How to exist in the radical simultaneity of challenges

Botanova’s essay on radical simultaneity and how we prioritize challenges sets the stage for 25 Strategic Questions for Ukraine, a project created in partnership with the Frontier Institute. This series brings together visionary essays from Ukrainian thinkers who aren’t just naming the country’s challenges, but are also starting much-needed conversations about them, hoping to reveal new directions for the development of Ukrainian society.

James and the Long History

In the spring of 2025, the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction—America’s most prestigious literary honor—went to the novel James by the Black American author Percival Everett. The book reimagines the events of one of America’s defining novels, Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn—a story beloved by many of us Soviet kids of the 1970s and ’80s. But this time, the tale is told through the eyes of the runaway slave Jim, who journeys alongside Huck. “Retold” isn’t quite the right word, though: Jim truly lives these adventures, experiences them fully, and ultimately claims them as his own story.

It’s immediately clear that Jim’s version of the story is radically different from the one we grew up with through Huck’s eyes. In fact, we meet a completely new Jim—now James—who sheds the mask of the simple, good-natured, inarticulate slave that Mark Twain gave him. Instead, we see a strong, complex personality: a man who secretly reads Rousseau and Montesquieu from his owner’s library, who feverishly imagines conversations with Voltaire about the nature of human inequality and dignity, and who dreams of writing his own story in honor of those who never had the chance to learn to read or write. The mask comes back only when white people are around—then, he and the other enslaved characters slip into the awkward dialect Twain once imagined for them, a way to maintain their safety by reinforcing a sense of white superiority and righteousness.

In Twain’s novel, the moral high point comes when Huck, in a pivotal moment—though never truly at risk—chooses friendship over the racism that surrounds him, both institutionally and within himself. In Everett’s retelling, Jim is almost completely deprived of choice, as he doesn’t even own his own life. Still, he chooses to fight—not just for survival, but for a life that carries meaning. Every day, he faces countless challenges and juggles impossible moral dilemmas, struggling to stay human in a world that doesn’t see him as one.

What is the price of life, freedom, truth, justice, friendship, dignity, loyalty, pride, strength, power, and love in a world that’s so deeply unjust and inhumane? How much does it cost to claim the right to tell your own story, in your own name—and for how long must that price be paid? Is choosing to do good just once ever enough, and does it buy you a lifetime of forgiveness?

Why is it that, 160 years after slavery was abolished in the United States, and 60 years after Black Americans finally secured the right to vote—after Martin Luther King and Angela Davis, James Baldwin and Toni Morrison, and even after Barack Obama—after thousands of books, speeches, performances, and works of art that have given, restored, reclaimed, and defended the voices of the descendants of enslaved people, Percival Everett takes it upon himself to rewrite the story of a nineteenth-century enslaved man?

Is it because this story isn’t over yet? Jim is still making his way toward the undeniable, irreducible right to be James—toward freedom, equality, and justice in a country (and a world) where structural racism and institutionalized inequality—whether racial, gender-based, or class-based—not only persist, but are now boldly reappearing in the flags and policies of the MAGA movement and “Project 2025,”¹Project 2025 is political initiative published by the Heritage Foundation in April 2023. Its central document, Mandate for Leadership: The Conservative Promise, is a nearly 900-page manifesto that outlines a right-wing agenda to overhaul the federal government under a second Trump presidency. which openly seek to roll back the gains of the 1960s Civil Rights Movement.

The complexity of James’s journey—which has stretched on for more than a century and a half, and still hasn’t reached its goal—lies in the fact that it’s not just about personal freedom. True freedom, he comes to realize, is impossible unless it’s shared—unless collective liberation is achieved.

What’s more, as Zygmunt Bauman’s “liquid modernity”—described over a decade ago—appears to be coming to an end, we’re not seeing an “interregnum” of weakened nation-states grappling with a global agenda. Instead, we’re witnessing a return to authoritarianism in a tripolar world dominated by the United States, Russia, and China. In this new reality, the question of global, cross-border solidarity arises: Is it even possible to be truly free in a world that is so polarized, autocratic, and unjust?

