Victory Day (9 May)
Based on Wikipedia: Victory Day (9 May)
In the dead of night on May 8, 1945, the world held its breath as the machinery of the most destructive conflict in human history finally ground to a halt. Yet, when the ink dried on the German Instrument of Surrender in Berlin, the date was already May 9 in Moscow. This simple, brutal arithmetic of time zones created a fracture in history that persists to this day, splitting the memory of the end of World War II into two distinct hemispheres of commemoration. While the West marks the end of the war on May 8, the Soviet Union and its successors anchored their victory in the early morning hours of May 9, a date that would eventually evolve from a moment of military cessation into a profound, state-sponsored ritual of national identity, grief, and political power.
To understand the weight of this day, one must first grasp the sheer scale of the catastrophe that preceded it. The Great Patriotic War, as it is known in Russia and many post-Soviet states, was not merely a military campaign; it was a war of annihilation that consumed the Soviet Union in a way no other nation was consumed. The human cost was staggering, a number so large it risks becoming abstract, yet it was composed of individual lives extinguished in the frozen trenches of Stalingrad, the starvation of Leningrad, and the smoke of the death camps. Approximately 27 million Soviet citizens died, a figure that includes millions of civilians slaughtered by Nazi occupation forces, starved by blockade, or executed in reprisals. Every family in the region lost someone. This is the silent foundation upon which the loud celebrations of Victory Day are built; the parades and fireworks are not just displays of military might, but the only possible response to a grief so vast it threatens to swallow the collective memory of a people.
The story of the date itself begins with the bureaucratic and political maneuvering that defined the final hours of the war. The surrender was not a singular event but a sequence of negotiations, each layer revealing the deep fissures between the Allies. On May 7, 1945, in the cramped headquarters of the Supreme Allied Expeditionary Force in Reims, France, a preliminary act of surrender was signed. Alfred Jodl, the chief of staff of the German OKW, represented Germany, signing alongside American General Walter Bedell Smith and Soviet General Ivan Susloparov. However, the document was fraught with political peril for Moscow. Susloparov, a relatively low-ranking officer, had signed without explicit authorization from Joseph Stalin. Furthermore, the Soviet leadership was alarmed that the text appeared to be a surrender to the Western Allies alone, a nuance that could have allowed German troops in the East to continue fighting or claimed they were not bound by the agreement.
Stalin, ever the pragmatist and the architect of Soviet survival, demanded a redo. He argued that the main contribution to the victory had been made by the Soviet people, and therefore the capitulation must be signed in the presence of the Supreme Command of all coalition countries, not just the Western Allies. More poignantly, he insisted the ceremony take place in Berlin, the very center of Nazi aggression, rather than a French town far from the front lines. As Stalin later declared, the Reims protocol was merely preliminary. The Allies, including Dwight D. Eisenhower, immediately agreed. This decision was not just about protocol; it was a reassertion of Soviet centrality in the narrative of the war's end.
Consequently, a second, revised instrument of surrender was organized for the outskirts of Berlin. Late on the evening of May 8, in the Soviet Army headquarters in Berlin-Karlshorst, the final act took place. Field-Marshal Wilhelm Keitel, replacing Jodl, signed for Germany. Marshal Georgy Zhukov, the hero of Stalingrad, signed for the Supreme High Command of the Red Army. Air Chief Marshal Arthur Tedder signed for the British, with American General Carl Spaatz and French General Jean de Lattre de Tassigny as witnesses. The document was explicit: it stipulated the complete disarmament of all German military forces and the handing over of weapons to local Allied commanders. Crucially, the time for the cessation of hostilities was set for 23:01 hours Central European Time on May 8. But in the Soviet Union, the time zone difference meant it was already past midnight on May 9. The war had ended, but the date of the victory was set in stone for the East: May 9.
