities of redistribution, 260; and Moldova, 58, 155, 157, 170, 181, 191–3, 195, 198, 209, 215–16, 223, 299, 302; Romania as member of, 181, 189, 192, 195, 300, 302; and Romanian citizenship, 59, 196, 201, 203, 205–6, 208–9, 211–12, 216, 223, 284; sanction list, 294; tensions between kin-states and home-states, 19; and Ukraine, 288, 292 Europeanization, 163, 170–1, 174, 182, 193, 212, 261, 293, 299, 301 everyday nationalism, 3–4, 23, 246 expansionism. See irredentism Filat, Vlad, 191 Fond Russkii Mir (rmf), 45, 288–9 Fox, Jon, 3, 23, 246 Gagauzia, 53, 290, 297, 300 Greater Romania, 19, 50, 56–7, 59, 62, 67, 167, 179, 182, 188–9, 196, 297–9 Harpaz, Yossi, 18, 21, 163, 203, 223, 286

349

Hungarian Status Law, 17–19, 27, 44, 286 identity-citizenship nexus: in Crimea and Moldova, 29–30; mapping intersections within, 28–9; theoretical framework, 20–9 identity/identification: comparative insights between Crimea and Moldova, 239–47, 249–54, 262–3; dichotomies of, in post-1991 Moldova, 53–7, 151–2, 173, 176–80; future research agenda for studying, 245–8; identitycitizenship nexus, 20–30; kin-state, 223, 242, 254; meanings of, 4, 23–6, 28–9, 240–5; Moldovan and/ or Romanian, in Moldova, 151–8, 161–7, 169, 171–3, 175–81, 183, 189–90; Moldovan and/or Romanian, intersection with citizenship practices, 194, 197–201, 204, 208, 210–14, 216, 218–25, 232, 234–6; performing ideological function, 132; Russian, and engagement with citizenship practices, 108–13, 116, 120, 123, 126–7, 133–5, 138, 140–1, 145–9; Russian, in Crimea, 69–73, 74–5, 77, 80–1, 86–7, 91–5, 99–106; “without groups,” 243. See also competing identification; crosscutting identification; nested identification; separated identification identity politics, 3, 52, 257–61, 302 Iordachi, Constantin, 59, 67, 192–3, 196 irredentism: a.k.a. expansionism, 3; and Compatriot policy, 43; Crimea’s pro-Russian movement, 35; in early post-Soviet period, 31;

350

Index

Europeanization as panacea to, 163; future research area, 261; group-level mobilization capacity for, 285; and identification, 243; Romania and Moldova, 53, 55, 151, 156–7, 163, 188–90, 210, 218, 223, 236, 285; states seen as “cauldrons” of, 17; territorial, 16, 157, 218, 286; and today’s kin-state policies, 19 Joppke, Christian, 21, 256, 285–6 Karta Polaka, 18, 44 Khrushchev, Nikita, 33–4, 51–2 kin majority: and citizenship, 6, 8, 26–9, 248–57; Crimea as, 3, 11, 31–2, 105–6; differentiating from kin minorities, 7–8; dual citizenship increasing for, 4; extraterritorialization of, 16; as fractured and partially nested, 189–90; as fractured and separated, cross-cutting or competing, 105–6; and kin-state politics, 19–20; Moldova as, 3, 11, 31–2, 189–90; as object of analysis, 8–10, 237–8, 244; as sites of potential en masse citizenship acquisition, 240; study findings, 241, 243–5, 247; study rationale, 5–10, 237; typology, 9–10; usefulness of concept, 243–4 kin minorities: differentiating from kin majorities, 7–8; ethnic Russians, 287; as frequent victims of discrimination, 5–7, 240, 284; and systems of dependency, 260; “triadic nexus” of, 17 kin-state citizenship: and eu Commission, 300; examples of,

17–18; and home states, 19, 193; in identity-citizenship nexus, 20–2; kin majorities not needing, 6, 8; legitimacy of, 22, 248, 253, 255; Moldova, en masse acquisition of, 63; Romania, en masse conferral of, 11; Russia, absence of, 11; studying practices of, 248 kin-state policies: engagement with, 254–5; as exacerbating tensions between kin-states and homestates, 19; as facilitating home-state modernization and Europeanization from within, 236; institutionalization of, 18; Romanian, in Moldova, 12–13, 32, 57–67, 193, 251–2; Russian, in Crimea, 12–13, 32, 41–50, 109, 132, 150, 249, 251–2; signifying “irredentism by other means,” 19; types of, 9. See also quasi-citizenship kin-state politics: Europeanization and, 163, 261; and everyday politics, 237; future research, 261–2; identification and, 25, 240; Romania and Moldova, 32, 192; transforming, 17–20 King, Charles, 17, 53, 55, 57, 107, 147, 153, 261, 289 Kosachev, Konstantin, 109, 295 Kostantinov, Vladimir, 287 Kuzio, Taras, 41, 78, 294 Kyiv, 77, 79, 85–6, 91–2, 105, 120, 123 language: Ambivalent Romanians, 154, 172–4; Cultural Romanians, 154, 165–9, 207–8, 229; and kin minorities, 7; Linguistic Moldovans, 154–5, 184–9;

