Christos Mantas and Konstantina Oikonomou are Visiting Researchers at the Department of Political Science and International Relations of the University of the Peloponnese. Their current research project, “Liminal Spaces and Identity at the Margins: The North Azovian Greeks of Ukraine (Urums and Roumeans) in Conflict and Transition,” examines the historical vulnerability and contemporary fragmentation of this minority group within the broader context of war, forced displacement, and contested memory. The project will be presented at the upcoming 12th European Workshops in International Studies (EWIS), where Konstantina serves as convenor of the workshop “Exploring Liminal Spaces in International Politics and International Law: Critical Perspectives on Conflict and Transition”.
For the interview responses, ‘CM’ refers to Christos Mantas and ‘KO’ refers to Konstantina Oikonomou.
Where do you see the most exciting research/debates happening in your field?
CM: My field of research is on AI and its acceptance and usage, which is indeed an exciting field. However, I have an interest in politics and in the Northern Azovian Greek community, which is suffering from the impact of a brutal invasion and the lack of research or interest from the Greek side on this topic. The knowledge I have personally gained in crowdfunding for Ukraine, and my interactions with North Azovian Greeks, have sparked my interest in this research.
KO: My work lies at the intersection of International Relations and International Law, with a particular focus on the theoretical and critical debates that animate both disciplines. Some of the most exciting research in these fields today emerges at the intersections between disciplines, geographies, and epistemologies. A growing body of work interrogates the colonial foundations of the international order, questions the supposed universality of international norms, and foregrounds structural asymmetries in global governance. This scholarship challenges the boundaries between law and politics, theory and practice, centre and periphery, and it often draws on critical traditions that had long been marginalised within mainstream IR.
The study of the North Azovian Greeks exemplifies why these in-between spaces matter. This community, comprising two distinct linguistic groups — the Urums and the Roumeans — has historically occupied a liminal position at the intersection of overlapping sovereignties and conflicting national narratives. Their experience shows how communities and identities that exist in between often reveal the tensions and contradictions embedded in the structures of norms and governance. In this sense, liminality is not just a descriptive label: it becomes a conceptual and analytical tool that exposes the structural gaps that persist even where formal recognition exists. For example, while the North Azov Greeks fall under Ukraine’s formal category of ethnic minorities, and thus within the scope of instruments like the FCNM and Article 27 ICCPR, these frameworks primarily guarantee individual rights exercised in community — they do not provide robust collective guarantees such as self-determined governance or the right to free, prior and informed consent. In contrast, regimes governing indigenous peoples’ rights, such as UNDRIP or ILO Convention No. 169, enshrine collective entitlements that can offer stronger safeguards for cultural survival and community agency.
This is not just a conceptual exercise: it reveals how partial recognition — for example, when a community is formally acknowledged as a minority but denied collective rights and indigenous status — reproduces structural liminality within legal systems that claim universality, yet leave such communities functionally under-protected. This kind of research, which situates micro-level lived experience within the macro-level contradictions of international law and governance, is where I see some of the most urgent and generative debates unfolding in our field today.
How has the way you understand the world changed over time, and what (or who) prompted the most significant shifts in your thinking?
CM: I wouldn’t say that my understanding of the world has fundamentally changed, but rather that it has been profoundly enriched — especially in light of the war in Ukraine. Before, I might have seen global conflicts more abstractly, as distant geopolitical struggles shaped by history, diplomacy, or economics. But the war made me confront, in a deeply human way, how fragile security, identity, and belonging can be. It exposed how quickly everyday life can collapse and how individuals and communities are forced to navigate displacement, fear, and the struggle for survival.
Perhaps the most significant shift in my thinking came through listening to people directly affected — whether displaced Ukrainians, Russian dissidents, or ethnic minorities like the Crimean Tatars. Their stories challenged simplified narratives and showed me how war distorts truth, reshapes memory, and reveals the limits of international institutions. It made me more aware of the emotional dimensions of geopolitics — trauma, resilience, nostalgia — and more critical of black-and-white thinking. So, while my worldview wasn’t overturned, it became more layered, more skeptical of easy answers, and more attuned to the voices that are often left out of dominant narratives.