The immediate aftermath of the war saw the Soviet government announce the victory early on May 9, but the holiday's journey to becoming a sacred day of the calendar was not immediate. In 1945, it was a day of celebration, but the country was too shattered for a permanent holiday. It took two decades for the state to institutionalize the memory. In 1965, marking the 20th anniversary of the victory, the holiday was elevated to a non-labor day. This was a strategic decision by the Soviet leadership to solidify the cult of the Great Patriotic War in the public consciousness, transforming the raw trauma of the 1940s into a foundational myth for the post-Stalin era. The war became the central topic of cinema, literature, history lessons, and the arts. A ritualistic character emerged: ceremonial meetings, speeches, lectures, receptions, and the inevitable fireworks that lit up the night sky over Soviet cities.
Across the Iron Curtain, the narrative diverged sharply. In East Germany, May 8 was observed as Liberation Day from 1950 to 1966, emphasizing the end of fascism rather than a Soviet military triumph. By 1985, the 40th anniversary saw a return to a Soviet-style celebration, but the cultural memory remained distinct. In the Federal Republic of Germany, and indeed in most of Western Europe, May 8 remained the day of Victory in Europe (VE Day). For decades, the Western narrative focused on the liberation of Europe and the defeat of tyranny, often downplaying the specific role of the Red Army's sacrifice, while the Soviet narrative focused on the immense blood price paid by the USSR to save civilization from Nazi genocide. This divergence created a chasm in European memory that persists today.
The collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991 threatened to erase this holiday from the calendar entirely. In the chaotic 1990s, as Russia grappled with economic collapse and the loss of its superpower status, the grandiose Soviet-style mass demonstrations for Victory Day were scaled back. The state, weak and fractured, could not sustain the spectacle. The holiday remained on the calendar, but it lacked the overwhelming force of the Soviet era. It was a quiet remembrance, a day for veterans and their families, but not a day of national unity. That changed with the rise of Vladimir Putin.
Upon coming to power, the Kremlin recognized the potent political utility of the war memory. In a country searching for a new identity after the disintegration of the Soviet empire, Victory Day offered a unifying narrative that transcended politics, ideology, and the failures of the 1990s. The government began to aggressively promote the prestige of the governing regime through the lens of history. Victory Day was transformed from a commemoration into a source of national self-esteem, a tool to rally the population around the state. The holiday became a celebration where popular culture played a central role, blending the solemnity of war memorials with the spectacle of modern statecraft.
The 60th anniversary in 2005 and the 70th in 2015 marked the zenith of this transformation. These were not merely parades; they were geopolitical statements. In 2005, world leaders converged on Moscow for the first state-sponsored ceremonies since the Soviet collapse. By 2015, the event had become one of the most watched in the world. Around 30 leaders, including those from China and India, attended the parade. However, the event also highlighted the deepening rift between Russia and the West. Leaders from the United States and Europe boycotted the ceremony, citing the Russian military intervention in Ukraine that had begun in 2014. The parade on Red Square, once a symbol of anti-fascist unity, had become a stage for the new geopolitical fractures. The military hardware displayed—the tanks, missiles, and aircraft—was a reminder of Russia's enduring military power, but it also served as a warning to the West.
The human element of the holiday remains its most powerful feature, despite the political overlay. The Russian government established the tradition of the "Immortal Regiment," where millions of citizens march holding portraits of their relatives who fought in the war. This grassroots movement, which began in Siberia and spread to the rest of the country, reclaims the day from the state. It is a moment where the abstract numbers of 27 million dead become personal again. A grandmother holds a photo of a grandfather she never met; a father walks with a portrait of a son lost in the siege of Leningrad. It is a visceral connection to the past that no amount of military hardware can replicate. Yet, even this is co-opted by the state, broadcast live by networks like RT to a global audience, with the "Victory speech" translated and disseminated worldwide. The Minute of Silence at 6:55 PM MST, a tradition dating back to 1965, is observed, a moment of collective pause for the dead.