Index Moldovan/Romanian, 151–2, 155, 297; Moldovans, 154, 175–9, 181, 214; and myth, 154–5, 184–9; Organic Romanians, 154, 157–62, 202–3; Russian, in Crimea, 36–9, 46, 76–7, 84, 88, 101, 104, 121, 138, 140, 287–8; skills investment, 261 Lavrov, Sergei, 293 Leanca˘, Iurie, 192, 235 Linguistic Moldovans: comparison with Moldovans, 175–6; competing citizenship, 222, 234, 236, 249; competing identification, 154, 180, 219, 222, 234, 236, 241–2; competing quasi-citizenship, 249; geopolitical alignment, 299; identification with Moldova and Romania, 184–9; language and myth, 154–5, 184–9; and Moldova’s brain drain, 232–3; and Romanian citizenship, 197, 219–22; on Romania’s need to atone, 300; separated citizenship, 249; separated identification, 186, 222; separated quasi-citizenship, 233–4, 249; study participants, 183–4, 280 Luhansk, 10, 34, 36–9, 126, 284, 287–8, 294 Meshkov, Iurii, 35 methodology: bottom-up, 10, 272–3, 285; bottom-up and comparative, 3, 11–12, 238–9, 265; data analysis, 26, 70, 258, 273–5; data collection, 4–5, 13, 40, 71, 152, 246–7, 267–73; ethics, 265–6, 277–8, 285; prior field experience, 266–7; reflexivity and positionality, 257–8, 266, 275–6

351

Miller-Idriss, Cynthia, 3, 23, 246 Moldova: bilateral support, 58, 67; Communist Party (pcrm), 54, 183–4, 192, 208, 213, 219, 225, 290, 297, 300–1; comparison with Crimea, 11–13, 67–8, 135, 146, 237–61; Democratic Party (pdm), 176, 178, 214–15, 298–9; democratization hindered in, 302; dependence on Romania, 209–10, 218, 223–5, 227–8, 232–6, 259–60; dichotomies of identity post-1991, 53–7; dual citizenship, 3, 252; elites of, 51–2, 151, 164, 171, 181, 190–2, 217, 220, 224, 234–6, 260, 266; identification in, 241–5; identity-citizenship nexus, 29–30; independence, 52–5, 166, 170, 178, 193, 297; interwar period, 56–7, 60, 62, 179, 188–9, 192, 196, 254, 259, 285; as kin majority, 3, 9, 11, 31–2, 189–90; learning from, 261–3; Liberal Democrat Party (pldm), 155–6, 176, 191, 290; Liberal Party (pl), 55, 155, 176, 199, 301; map, xvi; Moldovanism and panRomanianism, 53–7; Moldovan Soviet Socialist Republic (mssr), 50–2, 289; National Liberal Party (pnl), 156, 158, 199, 226; Popular Front (pf), 52–3, 55; practices of quasi-citizenship, 224–36, 249–50; Romania, identification with, 30, 152–5, 255, 290–1; as Romanian foreign policy priority, 58; Romanian kin-state policies in, 57–67; as Romanian kin-state priority, 59–66; and Romanian self, 50–7; Socialist Party (psrm), 54, 183–4, 192, 219, 233, 290, 300;

352

Index

from Soviet republic to independent state, 51–3; state weakness, 151, 170, 180–1, 190, 193, 203–4, 216–17, 219, 223–4, 236, 240, 259, 300; study rationale, 11–14; waning support for Romania in 1995, 35. See also Ambivalent Romanians; Bessarabia; ethnicity; Cultural Romanians; Linguistic Moldovans; Moldovans; Organic Romanians; Romanian citizenship Moldovans: cross-cutting citizenship, 214, 222, 230, 234–5, 249–50; cross-cutting identification, 194, 234, 250; cross-cutting quasicitizenship, 234, 249; identification with Moldova, 176–81; identification with Romania, 181–3; language, 154, 175–9, 181, 214; legitimizing myth, 154; and Romanian citizenship, 197, 214–19, 222–3, 235, 250; and Romanian education agenda, 230–2; separated citizenship, 214; separated identification, 154, 214, 222, 235, 241–2, 249; study participants, 175–6, 280 nationalism: Crimean Tatar, 79; ethnic, 18; everyday, 3–4, 23, 246; extra-territorial, 6, 16; fear of rise of Romanian, 297; future research area, 256–7; kin majorities arising for reasons of, 10; Moldovan, 55; pan-Romanian, 52, 188; primordialism, 156–7, 178–9, 182, 185; romantic, 157; Russian, 105, 258–9, 294; scholarships as cheap “instrument” of, 230; “tranquil” spaces of, 238; transnationalization of, 256; Ukrainian, 104