KO: Over time, my understanding of the world has shifted from an initial belief in the coherence and emancipatory potential of international norms and institutions to a more critical awareness of the disjuncture between their proclaimed ideals and their material effects. While I was first drawn to international law for its promise of order, justice, and accountability, deeper theoretical engagement and empirical observation revealed how legal frameworks often serve to stabilise inequality, obscure structural violence, and reproduce hierarchies under the guise of neutrality. A significant shift occurred through my encounter with critical international theory, which challenged the compartmentalisation of law and politics and revealed their entangled role in the maintenance of global power. Equally transformative were encounters with lived experiences of war, displacement, and dispossession, which rendered abstract principles inadequate and called for a form of scholarship that is ethically attuned, reflexive, and attentive to the real-world consequences of legal and political structures.
How did Greek communities come to form in the Northern Azov region of Ukraine, which includes cities like Mariupol?
CM: Greek communities in the Northern Azov region of Ukraine, particularly in and around cities like Mariupol, were established primarily in the late 18th century as a result of forced migrations and imperialist policy during the time of the Russian Empire, so as to “Russify” the Crimean Peninsula – essentially, a form of ethnic cleansing of Greeks, Tatars, Germans and other people who lived in Crimea. It is essential to note that prior to the 18th century, a substantial Greek population resided in the Crimean Peninsula, comprising descendants of ancient Greek colonists, Byzantine settlers, and later migrants. These Greeks — known as Crimean Greeks — had lived for centuries under the Ottoman Empire and later under the Crimean Khanate, a vassal state of the Ottomans. They practiced Orthodox Christianity, spoke Greek or Turkic dialects (notably Urum), and maintained distinct cultural and religious traditions.
What did the process of communal identity formation look like for these Greek communities after emigration?
CM: After their forced migration from Crimea in 1778, the North Azovian Greeks (Urums and Rumeíka speakers) formed a strong communal identity rooted in Orthodox Christianity, shared language, and cultural memory of their Crimean past, while the villages carried the names of the villages and towns in which they lived while in Crimea, such as Yalta and Urzuf but also Mariupol. In the Northern Azov region, especially around Mariupol, they established Greek villages, preserved traditions, and developed a hybrid identity shaped by both Greek heritage and Ukrainian/Russian influences. Over time, especially under Soviet rule, language and cultural practices declined, but recent conflicts have sparked efforts to revive and protect their unique identity. It is important to stress that Mariupol, for a few decades in the 19th century, was a Greek oblast where only Greeks were allowed to enter; however, it was abolished by the Czar.
Over time, has the Northern Azovian Greek identity been influenced by culture and communal identities in Ukraine?
CM: Over time, the Northern Azovian Greek identity has been shaped by significant influences from Ukrainian and broader Soviet culture. During the Soviet era, policies promoting Russification and suppressing minority languages led many Greeks in the region to shift from their traditional dialects — Rumeíka and Urum — to Russian, contributing to the gradual erosion of linguistic and cultural distinctiveness. Living alongside Ukrainians, Russians, and other ethnic groups also encouraged cultural blending and intermarriage, particularly in urban areas like Mariupol. Since Ukraine’s independence, there has been a renewed interest among some North Azovian Greeks in reclaiming their heritage through language revival and cultural activities. However, their identity today reflects a hybrid character, shaped by both Greek roots and long-standing interaction with Ukrainian and Soviet communal influences. A significant update is that North Azovian Greeks have begun taking initiatives through organisations aimed at preserving their culture and increasing awareness.
The destruction of Mariupol following the 2022 Russian invasion has greatly affected the ethnic Greek minority in Ukraine. To what extent is this a targeted attack against the Greek population with the aim of forced displacement and ethnic erasure?
