Russia in Global Affairs

For citation, please use:
Miller, A.I., 2025. Ukraine: History Politics in Regional Identity-Building. Russia in Global Affairs, 23(4), pp. 174–190. DOI: 10.31278/1810-6374-2025-23-4-174-190

Speaking in Kiev in 2006, Canadian political scientist Dominique Arel called Ukraine’s regional factor its ‘Achilles heel,’ which has since been convincingly confirmed, and will likely continue to receive confirmation for the foreseeable future.

Arel also noted that “the regional issue was tabooed in Ukraine’s official discourse at that time” (Arel, 2006, p. 10; Androshchuk, 2017, pp. 384-444). For instance, former President Leonid Kuchma’s 2003 book Ukraine Is Not Russia caused an uproar, but paid amazingly little attention to the regional issue.

But Arel left aside the issue of how scholars and public intellectuals approached the regional issue. By the beginning of the 21st century, a glaring divergence in approaches had become evident. While little was written about the topic in Ukraine, quite a few publications (by Western and Ukrainian sociologists and political scientists) appeared in the West as early as the 1990s (Nemiria, 2000, pp. 183-198). Those works made some interesting points.

Some stated that the intensification of regionalism after Ukraine’s independence had been caused by the shift of economic gravity from Moscow to Kiev, altering relations between the ethnically diverse regions and the political center—and that independence had increased Ukraine’s border regions from five to 16 (Birch and Zinko, 1996, pp. 23-24, 65). Stephen Shulman (2001, pp. 178-179) rightly noted that researchers addressed the topic of Ukrainian regions either when analyzing differences in electoral activity and party support, or when discussing how public opinion varied on certain foreign and domestic policy matters. And of course, following the Orange Revolution’s exposure of regional fissures, the topic was widely discussed in the context of different nation-building scenarios. Notably, in 2005, Alfred Stepan titled an article “Ukraine: Improbable Democratic Nation-State but Possible Democratic State-Nation?” Arel himself published an article headed “Orange Ukraine Chooses the West, but Without the East” (Stepan, 2005, pp. 279-308).

Only two Western political scientists paid special attention to history and memory policy in the context of Ukrainian regions—Peter Rodgers (2008, p. 205) and Ukrainian scholar Ivan Katchanovski, who moved to Canada in the 1990s (2006, pp. 507-532). Following Huntington, Katchanovski spoke of Ukraine and Moldova as “cleft countries” and pointed to historical legacy as the key determinant of regional political culture. He also emphasized that memory of history (especially when instrumentalized by politicians) was more important than history itself. I also addressed this issue during that period (Miller, 2008, pp. 83-100).

This article investigates which episodes in Ukrainian history have been invoked, and how, in discussions over Ukraine’s regional division and future.

Any historical narrative is selective in that it emphasizes some aspects and glosses over others. Any national narrative focuses on history, identity, and space to justify the ‘natural’ and ‘just’ belonging to the nation of certain regions, while ignoring or even denying the existence of other regions. Ukraine’s post-Soviet history features diverse uses of memory policy to draw the country’s imagined geography, including its regional dimension.

HOW MANY UKRAINES ARE THERE?

The first surge of interest in Ukraine’s regions arose at the very beginning of the 1990s. Unrealized claims to autonomy in Ukraine’s southeast focused on the memory of the Donetsk-Krivoy-Rog and Odessa Soviet Republics, although they only existed for one and less than three months, respectively, in turbulent 1918. Autonomy was also claimed by the ethnically heterogeneous Chernovtsy region and by the Ruthenians of Transcarpathia. Over time, Chernovtsy came under the influence of Romania, which generously issued passports there, while Transcarpathia became an interest of Hungary, which jealously guarded the rights of the local Hungarian minority. Discussions of these areas revolved around the interwar period, and Ukrainian nationalists could be easily annoyed by describing Stalin as the ‘gatherer of Ukrainian lands,’ given his incorporation of Chernovtsy and Transcarpathia into Soviet Ukraine.

In 1996, the goal of building a unitary nation-state was enshrined in Ukraine’s new Constitution. (Adopted by the Verkhovna Rada in dramatic and grueling article-by-article voting, in which Crimea’s status as an Autonomous Republic was approved despite shouts of “oblast, oblast!”) In the second half of the 1990s, the campaign for southeastern regional autonomy was taken up by the Party of Regional Revival of Ukraine, created in 1997 and registered as the Party of Regions in 2001.