nested citizenship, 28; Cultural Romanians, 204–5, 207, 214, 222, 229, 233–4, 249–50; intersecting identification and, 194, 249–51; Moldova/Romania, 223–4, 236, 239, 251, 301; Organic Romanians, 198–201, 204, 214, 222, 227, 233–4, 249; Politicized Russians, 111–12, 116, 127, 147–8, 249–50 nested identification, 24; Moldova/ Romania, 30, 243; Organic Romanians, 154–5, 158, 162, 171, 189, 194, 198, 222, 234–5, 241, 249 nested quasi-citizenship, 126, 148, 234, 249–50 Organic Romanians: blaming Russification and Soviet Other, 160–2; on Europeanization, 170–1; identification with Moldova and Romania, 157–64, 168, 173–4, 178, 181, 185; language, 154, 157–62, 202–3; legitimizing myth, 154; nested citizenship, 198–201, 204, 214, 222, 227, 233–4, 249; nested identification, 154–5, 158, 162, 171, 189, 194, 198, 222, 234–5, 241, 249; nested quasicitizenship, 234, 249–50; question of unification with Romania, 162–4; and Romanian citizenship, 197–204, 207–9, 211–13, 219, 221, 223, 233, 250; and Romanian education, 225–7, 231; study participants, 155–7, 279 Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe (osce), 6, 284, 288

Index pan-Romanianism: and Moldovanism, 53–7; occupation versus liberation, 56; Organic Romanians aligning with, 156; as threat, 188–9 passportization: and Crimea, 41–2, 107–8, 113, 124–5, 147, 248–9, 255; Russian engagement with, 11, 41–2, 110, 120, 210, 217–18, 284 Plahotniuc, Vladimir, 195, 298 Political Ukrainians: and Compatriot policy, 138–41, 143–4, 148–9; competing citizenship, 111, 125, 147–8; as disinterested and confused, 138–40; dual citizenship and Russian citizenship, 119–20; factors affecting identification, 106; new forms of identification, 161; Russia, identification with, 72, 86–9, 111, 126, 148; separated citizenship, 249; separated identification, 72, 86, 100, 105, 111, 119, 126, 138, 148, 241–2, 249; separated quasi-citizenship, 126, 138, 140, 148, 249; study participants, 86–7, 282; Ukraine, identification with, 72, 86–93, 138 Politicized Russians: and Compatriot organizations, 129–33, 146, 148; and Compatriot policy, 109, 125–9, 135, 146–9, 251, 254; competing identification, 72, 76, 85, 99, 100, 103, 105, 111, 116, 126, 148, 241–2, 249; versus Crimean Tatars, 79–80; discourse of discrimination, 73–80, 88, 101, 108, 125, 127, 132–3, 149, 246, 251; lobbying Russia, 132–3; nested citizenship, 111–12, 116, 127, 147–8, 249–50; nested quasi-citizenship, 126, 148,

353

249–50; as “professional Russians,” 126–7, 129–33, 137, 144, 295; Russia, identification with, 72, 75–6, 82, 84, 88, 96, 111, 126, 148, 251, 253, 259; and Russian citizenship, 108, 111–17, 125, 127–8, 147, 251, 254; study participants, 73–5, 281; Ukraine, identification with, 72, 75–9, 84–5, 93, 104–5, 114–16, 125, 127, 130, 241–2, 251; versus Ukrainization, 76–8 post-Soviet generation: and Crimea’s former greatness, 96; Cultural Romanians, 164; defined by age, 273, 293; as engine of change, 105; English as second language, 298; Ethnic Ukrainians, 100; hybridized identities, 71; intergenerational differences, 69, 92–3, 189, 242, 244–5; Linguistic Moldovans, 183; Moldovans, 175; Organic Romanians, 155, 161; Political Ukrainians, 86–7, 91 post-Soviet politics: future research agenda, 257–61; need to move beyond identity politics, 240 Putin, Vladimir: Compatriot policy, 43, 46, 128, 134; and Crimea, 33, 40, 71, 79–80; criticisms of, 83, 134; election (2012), 5, 283; rmf established by, 289; and “Russianness,” 106; and Ukraine, 33, 71, 108–9, 295 quasi-citizenship: Compatriot policy as form of, 41, 44; CrimeaMoldova comparison, 13, 248–51, 253–4; disinterest in, 109, 134, 146; eligibility for, 9, 28; equality of provision in kin-states, 252;