CM: The destruction of Mariupol following the 2022 Russian invasion severely impacted the city’s ethnic Greek minority, but current evidence suggests that this was part of a broader military campaign rather than a specifically targeted attack aimed at the forced displacement or ethnic erasure of Greeks. Greek-populated areas like Sartana and Buhas were heavily bombarded, resulting in civilian deaths, including at least ten ethnic Greeks. Greek cultural institutions, churches, and community buildings were destroyed or damaged, contributing to the erasure of physical heritage. However, similar devastation was inflicted across the entire city, affecting all ethnic groups. Thousands of residents, including many Greeks, were displaced or fled, and while Greek leaders and the Greek government have condemned the attacks and called for international investigations, there is no conclusive evidence that the Greek population was deliberately singled out for ethnic cleansing.
Instead, the Greek community, like many others in Mariupol, has become a victim of indiscriminate violence and a broader humanitarian catastrophe as a result of the criminal acts by Moscow’s regime. For example, the Greek department at the University of Mariupol was destroyed, and much of its content was either stolen or destroyed. Also, most Mariupol Greeks lost their apartments, which cannot be reclaimed, either because they have been destroyed by bombs, or because their apartments have been occupied by Russian settlers – mostly from deep within the Asian part of Russia – which means that they have lost their property rights.
KO: The ethnic Greek minority of the Northern Azov region has been living under mounting pressure since 2014, when the emergence of Russian-backed paramilitary forces, the siege of cities in the east of Ukraine, and the subsequent outbreak of war in Donbas — initiated by Russia and resisted by Ukraine — ushered in a prolonged period of protracted volatility and regional destabilisation. Already during this time, the community had found itself increasingly exposed to violence, displacement, and political marginalisation, with little meaningful protection. The situation escalated dramatically with the full-scale and unlawful Russian invasion of Ukraine in 2022, culminating in the siege and near-total destruction of Mariupol, one of the most harrowing episodes of urban warfare in contemporary Europe. For the Greek minority, this marked not only a humanitarian catastrophe, but an acute crisis of physical survival and demographic disintegration. While the military operations may not have been explicitly framed in ethnically targeted terms, the consequences for the Greek population have been severe and, arguably, irreversible.
The broader pattern of violence in Mariupol, including the prolonged siege, the relentless bombardment of civilian areas, and the breakdown of conditions necessary for life, constitutes a serious breach of international humanitarian law. These actions have made it nearly impossible for the Greek minority to remain in their homes, resulting in what may amount to unlawful displacement under the terms of the Fourth Geneva Convention. Even in the absence of formal deportation orders, the realities on the ground — widespread destruction, blocked evacuation routes, and the collapse of basic services — have created conditions that leave civilians with no viable alternative but to flee. Similar patterns have been observed in other parts of Russian-occupied Ukraine, suggesting a wider logic of demographic restructuring through coercive means.
These developments cannot be seen in isolation. Rather, they are part of a broader and systematic strategy of Russification pursued by Moscow. This strategy seeks not merely to control territory, but to reshape its demographic and political character by erasing pluralism and reinforcing a singular imperial identity. The displacement of the Greek minority in Mariupol serves this purpose by weakening the fabric of local autonomy and replacing it with a homogenised, Russian-centred order. In this context, the experience of the North Azovian Greek population is neither incidental nor merely collateral. It is structurally embedded in a geopolitical project that weaponises displacement as a means of domination. Whether or not this meets specific legal thresholds, it exemplifies how minority communities are rendered expendable in the pursuit of imperial reordering.
The Russia-Ukraine conflict is a humanitarian crisis of massive proportions, but the effect on the Greek identity, history, and culture is not always at the forefront of the discourse. Why does this additional lens of understanding the war matter?