Shaking the Canon

Another striking aspect of James is how Everett takes on not just the American, but the entire Western literary and cultural canon—something he signals, not coincidentally, through Jim’s dream debates with Voltaire. He chooses to do so at a historical and geopolitical moment when challenging the status quo is more difficult, and perhaps more necessary, than ever.

Everett’s transformation of Jim into James isn’t just an act of emancipation or a symbolic rebuke to Twain, nor is it simply about toppling literary monuments. Despite ongoing debates over racism, the use of racial slurs, and the often demeaning tone toward Black characters, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn remains a staple of the American school curriculum, is listed by the Library of Congress as one of the “Books That Shaped America,” and regularly appears in rankings of the most important works. So, James is more than a reclaiming of narrative—it’s also a challenge to who gets to shape the cultural canon, how that canon is built, whose power it reflects, and what kind of world it ultimately helps create.

At the end of 2025, The Economist editors shared their picks of “books that changed the word” on an end-of-year episode of their podcast The Intelligence. Is it really any wonder that about 95% of the selections were English-language, British books—spanning from Charles Darwin’s On the Origin of Species to J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, with Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own and Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein in between—and that around 70% were written by men? The world as seen by the editors of one of the globe’s most influential media outlets is shaped in Britain by white men and filtered through the British intellectual tradition. Unsurprisingly, their choices align closely with the British school curriculum. What they offer the world at the close of 2025 is, at heart, a British imperial worldview—one still coming to terms with the loss of both its American colonies and its global influence—a worldview where the “rest of the world” barely registers, if at all, and which seems stuck at the end of the twentieth century.

Both soft and not-so-soft forms of post-imperial and neo-imperial power spread this system of values and imagery—and with them, notions of authority and hierarchy—far beyond the old centers of empire. In this worldview, entire societies and communities are rendered invisible or voiceless “others,” much like Twain’s Jim—sometimes simply absent, sometimes present only as mute or awkward figures meant to make the protagonists look better. Think of how Albanians, Serbs, or Ukrainians appear in the latest Hollywood blockbusters: cast as cunning, brutal tricksters speaking indecipherable languages. Or how Native American sheriffs are portrayed—dedicated to their jobs, but never quite able to see the bigger picture.

The Cameroonian writer and philosopher Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o described this Western cultural canon as a “cultural bomb” that destroys the confidence and self-belief of people, communities, and societies who are left out of or objectified by it. According to him, this canon undermines their trust in themselves, their world, their heritage, and their knowledge. He also argued that it stops them from producing knowledge rooted in their own societies’ experiences and from developing a worldview in which they and their communities can truly see themselves—and, from that foundation, take part in meaningful global conversations. Will this knowledge challenge and break the existing dominant cultural canon, supported by economic resources and political power, or will it transform it—renewing, pushing, expanding, and ultimately making it more complex? Can it be changed without being broken, can it be complex if its foundation is simplification and the annihilation of unwanted voices? Here one is reminded of one of the most famous statements by Black American feminist writer Audre Lorde: “The master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.”

This Complex, Complex World

History changes very slowly. The house of the masters creaks and sways, but still holds together fairly solidly.

And sometimes, just when the shore seems close, it turns out to be a mirage.

Strangely enough, it’s often during the darkest times—such as now, when democratic rights and freedoms are being rolled back more than at any point since World War II, when threats to human dignity and equality are at their worst, when the most vulnerable are in the greatest danger, and when large-scale aggression, like that from Russia, is unfolding—that culture becomes a space for reminders. It is in these moments that culture reminds us: the struggle goes on. The fall of global hegemons and the rise of a truly multipolar world is a long, challenging journey, filled with strategic obstacles that must be tackled simultaneously, none of which is ever “not the right time” to address.

Generally, the privilege of choosing and prioritizing which challenges to face belongs to well-resourced, secure, and stable societies. For societies fighting not just for survival but for meaning, for a chance at life, and for the transformation of power structures—without which safety, freedom, and justice remain out of reach—this privilege simply doesn’t exist. Today’s shift in the global geopolitical landscape is signaling a shift in international security, even for societies that have long felt secure. As a result, radical simultaneity—the need to confront many challenges at once—is no longer just a demand of emancipatory movements. It’s becoming a global reality.