354

Index

examples of, 17–19; financial flows versus identity, 132; forms for denizenship and ethnizenship, 27; practices in Crimea, 125–7, 147–50; practices in Moldova, 224–35; Romania and Moldova, 236; Romanian scholarships as, 224–35; studying practices of, 248, 256, 267; as type of kin-state policy, 9. See also competing quasi-citizenship; cross-cutting quasi-citizenship; nested quasicitizenship; separated quasicitizenship rmf. See Fond Russkii Mir Romania: comparison with Russia, 11, 32, 44, 47, 66–8, 252; examples of citizenship, 18–19; Hungarian minorities in, 5, 7, 289; investment in Moldova, 4; kin majority typology, 9; as kin-state, 11–13, 66–7; kin-state policies in Moldova, 57–67; legitimacy justifying citizenship acquisition, 22; map, xvi; Moldova’s dependence on, 209–10, 218, 223–5, 227–8, 232–6, 259–60; Moldova’s identification with, 30, 152–5, 255, 290–1; pan-Romanianism, 53–7, 156, 188–9; Romanian self and Moldova, 50–7; waning support for, in 1995, 35. See also Ambivalent Romanians; Cultural Romanians; ethnicity; Linguistic Moldovans; Moldovans; Organic Romanians Romanian citizenship: acquiring through application, 60; applications requested, processed, accepted, and refused, 61;

commitment to, 214–19; dependence on, 204, 207; desirability of, 205, 222, 239, 248, 253, 255; eligibility for, 19; as en masse acquisition in Moldova, 63, 66, 192–3, 209, 223, 235, 239, 252; gold rush, in Moldova, 191–2, 195–7; legitimacy of, 221–4, 235, 239, 250–1, 253–5; and loyalty, 201, 220–1, 223, 236, 239; material motivations, 202–3, 205–7, 211–12, 216, 219, 221–3, 250; Moldova as Romanian kin-state priority, 59–63; as natural right, 198–201; as necessary “back door,” 205–7; need for, 214–15; as neocolonialism, 219–21; number of people acquiring in Moldova, 3, 63, 191; as political, 208–10 practices by outcome and category, 197; practices in Moldova, 222, 249–50; “real,” 204–5, 207–8; reasons for popularity in Moldova, 193–4; returning, 211–13; as Romanian instrument and sign of Moldova’s weakness, 216–19; as salvation, 203–4; spontaneous discussions about, 108, 191; strong presence in Moldova, 4–5, 110; symbolic motivations, 202, 205–7, 211–12, 216, 218–19, 221–2, 250; and vaccine diplomacy, 260 Romanian consulate, 4–5, 195–6, 198, 215, 300 Romanian scholarships, 59, 63–6, 194–5, 224–35, 292, 300–1 Rossotrudnichestvo, 44–5, 59, 74, 93, 109, 121, 130, 139, 141–2, 288. See also Compatriot policy Russia: comparison with Romania, 11, 32, 44, 47, 66–8, 252;

Index conception as geopolitical antagonist, 32; Crimea as “pearl” of, 13, 33, 237; Crimean identification with, 72, 93–7, 99, 110–11, 126, 148; Ethnic Russian identification with, 72, 80–4, 86, 111, 126, 148; Ethnic Ukrainian identification with, 72, 101–5, 111, 126, 148, 241–2, 294; homogenizing constructions of Russianness, 106; identity-citizenship nexus, 29–30; as kin-state, 11, 66; kin-state policies in Crimea, 9, 41–50; lobbying, 132–3, 254; and Moldova, 53, 58, 182–3, 203–4, 221, 228, 259; as Other, 101–3; Political Ukrainian identification with, 72, 86–9, 111, 126, 148; Politicized Russian identification with, 72, 75–6, 82, 84, 88, 96, 111, 126, 148, 251, 253, 259; Russian self and Crimea, 33–41; Russians “beached” from, 17, 34; seen as homeland, 8, 75–6, 80, 82–3, 114, 127–8. See also Compatriot policy; Crimea: annexation Russian citizenship: absent practices of, 4–5, 108, 110–25; concerns over, 19, 44; eligibility for, 294–5; neither wanting nor needing, 116–19; non-engagement with, 147, 191; and Politicized Russians, 108, 111–17, 125, 127–8, 147, 251, 254; as politicized within Ukraine, 42; practices in Crimea, 111, 126; preference for dual citizenship, 119–20; undesirability of, 107, 116, 119, 122–3, 125, 239; as unnecessary, 117–18, 120–1; viewed as competitive threat to Ukraine, 108, 123–5, 143; wanting,