CM: Viewing the Russia-Ukraine conflict through the lens of its impact on Greek identity, history, and culture offers a vital, though often overlooked, dimension of the broader humanitarian crisis. The Greek community in the Northern Azov region represents one of the oldest diasporas in Eastern Europe, with roots tracing back to ancient colonization and a forced migration from Crimea in the 18th century. Mariupol and its surrounding villages were not only homes but cultural strongholds where unique dialects like Rumeíka and Urum, as well as centuries-old traditions, were preserved. The war has not only displaced people but has also destroyed physical sites of Greek heritage, weakened intergenerational cultural transmission, and threatened the survival of minority languages and identities. Including this lens is important because it highlights how war impacts not only human lives and infrastructure but also vulnerable cultural ecosystems. It reminds the global community that the erasure of identity can be as irreversible as the loss of life — and that protecting cultural diversity is a fundamental part of human rights and historical justice.
KO: The war in Ukraine must be understood not only as a territorial and humanitarian crisis but also as a profound assault on cultural identity — an assault whose effects are especially acute for national minorities such as the ethnic Greek community in the Northern Azov region. For the North Azovian Greeks, the destruction has gone beyond physical displacement. It has disrupted the continuity of historical presence, severed generational bonds, and put at risk the transmission of languages, memory, and collective identity. The siege of Mariupol decimated neighbourhoods such as Sartana and Buhas, where Greek traditions and dialects had endured since the 18th century. Cultural sites, schools, and historical landmarks were destroyed or rendered inaccessible; communal life was fractured, and linguistic and symbolic spaces disappeared almost overnight. What is at stake here is not merely the survival of individuals, but the erasure of a cultural ecology.
Crucially, this process cannot be seen as incidental. It forms part of a broader strategy of cultural domination pursued by Russia across occupied territories. From the looting of museums and the destruction of libraries to the renaming of streets and the symbolic deployment of imperial figures, culture has been transformed into a domain of warfare. UNESCO has documented over 470 damaged or destroyed cultural sites since the start of the invasion, a reflection of the scale of this campaign. Such actions are not unprecedented, but embedded in longer histories of Russification, historically enacted through linguistic suppression, forced assimilation, and the deliberate erasure of plural identities. In this context, the targeting of minority cultures, including that of the ethnic Greeks, is not a by-product of war but part of a logic of imperial homogenisation. Recognising this cultural lens is essential, not only for understanding the depth of violence inflicted, but for affirming the political significance of cultural survival as a form of resistance.
At the start of the war in 2022, the Greek government took steps to “evacuate [the Northern Azovian Greek] diaspora in the best possible conditions”. What impact has the establishment of the Greek communities in Ukraine had on the diplomatic relationship between the countries, both before and during the war?
CM: The Greek government initiated evacuation operations, notably “Operation Nostos”, to safely relocate Greek nationals and ethnic Greeks from conflict zones like Mariupol. Additionally, Greece offered to rebuild the maternity hospital in Mariupol, a city with a significant Greek population, symbolizing solidarity and support for Ukraine. Nonetheless, the rapid advance of the intruders created problems, while the Greek ambassador in Mariupol, Mr. Androulakis, was subject to harassment and attacks from social media and other sources, mostly from Greeks living in Russia (rossoponts). Finally, he managed to create some convoys which saved several hundred ethnic Greeks; however, overall, it was not possible to do much as long as the Moscow regime blocked the roads, and in some cases, the convoys were also attacked by intruders.
KO: While Greece has maintained a consistently supportive stance toward Ukraine since its independence — and rightly condemned Russia’s illegal invasion in 2022 — its policy toward the ethnic Greek population in Ukraine has historically lacked coherence and strategic depth. The war brought the Greek community in Mariupol momentarily into the centre of diplomatic discourse, yet beyond high-level declarations and symbolic gestures, the Greek state has not pursued a sustained or systematic approach to supporting this diaspora. As former Ambassador Vasilis Bornovas has observed, there was no dedicated Greek school or cultural infrastructure in the region, and key consular positions remained vacant in the lead-up to the war. The absence of a long-term vision meant that, when crisis struck, institutional capacities were limited and responses were largely reactive. The result is that while the Greek presence in Ukraine symbolically reinforces bilateral ties, its actual impact on policy remains constrained by domestic inertia and short-termism — a disconnect that the war has only made more visible.
