Germany has been one of Kyiv’s most important allies since Russia launched its full-scale invasion of Ukraine, but it has also become one of the primary targets of Kremlin disinformation. These propaganda attacks intensify noticeably around elections, according to data from Ukraine’s Center for Countering Disinformation. Yet the deeper problem, argues communications researcher and essayist Danylo Poliluev-Schmidt, is not simply that Germany supports Ukraine. Rather, Germany’s media ecosystem is vulnerable to Russian influence because of the country’s unresolved totalitarian past and the rigid, deeply fragmented coordination between federal and state institutions. In his book The Armed Truth: What Germany and Europe Can Learn from Ukrainian Media, Poliluev-Schmidt makes the case that Ukraine’s long and painful experience of countering Kremlin disinformation offers practical tools that Germany and the rest of Europe can adapt. Already published in German as Die bewaffnete Wahrheit, with an English edition expected soon, the book grew out of a conversation with the Ukrainian World Congress about how Ukrainian communities abroad can tell the truth about Russia’s war more effectively. At the heart of his argument is a simple but uncomfortable observation: Germany is not being targeted merely because it supports Ukraine, but because its own institutional and cultural memory have created blind spots that Russian propaganda knows how to exploit.
One of the central problems, according to Poliluev-Schmidt, is the unwieldy structure of German governance. Germany has sixteen federal states, each with its own government, alongside a federal government that must coordinate with all of them. Responsibility for fighting cybercrime, disinformation, and anti-constitutional threats is scattered across a huge number of institutions that do not always cooperate effectively. This fragmentation is not accidental. After Germany’s Nazi and communist past, the country deliberately built a system of checks and balances designed to prevent the state from ever again gaining too much control over society. The result is a media ecosystem that is far less centralized and less flexible than Ukraine’s. Ukraine, by contrast, began to understand Russia as a direct threat much earlier. This awareness developed over decades of painful experience: Russia’s attempts to assert control over Crimea, the conflict around Tuzla, the 2008 war against Georgia, Moscow’s support for Viktor Yanukovych, and finally the occupation of Crimea and parts of the Donetsk and Luhansk regions. Ukrainian society also watched Russia use political, economic, cultural, and military tools of influence long before the full-scale invasion. By 2022, Ukraine had already built a deep, practical understanding of Russian methods. Germany never had that learning process. For years, Russia managed to cultivate a positive image through ballet, Tchaikovsky, sports, and other cultural fields that were treated as apolitical. Economic dependence on Russian oil and gas made Kremlin influence seem normal, part of ordinary relations. Historical perceptions of Russia also shaped German attitudes, often in ways that made honest assessment difficult. Poliluev-Schmidt stresses that Germany’s situation was not unique: it reflected a broader Western belief that economic cooperation and integration would gradually democratize Russia. But because no real demands were made of Moscow, the relationship became asymmetric, and European societies were left dangerously unprepared for the weaponized information campaigns that followed.
Another major difficulty is the way German journalism understands neutrality. Balanced reporting is a core professional value, but in Germany it is often interpreted as presenting the positions of all sides fairly and equally. In the context of war, that creates what Poliluev-Schmidt calls a false balance, in which the aggressor and the victim are placed on the same moral and factual plane. For example, when Ukraine stated that Russian troops had seized Crimea or that Russia was waging aggression, German media often framed the story as a conflict between two sides, making it seem as though Kyiv and Moscow bore equal responsibility. This approach is not just a matter of stylistic preference; it has real consequences for public understanding. Independent Ukrainian journalism, by contrast, draws a much sharper line between the aggressor and the victim. That does not mean Ukrainian media are uncritical or blindly patriotic. They regularly criticize their own government, investigate corruption, and report on difficult internal issues. But they also call Russia the aggressor directly, without apology. The problem becomes especially visible when a report from an independent Ukrainian outlet is placed next to a statement from a Russian government official as though they were equally valid versions of reality. When, say, a Ukrainian investigation is treated with the same weight as a denial from Dmitry Peskov, the very framing distorts the truth. Russian official information, Poliluev-Schmidt notes, routinely contains claims that can be disproved with basic facts. Yet the German preference for formal neutrality can end up giving those claims a dignity they do not deserve. The result is that audiences are left confused about basic facts, and the distinction between democracy and authoritarian aggression begins to blur.
