In late February 1947, Stalin's trusted troubleshooter Lazar' Kaganovich arrived in Kiev as the Ukrainian Communist Party's new first secretary. Having served consecutively as the Soviet People's Commissar of Railroad Transport, Heavy Industry, and Construction Materials, the notoriously heavy-handed Kaganovich had earned the epithet of zheleznyi narkom (“iron minister”). His tenure at the head of the Ukrainian party organization in March–December 1947 was marked by intensified coercive intervention in the economy and ideological purges in culture and scholarship. In Ukraine, Kaganovich's brief rule is remembered primarily for his relentless attacks on the alleged remnants of “Ukrainian bourgeois nationalism.” In the works of post-Soviet Ukrainian historians, the 1947 crusade against “nationalism” appears as a comprehensive campaign masterminded by Stalin, planned by his envoy Kaganovich, faithfully implemented by the servile republican functionaries, and submissively endured by the terrorized Ukrainian intellectuals. Clearly, modern Ukrainian historians have adopted the traditional Western concept of Stalinism as a successful totalitarian dictatorship, in which society was no more than a passive object of an all-powerful state.

Since the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia in August 1968, an increasing number of Czech voices have suggested that the nation would have been better off in a federalized Austria-Hungary. While the Czechs would have survived and, most likely, prospered in such an arrangement, it was necessary for the Slovak national survival to severe the nation's ties with Hungary. As it happened, the Czechoslovak Republic, proclaimed on October 28, 1918, lasted for merely twenty years — a short span in the life of both nations. The collapse of the Republic has been blamed by various writers on France and England, the national minorities, the rise of Nazism in Germany and others. But, in the last analysis, the responsibility has to be placed on the shoulders of the leaders who did not have the foresight to secure the state externally and internally and/or were unwilling to fight for its territorial integrity in the fall of 1938.

In 1994, after the enactment of Hungary's Minority Rights legislation (herein the Act), representatives from India rather than Roma themselves were invited to represent the Roma at the signing ceremony, against the request of Roma leaders. During an interview in August 2000, former member of Parliament and Roma leader Aladar Horvath describes the events this way:

The Crimean question developed as one of the major crises of the post-Soviet period among the two largest Slavic states of the former Soviet Union. It is an issue with several dimensions: the historical background; the case of the Crimean Tatars as an ipso facto aboriginal population deported en masse toward the end of the Second World War; the military-strategic question, with Crimea as the base for the Black Sea Fleet; economic and social developments; and the legality of the 1954 transfer of the peninsula from the Russian Soviet Federated Socialist Republic (RSFSR) to Ukraine in 1954.

Today, after the signing of the peace agreement in Paris, when the end of the Yugoslav war is in sight, one frequently hears the questions: Could the war have been avoided and could a confederation have saved Yugoslavia? Namely, in late 1990 and early 1991, the republics now outside Yugoslavia (Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia-Hercegovina and Macedonia) proposed that Yugoslavia be reorganised as a confederation which would, as they claimed, have fulfilled their main political aspirations. The Serbian side refused resolutely, and, soon afterwards, war started in Slovenia, Croatia and Bosnia-Hercegovina, which was actually their war of liberation. Now, when the republics in the territory of ex-Yugoslavia are internationally recognised, when they have largely recognised each other and when we are witnessing the restoration of economic and other relations between the peoples who shared a common state for seventy-three years, we may justifiably ask: Would it not have been better if the Serbian side had accepted a confederation and, thus, preserved some kind of Yugoslavia, than, by its persistent refusal, have lead the secessionist republics to take up arms?

Post-Communist Europe has not chosen to imitate the Truth and Justice or Truth and Reconciliation Commissions set up on several other continents. The notion of reconciliation with the Communist regime is not of much interest to certain political parties, many of which are rooted in the protest against the compromises that were part of the negotiated revolutions. The model admired by post-Communist countries was the one conceived by the Germans. Almost all the countries founded specific institutions – institutes – for managing memory, with archives located in these institutes. Some have archives that date from before World War II to 1990; they handle both totalitarianisms. What is feared is that through the game of partisan appointments, these institutes will become little more than instruments in less than honest hands for use in political contests. This is especially likely given that the Polish Institute of National Memory (IPN) employees perform several functions: classification, prosecution, and evaluating individual applicants to certain administrative positions. The specialized literature usually explains the trials and tribulations of Poland's IPN in terms of the personalities of its different directors and the period in which each occupied that post. In this paper, we have verified this hypothesis.

The argument to be presented here is that the Yugoslav meltdown involved three factors or sets of factors: first, the various underlying problems such as economic deterioration, political illegitimacy, and structural factors which drove the system toward crisis; second, the presence and persistence of inter-ethnic resentments deriving from irreconcilable national historical narratives in which Yugoslavia's constituent peoples cast each other as “the Enemy” (usually across the Serb–non-Serb cleavage) and specifically stoked by certain ambitious political figures; and third, the emergence, in Serbia, of a national “revitalization movement” led by Slobodan Milošević, nurturing grandiose territorial fantasies. I shall also argue that understanding the Serb national awakening of the late 1980s as a “revitalization movement” helps to understand the nature of what happened in Serbia, in particular how Serb nationalists could construe their initiatives as responses to some perceived threat coming from outside the community of Serbs, the phases in the development of that movement, and its role in impelling socialist Yugoslavia toward breakup and meltdown.