Greece is a country with “long shared religious, economic and cultural ties with Russia dating back to the early 19th century”. How have the Russian actions during the conflict affected these long-standing ties and the cultural and political connection between the two countries?
CM: First of all, let’s get things clear: Russia was never Greece’s friend, but a longstanding enemy. Consider the fact that Russia never supported Greece, but it followed Orthodoxy, though Russia follows a different version of Orthodoxy from the legitimate ecumenical patriarchate, including the Orlov incidents at the end of the 18th century, causing the death of thousands of Greeks from the Ottomans. Overall, although Greece and Russia share religious and historical ties through Orthodoxy, Russia has repeatedly acted against Greek interests. One major example is Moscow’s opposition to the Ecumenical Patriarchate, particularly after it granted autocephaly to the Ukrainian Church. The Russian Church also retaliated against the Greek Orthodox Church and the Patriarchate of Alexandria for supporting this decision. Russia has attempted to expand its influence on Mount Athos, even pushing for a special status similar to that of the Vatican – in other words, seeking its independence.
During WWII negotiations, the Soviet Union failed to back Greece’s rightful claim to the Dodecanese islands. In recent decades, Russia has aligned closely with Turkey, despite Ankara’s aggressive stance in the Aegean. Russian diplomacy in Cyprus has also been passive, even during the 1974 invasion. The establishment of a Russian exarchate in Africa undermines Greek ecclesiastical presence. Russia promotes itself as the “Third Rome,” challenging Constantinople’s spiritual authority. These actions reveal that Russian policy often disregards Greek national and religious interests in favor of its geopolitical goals.
Αlso, Russia fuels parties with any Western and often non-democratic ideologies, such as the neonazi Golden Dawn and several extreme-leftist parties, with the use of misinformation campaigns, including the referendum of 2015. Recently, Greek authorities revealed that more than 50,000 Russian bots are trying to influence Greek public opinion and turn it, not only in favour of Russian and anti-Western storytelling, but also against the current elected government. A final point is that in 2018, Sergei Stepashin, who served as PM of Russia, claimed that Mount Athos shall be autonomous from Greece just like the Vatican is autonomous from Italy, which is yet another example of how Russia sees Greece’s sovereignty. Τhere are also cases of Greek journalists who are working for Russian media who openly spread Russian propaganda, even if they are lies. An example is the case of the Greek Fact-Checkers “Ellinika Hoaxes”, who have reported numerous cases of false news from Russia-based journalists.
KO: I prefer to refrain from interpreting international politics through the prism of binary oppositions such as “friend” and “foe.” What matters are medium- and long-term interests, which evolve and shift across time. In the case of Greece and Russia, the bilateral relationship has historically been complex — symbolically potent, occasionally aligned, but also marred by profound asymmetries of power and diverging strategic priorities. The popular belief in Russia’s perennial support for Greek causes is largely a myth, contradicted by critical historical moments such as the Orlov Revolt, the ambivalence of Russian diplomacy during the Greek War of Independence, and Soviet backing of Kemalist forces during the Asia Minor Campaign.
The 2022 invasion of Ukraine decisively ruptured the political relationship between the two states. For Greece, the condemnation of Russian aggression was not only a principled stance, but a necessary reaffirmation of its normative commitments. Yet, despite widespread awareness of the atrocities committed by Russia in Ukraine, Greek public opinion remains ambivalent — a reflection of long-standing cultural mythologies. According to an October 2023 survey conducted in Greece by ‘aboutpeople’ on behalf of the Eteron Institute, when asked “In the war between Russia and Ukraine, which side do you personally feel closer to?”, 42.3% of respondents answered “neither”, 35.3% “Ukraine”, and 17.9% “Russia”. These findings illustrate that while the cultural and political ties with Russia have undeniably weakened since 2022, they continue to exert an affective pull — shaping not policy, but public sentiment in subtle and enduring ways.
What is the impact of conflict and transition on national, cultural, and communal identity, and what factors affect the severity of such change?
