S M Hali
Few narratives in contemporary geopolitics have proved as enduring, or as politically useful, as the claim that Ukraine voluntarily surrendered the world’s third-largest nuclear arsenal in exchange for security guarantees that were later betrayed. The story is commonly presented as a morality play: Ukraine gave up nearly 1,900 nuclear weapons, trusted international assurances, and was abandoned when Russia violated its territorial integrity.
It is a compelling narrative. It is also an incomplete one.
The reality is more complex and offers important lessons about deterrence, statecraft and the dangers of allowing political narratives to overshadow historical facts.
When the Soviet Union collapsed in 1991, thousands of nuclear warheads were dispersed across newly independent states, including Ukraine, Belarus and Kazakhstan. Yet physical possession did not equate to operational control. The Soviet nuclear arsenal functioned as an integrated strategic system under a unified command structure centred in Moscow. While missiles and warheads remained on Ukrainian territory, the launch codes, command-and-control architecture, maintenance infrastructure and much of the technical expertise remained under Russian control.
In practical terms, Ukraine inherited nuclear weapons but not an independent nuclear deterrent.
This distinction is crucial. A credible nuclear force requires far more than warheads. It demands command systems, scientific expertise, secure storage facilities, maintenance programmes, delivery platforms and a robust industrial base. Building such a capability takes decades and vast financial resources.
France spent billions developing its force de frappe. China invested decades in creating a credible deterrent. Even Britain’s nuclear programme depended heavily on close technological cooperation with the United States. Ukraine, by contrast, emerged from the Soviet collapse amid economic turmoil, hyperinflation and institutional fragility. Constructing an independent nuclear arsenal from scratch would have been prohibitively expensive and technically daunting.
Belarus and Kazakhstan faced similar realities. Both relinquished Soviet-era nuclear weapons and joined the global non-proliferation regime. Yet neither is commonly portrayed as having abandoned an independent nuclear deterrent. Ukraine’s case acquired a different political resonance because subsequent events transformed denuclearisation into a potent symbol rather than a nuanced historical episode.
Acknowledging this reality does not diminish Ukraine’s legitimate security concerns. It simply places them in their proper historical context.
At the centre of the debate lies the 1994 Budapest Memorandum, a document frequently cited as evidence of broken Western promises. Yet it is often misunderstood.
Under its provisions, Ukraine agreed to transfer the nuclear weapons stationed on its territory and accede to the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty as a non-nuclear state. In return, Russia, the United States and the United Kingdom reaffirmed their commitment to respect Ukraine’s sovereignty, independence and existing borders, and to refrain from the threat or use of force against it.
Crucially, however, the memorandum was not a mutual-defence treaty. It contained nothing comparable to NATO’s Article 5 collective-defence clause. It provided security assurances, not binding military guarantees.
This may seem a technical distinction, but it lies at the heart of contemporary misunderstandings. Much of today’s discourse assumes that Ukraine surrendered a functioning nuclear deterrent in exchange for a Western commitment to defend it militarily. The historical record does not support that interpretation.
Nor is this merely an academic debate. Historical inaccuracies often produce flawed strategic assumptions. When policymakers, commentators and publics construct policy around simplified narratives, they risk drawing conclusions unsupported by facts.
Since independence, Ukraine has occupied one of the world’s most challenging geopolitical positions, situated between Russia and the Euro-Atlantic community. Successive governments alternated between accommodation with Moscow and integration with Western institutions. Domestic politics, economic pressures and changing regional dynamics shaped those choices.
In hindsight, many decisions taken by Kiev, Moscow, Washington and Brussels can be questioned. What remains beyond dispute is that Ukraine became the principal fault line in the wider geopolitical contest between Russia and the West.
Today, the nuclear disarmament narrative is frequently invoked to justify continued Western support for Ukraine. Advocates argue that Kiev honoured its commitments and therefore deserves sustained backing. Critics contend that the story has been reduced to an emotionally persuasive but historically incomplete account.
Both arguments contain elements of truth. Yet the more important point is that sound policy requires sound history.
The late American strategist Joseph Nye observed that “deterrence depends on psychology.” Psychology, however, is shaped by perceptions, and perceptions are often shaped by narratives. When narratives diverge from historical reality, strategic calculations can become distorted.
The circumstances surrounding Ukraine’s denuclearisation were far more complex than the popular assertion that Kiev simply “gave up its nuclear weapons.” It inherited weapons stationed on its territory, but not the sovereign capability required to operate and sustain them as an independent nuclear force. That distinction is not a technicality; it is the heart of the matter.
History rarely conforms to slogans. The collapse of the Soviet Union, Ukraine’s denuclearisation and the Budapest Memorandum emerged from a unique post-Cold War environment marked by optimism, uncertainty and a determination to prevent nuclear proliferation. Viewed through the lens of today’s war, these events are often reduced to simplistic narratives of betrayal and victimhood.
Reality is considerably more complicated.
As the conflict continues and the search for peace remains elusive, policymakers would be wise to revisit this history with greater precision and less sentiment. Understanding what actually occurred in the aftermath of the Soviet collapse is not merely an intellectual exercise; it is essential to avoiding future miscalculations.
The real lesson of Ukraine’s nuclear legacy is not that nuclear weapons guarantee security or that international assurances are worthless. It is that strategic decisions must be grounded in reality rather than retrospective mythology. Nations that base policy on comforting narratives risk misunderstanding both the past and the present.
In international politics, myths may inspire, but facts determine outcomes. The debate over Ukraine’s nuclear inheritance is therefore not really about history. It is about whether future decisions will be guided by evidence and strategic clarity, or by narratives crafted to serve the passions of the moment. History suggests that great powers ignore that distinction at their peril.
The writer is a retired Group Captain of the Pakistan Air Force (PAF). He is a columnist, analyst, and TV talk show host who has authored 16 books on current affairs, including ten on China.