As Kuchma’s second presidential term came to an end, and the political struggle intensified, discussion of the regional issue intensified as well. Perhaps the most popular concept was proposed back in 1992 by Mykola Ryabchuk, who came up with the idea of ‘two Ukraines’, which he detailed in a 2003 book and constantly clarified and elaborated afterwards (Ryabchuk, 2003, p. 335).

He suggested that there were two nation-building projects in Ukraine: the ‘aboriginal’ in the west and the ‘creole’ in the southeast. They use different cultural codes and historical narratives.

“[The western, aboriginal project is] a normal project characteristic of all stateless peoples in Eastern Europe … This project existed for two hundred years and was born in travail. People fought, were imprisoned, and died for it. But the other, creole project came out of nowhere; it was lethargic and not national. It was a kind of local patriotism, underpinned by creole… identity. In the Russian Empire, this was Little Russian identity, and in the Soviet state it was a variety of Little Russian identity: the so-called Ukrainian-Soviet identity, compatible with imperial identity.” Like a matryoshka doll, it was built into a bigger matryoshka, that is, one could be a patriot of Ukraine, of this territory or region, and at the same time be a Soviet patriot.

According to Ryabchuk, the aboriginal-creole border was also that of the historical Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, which essentially separated the European and Russian cultural traditions. Here Ryabchuk uses vague notions such as “cultural matrices, special categories of political culture, and a system of values that takes centuries to form.” It was also difficult to understand which border Ryabchuk had in mind. That which preceded the Khmelnitsky Uprising, when Kiev belonged to the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth? Or the 18th-century border shortly before the partitioning of Poland? So his reasoning turned into a typical Eastern European narrative about Europe’s eastern border, which tends to coincide precisely with the eastern border of the country in question (Miller, 2001, pp. 18-33).

According to Ryabchuk, the (colonial or postcolonial) creole identity was concentrated in the southeast. The problem was not a higher percentage of Russians living there, but “the natives’ assimilation and adoption of an inferiority complex and a colonial, imperial view of themselves, their history, and their culture.” And without a clear-cut border between the indigenous west and the creole east, a peaceful Czechoslovakian-like divorce would be impossible. Ryabchuk thus suggested that western Ukrainian aborigines would need a public opinion campaign to overcome their creole compatriots’ postcolonial syndrome.

Ryabchuk’s approach was grossly generalizing. The Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and its szlachta (nobility) was meant to somehow explain the true Europeanness of indigenous western Ukraine, while the southeast’s creole identity is a product of 300-year-long “Muscovite colonialism.”

Ryabchuk came under fire from multiple directions. Seeking to blur the country’s polarization, Lvov historian Yaroslav Hrytsak suggested that there are actually twenty-two Ukraines (Hrytsak, 2004, p. 343). “For some Ukrainian patriots, including our president, there is only one Ukraine. For others, including Putin and Ryabchuk, there are two Ukraines. But if someone wants to write about Ukraine seriously, then one or two Ukraines will not be enough, because there are actually at least twenty-two of them” (Hrytsak, 2020).

Hrytsak argued that regional divisions in Ukraine were caused “not so much by objectively existing cultural and historical differences (as the ‘two Ukraines’ theory suggests—A.M.) but by the interests of political elites, who sustain existing differences in order to divert the electorate’s attention from other, much more important issues.”

The debate between Ryabchuk and Hrytsak continued for years, but their positions appear to converge on some key points. Both in 2004 and later, Hrytsak invariably emphasized that Ukrainian regions have no clear regional identity, with “our Galicia and perhaps Volyn” being the only exception (Hrytsak, 2020). Explaining the nature of the strong Galician identity, Hrytsak appealed to the “Habsburg legacy.” However, this is contradicted by the fact that Volyn—so similar to Galicia, according to Hrytsak—was never under Habsburg rule, as it was belonged to the Romanov Empire after the partitions of Poland.

Hrytsak agreed with Ryabchuk that a civilized divorce between the east and the west was impossible, and warned (correctly, it turned out) that a crisis of state unity would be more likely to unfold per the Yugoslavian scenario, rather than the Czechoslovakian one. However, Hrytsak believed that the center was more likely to be ‘captured’ by the southeast, and separatism thus more likely in Galicia than in the Donbass.