Ukraine’s experience shows that countering disinformation requires more than fact-checking individual stories. It requires an entire ecosystem in which independent journalists, civil society organizations, informal initiatives, media outlets, and publishers interact with one another and respond quickly to new threats. In Germany and other EU countries, this kind of cooperation is much weaker. Meanwhile, alternative media and influencers are gaining more influence every year, especially among younger audiences. They work faster than traditional newsrooms and speak with emotion, but they do not always verify information, and sometimes they deliberately distort it. Poliluev-Schmidt points out that an influencer might talk about bodybuilding, fashion, piercings, or daily life while gradually weaving Russian, far-right, or far-left narratives into their content. Audiences come for entertainment or practical advice but leave with political messages embedded in what felt like neutral territory. This creates fertile ground for Russian narratives and fosters a misleadingly warm image of Moscow. Even after two years of full-scale war, there are still people in Germany and elsewhere who believe that returning to normal economic relations with Russia is possible. Ukraine learned to recognize and counter these mechanisms much earlier. Fact-checkers there work directly inside media formats, explaining to audiences where a politician or blogger is manipulating them, using unreliable sources, or spreading outright lies. In Germany, similar practices are only just beginning to emerge. Ukraine also demonstrates that quality content alone is not enough; trust in information sources must be actively built. Public broadcasting, especially Suspilne, plays a vital role in that project. Ukrainian media are also highly active on TikTok, YouTube, and Instagram, meeting audiences where they actually are and delivering information quickly without losing accuracy.
German politicians are increasingly aware of the scale of the threat, and both national and EU-level mechanisms are being established to counter disinformation and foreign interference. But Poliluev-Schmidt warns that time is not on Europe’s side. Russian, Chinese, and Iranian propaganda are already exploiting real social problems in European societies: inequality, youth unemployment, housing crises, the pressures facing Generation Z, and genuine grievances about migration and economic insecurity. What makes this so dangerous is the way different grievances are combined into a single narrative. People are told that economic difficulties, migration, war, social inequality, and the struggles of young people are all caused by one underlying force. This kind of narrative creates a false sense of coherence and offers a simple explanation for complex problems. Poliluev-Schmidt argues that there is still a lack of public understanding in Germany that supporting Ukraine and countering Russian influence are not merely acts of solidarity; they are strategic tasks for Germany itself. Russian disinformation directly affects German society, German political processes, and German democracy. It is not a distant concern or a humanitarian issue. It is a matter of national security, public trust, and social cohesion. Until that understanding becomes common, European institutions will always be catching up rather than leading.
For Ukrainian communities abroad, the lesson is that they need to make much greater use of Ukraine’s experience and learn to advocate for it in ways that resonate locally. That means more than simply presenting a list of practices that could be useful in other countries. It means building an ongoing dialogue between Ukrainian and Western journalists, between Ukrainian civil society organizations and local institutions, and between Ukrainian initiatives and foreign audiences. Poliluev-Schmidt advises against trying to reach everyone at once. It is far more effective to choose a specific community, a specific organization, and a specific issue connected to disinformation. Perhaps that means inviting a Ukrainian journalist or photojournalist to speak, organizing a film screening and discussion, or launching a joint project with a local partner. The key is to speak to different audiences through topics that matter to them. For progressive groups, that could be the sexualized crimes committed by Russian troops; for environmental audiences, ecocide; for conservative audiences, the deportation of children, language rights, and cultural preservation. It also helps to find concrete connections with local historical experience, so that Ukraine’s story does not feel abstract or distant. Ukrainian communities should work with foundations and think tanks associated with different political forces, not just those already sympathetic to Ukraine. The goal is not to lecture but to show why Ukraine’s experience matters to a particular country, a particular community, and a particular problem. Only then can Ukraine become a necessary and integral part of the broader European context, rather than an urgent but separate story. In that sense, The Armed Truth is not just a book about Ukrainian media; it is an argument for why Europe’s future depends on learning from those who have already faced the darkness and found ways to fight back.