The holiday's reach extends far beyond the borders of the Russian Federation. In the post-Soviet space, the memory of the war is often the primary thread of national identity, but the politics of remembrance vary wildly. Armenia, independent since 1991, officially recognizes May 9 as "Victory and Peace Day," maintaining the Soviet tradition of honoring the Red Army's role while integrating it into their own national narrative. In Azerbaijan, the history is more turbulent. After independence in 1991, the Azerbaijani Popular Front Party and later the government of Abulfaz Elchibey deliberately erased the holiday, viewing it as a symbol of Russian imperial dominance. Veterans were subjected to targeted anti-Russian media campaigns. It was only after Heydar Aliyev came to power that the holiday was restored to the national calendar, a move that reflected a shift in foreign policy and a desire to maintain ties with Moscow, even as the country navigated its own conflicts, such as the liberation of Shushi, which is now commemorated alongside the general victory.
Belarus, perhaps the most staunchly Soviet of the successor states, has maintained the holiday with the same fervor as the Soviet era. Recognized as a non-working day since 1991, it is celebrated with a mix of military parade and civilian mourning that mirrors the 1960s and 70s Soviet style. The holiday serves as a pillar of the Belarusian state's legitimacy, linking the current government to the heroism of the war years. In contrast, the Baltic states and Ukraine have moved away from this narrative. In Ukraine, the shift has been particularly sharp since 2014. The state has sought to decouple the memory of the war from the Soviet narrative, emphasizing the Ukrainian Insurgent Army and other non-Soviet resistance movements. The celebration of May 9 has become a flashpoint, with the government encouraging a shift to May 8 to align with the rest of Europe, viewing the Soviet-centric May 9 as a tool of Russian propaganda.
The German state of Mecklenburg-Vorpommern offers a unique counter-narrative within Europe. Since 2002, it has observed a commemoration day known as the "Day of Liberation from National Socialism and the End of the World War II." This phrasing is deliberate; it acknowledges the dual nature of the event—the end of the war and the liberation from the Nazi regime—without necessarily centering the Soviet military victory in the way Moscow does. It is a nuanced approach that attempts to reconcile the horror of the Holocaust and Nazi crimes with the complex reality of the Soviet occupation that followed.
The evolution of Victory Day is a testament to the malleability of memory. What began as a moment of relief in the face of total annihilation has been molded into a tool of statecraft, a unifying myth, and a point of geopolitical contention. The parades on Red Square, the fireworks over Moscow, the silent tears of the Immortal Regiment—all these elements coexist in a complex tapestry. The military displays serve as a reminder of the cost of peace, but they also project power. The speeches honor the dead, but they also justify the living. The holiday is a mirror reflecting the anxieties and ambitions of the present, projected onto the sacrifices of the past.
As we look at the 9th of May today, it is impossible to separate the celebration from the tragedy that necessitated it. The 2020 parade, marking the 75th anniversary, was postponed due to the global pandemic, a rare moment of silence for a day usually defined by noise and spectacle. When the parades resumed, the shadows of the war seemed longer. The world has changed, the alliances have shifted, but the fundamental reality remains: the victory over Nazism was bought with a price that no generation can fully repay. The holiday is not just about the end of a war; it is about the enduring weight of that war on the human soul. It is a day where the ghosts of the 27 million are invited to the table, demanding to be remembered, not just as statistics of a military campaign, but as the fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters who were taken. In the end, the parade, the speeches, and the political posturing are all secondary to the silence that follows, the silence of a people who know that the cost of their victory was the loss of their future.
The legacy of May 9 is a reminder that history is never truly over. The battles of the past are fought in the courtrooms of memory, in the classrooms of history, and in the streets of modern capitals. The date serves as a boundary line, separating those who remember the war as a liberation from those who remember it as an occupation. It is a date that divides Europe, yet it is a date that unites a vast swath of the population in a shared grief that transcends borders. As the years pass and the number of living veterans dwindles, the holiday faces a new challenge: how to keep the memory of the war alive without the direct testimony of those who fought it. The state will continue to stage the parades, the media will continue to broadcast the speeches, but the true heart of the holiday lies in the private moments of remembrance, in the photos held high by the Immortal Regiment, in the quiet prayers of those who still mourn. The war ended in 1945, but the struggle to remember it, to understand it, and to honor it, continues every May 9. The human cost, the names, the places, the ages—these are the true monuments, far more enduring than any tank or missile displayed on Red Square. The victory is real, but the price is eternal.