The idea of autonomy indeed arose in Galicia in the early 1990s, when Kiev seemed hostile towards the ‘western’ versions of Ukrainian nationalism.

Leonid Kuchma (and the other authors of Ukraine Is Not Russia) talked about one united Ukraine, and tried to formulate a version of ethnic Ukrainian nationalism that would not imply a leading role for the ‘aborigines’ (per Ryabchuk) or ‘national democrats’ (as they preferred to call themselves) of Galicia. Kuchma devoted just two pages to Galicia (Kuchma, 2003, pp. 481-482), attributing their specific behavior to their Greek Catholicism and their devotion to it while it was banned in the Soviet times.

MYTHS OF THE WEST AND EAST

Despite coming from a variety of authors with various political attitudes and interests, arguments about Galicia’s uniqueness almost unanimously avoid discussion of the 1930s-1940s and the Organization of Ukrainian Nationalists (OUN). The OUN formed in interwar Poland, participated in the Holocaust, conducted the Volyn massacre of 1943, and used the most radical of measures to resist Soviet authority at the war’s end and after. Fierce debates about the role of the OUN and its military branch, the Ukrainian Insurgent Army (UPA), began in Ukraine shortly before the collapse of the USSR, and never stopped.

In 1997, Ukraine set up a special government commission to assess their role. The commission included a group of historians and completed its work in 2005 after the Orange Revolution. In 2002, the Center for Liberation Movement Studies was created in Lvov under the patronage of pro-Bandera Ukrainian emigres. The center was headed by Vladimir Vyatrovich, the future director of Ukraine’s Institute of National Memory. In short, the topic was a subject of public attention (Myshlovska, 2018, pp. 223–254).

However, early-21-century discussions of Galician and Volynian specificities did not even mention the (at least fascism-adjacent) OUN/UPA. For supporters of western Ukraine’s claims to nationwide leadership, the OUN/UPA was too toxic to serve as historical material for legitimizing such claims (Myshlovska, 2018, p. 248). For their opponents (like Kuchma) pursuing a nationalist project without western Ukraine’s leadership, the topic threatened to align them with the southeast’s opponents of ethnic nationalism, who persistently highlighted the OUN/UPA’s crimes.

The first attempt to nationally legitimize the OUN/UPA’s leaders, Bandera and Shukhevich, was made by Victor Yushchenko, who at the end of his presidency proclaimed them Heroes of Ukraine. Then, in 2015, a set of ‘memorial laws’ (Kasianov, 2023, pp. 326-340) were drafted by the Vyatrovich group and supported in the Rada by a broad coalition of nationalists, populists, and conservatives. At this point the cult of the OUN, UPA, Bandera, and Shukhevich became the focal point of Kiev’s memory policy.

In this discussion, the most interesting voice from the east was the article “The Myth of Two Ukraines” by Tatyana Zhurzhenko of Kharkov, who had settled in Vienna by that time (Zhurzhenko, 2002). She challenged key tenets of the myth. First, Zhurzhenko offered a different description of Galicia’s role. While not identifying herself with Vladimir Alekseyev, a former Verkhovna Rada deputy, Zhurzhenko repeated his thesis: since most of Ukraine belongs to the “Slavic-Orthodox Civilization,” Galicia is not Piedmont, but the Vendee, it assists not nation-building, but its destruction (Alekseyev, 2000, pp. 66-75). This analog to the rural Vendee also touched a sore spot in arguments for Ukrainian Galicians’ unique belonging to European culture: in the Habsburg era, the peasant ancestors of Lvov’s present-day intelligentsia had visited Lvov only to sell the fruits of their labor.

Zhurzhenko agreed that interpretation of national history was one of the main factors dividing the country. But she formulated historical questions differently from Ryabchuk or Hrytsak: “Was assimilation into Russian culture forced or voluntary? Was Ukraine a colony of imperial and Soviet Russia? Is the Russian language an imperial legacy imposed on denationalized eastern Ukrainians, or a legitimate part of their national identity as citizens of Ukraine?” (Zhurzhenko, 2002).