CM: Conflict and transition, like the war in Ukraine, have deeply affected the North Azovian Greek identity. When people are forced to flee their homes, lose loved ones, or see their towns destroyed — as happened in Mariupol — it becomes harder to keep their language, traditions, and culture alive. Important cultural places like churches, schools, and community centers may be damaged or lost, making it difficult to pass on identity to the next generation. The impact is more severe when the conflict lasts a long time, when people are scattered far from each other, or when their culture is not supported by the government or the outside world. Sometimes, however, hard times also strengthen identity, as people hold onto their roots even more. For the North Azovian Greeks, their history, languages (Rumeíka and Urum), and religion are key parts of who they are — and keeping them alive depends on whether they can stay connected as a community, even in exile or in new places.
KO: Conflict and transition exert profound and often irreversible pressure on national, cultural, and communal identities, not only by displacing people physically, but by dislocating the symbolic and material structures that sustain collective meaning. The severity of such transformations depends not only on the violence itself but on the institutional (in)action that follows. When states, international organisations, or diaspora structures fail to provide coherent cultural, legal, and educational support, identity loss is not just possible – it becomes likely. The North Azovian Greek region illustrates this precariousness: even before the war, both Rumeíka and Urum had become critically endangered, in the absence of any coherent institutional policy aimed at their preservation or intergenerational transmission. Their use had already begun to recede among younger generations, and the fragile spaces, both physical and symbolic, that enabled cultural continuity were left unsupported and ultimately erased. What remains is often held in memory alone: a performative act of naming, narrating, and refusing to forget amid rupture.
This precarity is inseparable from the liminal status of the community itself — historically positioned at the intersection of competing imperial, Soviet, and post-Soviet national narratives. In recent years, local actors and community organisations had pursued recognition of the Greek population as an indigenous people of Ukraine, not as an appeal to symbolic ancestry, but as a political claim grounded in their historical rootedness and cultural continuity in the Azov region. In the wake of Russia’s unlawful aggression, such claims acquire renewed urgency. Communities like the North Azovian Greeks, caught in the crosshairs of imperial reordering, are not only displaced, but they also face the erosion of their cultural foundations and the precarisation of their future. Institutional care must be matched by grassroots mobilisation, not only to preserve memory but to sustain and reaffirm the collective identities of those rendered liminal and endangered by geopolitical violence. Most importantly, affected communities must be heard in full agency and autonomy, not as passive subjects of international concern, but as agents with the right to speak, define, and shape the terms of their own continuity. For communities like the North Azovian Greeks, continuity depends on whether memory is not only preserved privately but politically sustained and supported through policy, protected through law, and recognised as integral to the pluralist fabric of the society to which it belongs.
What is the most important advice you could give to young scholars of International Relations?
CM: For young scholars of International Relations, the most important advice is to connect theory with real-world complexity. Study history deeply, think critically about different perspectives, and stay open to insights from other fields like sociology and anthropology. Pay attention to local voices and lived experiences, not just high-level diplomacy or state actors. Global politics affects real people, so empathy and ethical thinking matter just as much as analysis. The world is complex — approach it with curiosity, humility, and a commitment to understanding, not just explaining.
KO: The most important advice I would offer to young scholars of International Relations is to remain intellectually courageous and personally grounded. Do not shy away from questioning the discipline’s foundational assumptions: theory is never neutral — it reflects and reinforces relations of power. Engage critically, read widely, and listen attentively to voices at the margins, for what is excluded often reveals as much as what is included. Cultivate a curiosity that seeks to understand the world not through abstraction, but through its lived complexities and contradictions. In a time when the very notion of truth is increasingly politicised and undermined, defending the integrity of the scientific method — as a principled and disciplined search for understanding — becomes an act of resistance. At the same time, remember that academia is not only a site of contestation, but also of community. Create and sustain spaces of solidarity and reciprocity, where intellectual generosity is valued over competition. And finally, allow yourself the freedom to fail, to pause, and to begin again. In a demanding and often unforgiving field, resilience is not a consolation but a strength. Safeguarding your mental health is not ancillary to scholarly excellence, but a precondition for it.