The long journey of fighting for one’s own subjectivity, of reclaiming the right to produce knowledge, and of facing many challenges at once is, in many ways, a profoundly Ukrainian story. Yet, from the perspective of the broader global movement to change cultural canons, amplify diverse voices, and decentralize power, this is just the beginning. At this point in history, it’s crucial to recognize this path, to keep it in view within the context of global solidarity, and to accept that the simultaneous challenges societies are facing now—and will continue to face—are simply part of the road ahead.

It’s not about spreading attention or resources too thin, but about making sense of nonlinear challenges and accepting that there are no easy answers—especially since almost every issue Ukrainian society has faced over the past four years of the full-scale war has been deeply complex.

Radical simultaneity means living through a long war in which the meaning of victory keeps changing, even as the need to find meaning in life remains constant. It’s about holding onto and working with shifting visions of the future while also striving for victory in the present. It’s about a Ukrainian perspective that remains aware of European and global contexts.

It’s about normalizing war not just as mere survival, but as life itself—a life where loss, grief, memory, and exhaustion coexist with inner strength, mutual support, adaptability, and strategic thinking. It demands great resilience, but not at the expense of recognizing our own vulnerability. It’s the daily, painstaking effort to rebuild, even as destruction continues all around.

Moreover, it’s about recognizing that wartime demands for discipline and restriction coexist with commitments to human rights and the rule of law. The need for constant flexibility in the face of ever-changing realities only increases the importance of open, ongoing communication and social agreement about these changes. And it means understanding that the strategic management of information in such times often balances on the edge of being transformed into lies or manipulation.

And it’s also about supporting institutions—cultural, educational, and academic—that are responsible for the ongoing creation of knowledge. Only by doing this can Ukrainian society preserve its own subjectivity and take part in the global conversation for emancipation. It means steady, sustained investment in education and a critical approach to the school curriculum, so the country can raise new generations of citizens who are capable of nuanced, long-term, and complex thinking.

This means constantly asking: What will it take to even have these future generations during a demographic crisis? How can we, even in the midst of a long war, systematically invest in social care, healthcare, and support systems that would ease the triple burden on women and encourage the latest wave of emigrants to return? How do we invest in people without reducing them to “human capital” or mere resources? How do we value people for who they are—not just as examples of “resilience” or “unbreakability,” but as the most important social value of all?

How do we talk about the multiplicity of identities in Ukrainian society—both now and in the past—as a source of strength and resilience, especially in times of prolonged external threat that calls for unity? How, during war, can we avoid glorifying the various layers of Ukrainian history and culture and strive to continually complicate, expand, and problematize our knowledge of the topic at hand? At the same time, can we search for languages and images that will break the established world cultural canon, in which Ukraine has been—and still is—an uncertain and often misunderstood (or even unnecessary) actor?

How do we keep from getting overwhelmed by all these questions and challenges? How do we stay focused on what truly matters, and not lose sight of the long journey toward victory, freedom, justice, and humanity—a journey that, as we know, can only be completed in a world that is itself free and just? How do we fit into a single life all of this radical simultaneity, which is at once unspeakably beautiful and terrible?

There certainly are many answers to these questions. But perhaps what matters most is to hold onto—and to nurture—the ability to ask these questions no matter the circumstances: questions that are awkward, complex, uncomfortable, or untimely, and for which we may feel we lack the resources or strength. We need to be able to create a broad map of the questions we, as a society, must ask ourselves today if we want to imagine a future where Ukraine remains sovereign, democratic, pluralistic, and part of a new global agenda—a new, vibrant, and truly polyphonic cultural canon.

That’s why the Frontier Institute and Ukraïner created the 25 Strategic Questions for Ukraine project. Through this initiative, we publish the essays of 25 public intellectuals, reflecting on where we stand now and how we move forward—tackling 25 tough questions. And this is just the beginning.