Zhurzhenko carefully avoided the issue of the OUN/UPA’s war crimes and collaboration with the Nazis. However, she noted that, before and during WWII, western Ukrainian nationalists had been critical of liberal democracy, and it was only after the fall of the Berlin Wall that western Ukrainian intellectuals reconstructed their national identity as oriented towards Euro-Atlantic values.

Zhurzhenko struck a nerve with her conclusion that eastern Ukrainians reject not a “national idea,” but rather its “anti-Russian message” (Ibid). Ukraine’s east prevented its west from following the typical path of other post-socialist nations that had externalized communism as Russia-imposed.

For eastern Ukrainians, the Soviet past was a shared past—with all its exploits and horrors—in which Ukrainians were subjects of history, not victims of colonial rule.

It was not that Russia had repressed Ukraine, but rather that the Soviet government had used Russians and Ukrainians to repress other Russians and Ukrainians. Zhurzhenko concluded that the myth of two Ukraines implied that only one Ukraine was ‘real’ and ‘correct,’ and that such a position was neither liberal nor democratic.

DONBASS AS A DISTINCT PHENOMENON

The topic of Donetsk’s autonomy reemerged on the political agenda in November 2004, when Severodonetsk hosted a congress of deputies, mainly from the Party of Regions and Communist Party, opposed to the first Maidan (Orange Revolution). The congress discussed the creation of a Southeast Ukrainian Autonomous Republic with Kharkov as its capital, which would include not only the Donbass but also Crimea.

Later in 2004, historian Valery Soldatenko, a member of the Communist Party of Ukraine, wrote an article presenting an “official” interpretation of the history of the Donetsk-Krivoy-Rog Republic (DKR), whose precedent had been cited by congress participants. Soldatenko elegantly formulated the communist viewpoint: “The idea of extracting the Donetsk-Krivoy-Rog Basin from Ukraine elicited no response among ordinary people. Regionalist sentiment was harbored not only by few Ukrainians, but even by few Bolsheviks” (Soldatenko, 2004). Eastern Ukraine’s ‘systemic’ politicians, represented by Soldatenko, refused to invoke the memory of the DKR’s autonomy. When these politicians took power in 2010 (with Yushchenko receiving a miserable 5.5 percent of the vote), Victor Yanukovich appointed Soldatenko the new director of the Ukrainian Institute of National Memory.

Soldatenko’s article was reprinted by Ukrainskaya Pravda in 2011 (Soldatenko, 2011) as a reaction to a book about the DKR by Vladimir Kornilov (2011) (in 2006-2013, director of the Ukrainian branch of the Moscow Institute of CIS Countries). In a chapter titled “The Bolshevik Invention’s Origins in Business Interests,” the author emphasizes that the idea of DKR regional autonomy first emerged in 1917 (under the Provisional Government) from the Congress of Mining Industrialists of Southern Russia, founded in the 1870s. In this narrative, DKR autonomy was not an ephemeral Bolshevik invention, but rather had deep historical roots in the “industrial heart of Russia.” Kornilov also recalled that Kharkov had housed the Union of Mining Industrialists on the main street since 1902, and driven the Southern Russian mining and metallurgical industry. It was in Kharkov, the first capital of Soviet Ukraine, that Victor Yanukovich hoped to set up an anti-Maidan front after fleeing from Kiev in 2014 (but eventually decided to instead go to Russia).

According to Kornilov, the short history of the DKR was cut short by the Bolsheviks, who sacrificed it to a perverse nationality policy based on concessions to the nationalist Ukrainian Left. Eventually, Moscow Bolsheviks also destroyed the DKR’s leadership, executing nine out of ten former ministers in the 1930s. DKR leader Artyom (Fyodor Sergeyev) died earlier, in 1921, under unclear circumstances. So, while Soldatenko’s DKR was just a brief episode in history, Kornilov’s was a dream executed by firing squad.