355

to increase rights against Ukraine, 114–16. See also passportization Russian consulate, 5, 42, 45, 110, 112, 131–2, 195, 296 Russian ministries, 43–4, 47–8, 75, 93, 289 Russian scholarships. See Compatriot scholarships Russian World Foundation. See Fond Russkii Mir Russification, 88–9, 160–2 russkii mir discourse, 45, 106, 258 Sasse, Gwendolyn, 6, 34–5, 39, 70, 105, 294 scholarships. See Compatriot scholarships; Romanian scholarships Sentsov, Oleg, 71, 87, 292 separated citizenship, 25, 28–30; Crimeans, 111, 148, 249; Linguistic Moldovans, 249; Moldovans, 214; Political Ukrainians, 249 separated identification, 24–5, 29–30; Linguistic Moldovans, 186, 222; Moldovans, 154, 214, 222, 235, 242, 249; Political Ukrainians, 72, 86, 100, 105, 111, 119, 126, 138, 148, 241–2, 249 separated quasi-citizenship: Crimeans, 126, 148, 249; Ethnic Russians, 148, 249; Linguistic Moldovans, 233–4, 249; Political Ukrainians, 126, 138, 140, 148, 249 Shevel, Oxana, 20, 43, 112, 288, 296 Smith, Anthony D., 189, 244 Smith, Graham, 31, 44 Soviet Union: and Bessarabia, 50, 254; consequences of breakup, 3, 17–18, 167, 244; and Crimea, 31, 33–5, 41, 96; de-Romanianization

356

Index

process, 196; and Moldova, 51–3, 173–4, 177–8, 182, 184, 186, 207, 213; nostalgia for, 91, 127, 141–2, 161; occupation versus liberation, 56; as Other, 160–2; and Ukraine, 85, 96, 287 State Council of the Republic of Crimea, 288, 294 Suveica, Svetlana, 53–4, 56, 193, 290 Transnistria, 14, 47–8, 53, 66, 166, 209, 284, 290, 297 Tsekov, Sergei, 94, 113, 129, 137, 145, 289, 294 Ukraine: civil war in, 288; Compatriot scholarship quotas, 47–8; Crimea as autonomous sub-state of, 9, 12–13, 31, 34–7; Crimean citizenship and, 111, 120–3, 141; Crimean identification with, 72, 93–4, 96–9, 123; democratization hindered in, 302; diverse forms of identification in, 70; and dual citizenship, prohibition on, 19, 252; Ethnic Russian citizenship and, 111, 116–19; Ethnic Russian identification with, 72, 83–6, 93, 98–9, 148; Ethnic Ukrainian citizenship and, 111, 123–5; Ethnic Ukrainian identification with, 72, 99–105, 143, 293; Ethnic Ukrainian supporters of Ukrainian statehood, 143–7; Hungary’s active approach in, 128; independence, 34, 37, 76, 88–9, 103, 116, 287; map, xv; Moldovans requesting citizenship from, 62; Orange Revolution in, 45–6; Party of Regions, 80, 90, 136, 296; Political Ukrainian

citizenship and, 111, 119–20, 140; Political Ukrainian identification with, 72, 86–93, 138; Politicized Russian citizenship and, 111–16, 253–4; Politicized Russian identification with, 72, 75–9, 84–5, 93, 104–5, 114–16, 125, 127, 130, 241–2, 251; and Romanian scholarships, 63; Russia, Crimea and, 33–42, 71, 108–9, 239, 295; and Sevastopol, 49; view of Russian citizenship, 110 Ukrainization: Crimea seen as refuge from, 75; as competitive threat, 72, 74; and Ethnic Ukrainians, 104–5; versus Politicized Russians, 76–8 Venice Commission, 6 Voronin, Vladimir, 192 Waterbury, Myra, 18–19, 132–3, 150, 193, 260, 291, 295 Wilson, Andrew, 33–4, 75, 100, 292, 294 Yanukovych, Viktor, 36, 39, 77, 85, 112, 287, 289, 292 Yeltsin, Boris, 31, 35, 43 Zevelev, Igor, 16, 44, 49, 149