According to Kornilov, the DKR ideologists crucially held that the state should be built on economic rather than ethnic principles. The Donetsk republic would eventually confirm this approach. The memorandum “On the Fundamental Principles of State Building and Political and Historical Continuity,” adopted by the People’s Council of the Donetsk People’s Republic (DPR) on 6 February 2015, says: “Based on the will of the Donbass people as expressed in referendum on 11 May 2014, on the [DPR] State Independence Act, and on the 7 April 2014 Declaration of Sovereignty of the [DPR], and recognizing the need for the progressive development of law-making and state-building processes, we hereby affirm the historical connection between…the Donetsk-Krivoy-Rog Republic and the Donetsk People’s Republic. On 12 February 1918, the IV Congress of Soviets of the Donetsk-Krivoy-Rog Basin established the Donetsk-Krivoy-Rog Republic (DKR) on the basis of economic integration. Fyodor Sergeyev (Artyom) stood at the origins of this multiethnic people’s state. The Republic incorporated the Kharkov and Yekaterinoslav provinces, the Krivoy Rog area of the Kherson province, several districts of the Taurian province, and industrial areas of the Don Host region.”

So, the historical continuity of the DKR and the DPR was declared explicitly. Particularly notable is the exhaustive list of the DKR’s territories, which sounds like a claim to them—much of the historical Slobozhanshchina, Kharkov, and much of southern Ukraine—by the DPR, based on the DKR’s legacy.

The DPR and Lugansk People’s Republic (LPR) have emphasized their multiculturalism, in which Ukrainians and their culture have a place, and opposed Kiev as the side that is pursuing nationalism.

Alexander Voronovici has found similarities between the DPR/LPR and the Transnistrian Moldavian Republic, which framed its conflict with Chisinau as opposition to ethnic nationalism. Voronovici has defined this approach as ‘internationalist [i.e., multiethnic] separatism,’ in contrast to the ethnic separatism of Abkhazia, South Ossetia, and Karabakh (Voronovici, 2020, pp. 1-15).

In 2014-2015, the Donbass’s multiethnic separatism competed with the “Russian Spring” ideology of Russian irredentism. The latter resonated with some local figures and most volunteers from Russia. The political situation in the DPR/LPR in 2014 was uncertain, since Russia’s reincorporation of Crimea showed that Moscow had distanced itself from the principle of post-Soviet borders’ inviolability. Russian irredentism entailed extending the ‘Crimean scenario’ to the Donbass, and emphasized the concept of Novorossiya. The Novorossiya historical narrative portrayed southeastern Ukraine as mostly uninhabited (due to constant raids from Crimea) when conquered by the Russian Empire in the 18th century, and developed by Russia in the 1700s-1800s. The historical boundaries of the region were very vague and could change depending on the circumstances.

The Novorossiya narrative was developed in eastern Ukraine and in Russia. It could variously call for returning Russian lands to Russia per classical irredentism, or for protecting the unity of the Russian world as a cultural community of politically divided lands.

In any case, the Novorossiya narrative was based on the imperial period of history, in contrast to the Donbass narrative based solely on the DKR.

By the end of 2015, it had become entirely clear that the Crimean scenario had not materialized for the Donbass, and the Novorossiya ideology faded into the shadows, continuing to exist mainly in Russia, where the newspaper Novorossiya, still published in St. Petersburg, remained its principal platform (Babkina, 2016, pp. 55-74).

DPR leaders were not immediately pleased with the special autonomous status provided by the Minsk Agreements. On 18 July 2017, following a meeting reportedly attended by “representatives of 19 regions of the former Ukraine,” the DPR’s first leader, Alexander Zakharchenko, announced the creation of Malorossiya (Little Russia). It was intended to be a federal and multinational state, with Malorussian and Russian as state languages, to replace the “failed state of Ukraine.” But the initiative had not been agreed upon with Moscow, and Zakharchenko soon had to disavow it. But the idea of turning the DPR into a kind of Piedmont is remarkable, as it envisioned the new republic consolidating Little Russia around itself, with no room for the Galician Vendee with its exclusive ethnic nationalism and hostility towards Russia and Russians. Vladimir Alekseyev’s ideas, expressed in the last century, were still alive.

In 2017, a new edition of Kornilov’s book on the DKR came out, supplemented with new chapters on the still-relevant lessons of the DKR’s history (its “founders won on the battlefield but then lost in Moscow offices”) that express dissatisfaction with Russia’s Donbass policy (Kornilov, 2017, p. 772).

By 2018, the narrative of Donbass patriotism had become prevalent. That year, two university history textbooks were recommended on the same day for publication.

History: The Donbass in the Context of the Development of the Russian State basically contains the Russian ethnic narrative on the history of the Donbass. In its introduction, the authors define its purpose as fostering “a sense of patriotism, love for and pride in their homeland and the Russian nation” (Brovar, 2017, p. 6).

The other textbook, The History of the Donbass from Antiquity to the Present (Shepko and Nikolskiy, 2018, p. 16), emphasizes the “multinational nature of the region” and concludes that “a stable interethnic Russian-speaking community emerged in the Donbass in the 20th century, with uniform values and cultural features, a clear regional identity and sense of self, and lasting ethnic and religious tolerance.” It also says that “regional identity absolutely prevails over the ethnic one” (Ibid).

The second textbook was approved as the basis for developing secondary-school history textbooks.

The historical narrative underlying the Donbass’s regional identity did not employ the Novorossiya theme, instead embedding the Donbass in Greater Russian history either as the “industrial heart of Russia” or through the role of the Donbass and the DKR in the 1917 Revolution and Civil War. The DKR’s centenary was widely celebrated in 2018.

The Donbass has drawn heavily on symbols memorializing the Great Patriotic War in Russia: the St. George Ribbon, white cranes, and the Immortal Regiment. Following the Verkhovna Rada’s 2015 ‘memorial laws,’ which criminalized these and Soviet symbols, their presence or absence has become an unmistakable indicator of the limits of Kiev’s control. In addition, discussion of the Great Patriotic War and current hostilities—symbolically connected through shared battlefields such as Saur Mogila—prompts remembrance of the OUN/UPA’s collaboration with the Nazis and resistance to the USSR after 1945.

PRELIMINARY RESULTS

One can no longer seriously discuss building a Ukrainian civic nation that would permit the coexistence of different ethnic and regional identities and of eastern and western versions of collective memory. Alfred Stepan, who spoke in 2005 of Ukraine as an “improbable nation-state” but a “possible state-nation,” was overly optimistic. The attempt to build a western Ukrainian nation-state caused a crisis in the southeast, and no one even tried to build a state-nation (Miller, 2017, pp. 144-157). Galicia has fulfilled its role as the Vendee by eliminating the possibility of building an inclusive state. The question remains to what extent Galicia, having established control over Kiev, can play the role of pseudo-Piedmont, not uniting but trapping the various regions within its national project. Ukraine’s present-day memory policy is based entirely on the approach of the 2015 memorial laws, seeking to obliterate (as a process of ‘decolonization’) all traces of Soviet/Russian memorial/symbolic heritage. More than 300 convictions have been issued, in the last three years, for violating the symbolic policy regulations in public places (including social networks) (Nekoliak, 2025).

Some researchers explain (and to a greater or lesser extent justify) such a policy as a consequence of the full-scale military confrontation with Russia since February 2022. I find another explanation more convincing: the extremity of the symbolic policy—aimed at destroying all elements of the Russian and Soviet cultural and memorial heritage, from monuments to place names—is determined by opportunity at any given moment, while its goals have barely changed since Ukrainian independence (Miller, 2023, pp. 172-194). Attempts to criminalize certain interpretations of the past were already made under Yushchenko, intended to coerce those who resisted Ukraine’s symbolic policy.

The Donbass did not succeed as Piedmont, either, as it lost Kharkov and Mariupol in 2014. Zakharchenko’s attempt to revive this project in 2017 immediately proved futile. But the Donbass was successful as the Vendee, launching the southeast’s separation in 2014, and transforming imagined geography even in the minds of ‘Galician-model’ nationalists (Hrytsak, 2020).

Ukraine as we knew it is now divided in two, including in collective memory and symbolic policy. But no one will speak about these two parts as ‘two Ukraines’ anymore.

The Ukrainian ruling class has moved. Kiev is destroying everything Russian, imperial, or Soviet in its controlled territory. The part of the country that has seceded is erasing all traces of Kiev’s post-2004 symbolic policy—from the renaming of cities and streets to Holodomor monuments. It is still difficult to say how things will look after the dust settles: what the western historical narrative’s legacy will be; what part of the People’s Republics’ memory policy will remain relevant, and where, after their incorporation into Russia. But one can say with confidence that the imagined geography of Ukrainian regions, and its underlying images of the past—and actually the entire struggle between regional narratives, which began with Ukrainian independence—has ended. A new history is beginning.

The study was funded by Russian Science Foundation grant #25–18–00464, https://rscf.ru/project/25-18-00464/