For over a decade, Beijing and Moscow have worked to synchronize their official accounts of the Second World War, staging joint commemorations and military parades while aligning remembrance dates and rhetoric. The latest display came in September, when Chinese and Russian ambassadors to New Zealand, Wang Xiaolong and Stanislav Krans, co-authored an opinion piece in the NZ Herald marking the 81st anniversary of the war's end. They urged the world not to forget the war's lessons, calling for a UN-centered international order and condemning historical revisionism that downplays their nations' sacrifices or whitewashes Nazi and fascist atrocities.
This 'memory alliance' serves two strategic purposes: deepening the so-called 'limitless' partnership and defending the post-war global order as they see it. For both governments, that order rests on multilateralism, sovereignty, and non-interference in internal affairs—principles they claim are being eroded by US-led Western unilateralism and aggression.
Beijing points to semiconductor export bans, tariffs on Chinese electric vehicles, US efforts to contain its influence in the Indo-Pacific, and Japan's expanding military role as violations of that order. It also views Western support for Taiwan—which reverted to Chinese control after Japan's defeat in 1945—as a direct challenge. Moscow, meanwhile, cites NATO enlargement, Western interference in Ukraine that culminated in Viktor Yanukovych's ouster in 2014, and the sanctions regime imposed after the full-scale invasion as proof that its 'legitimate interests' are being ignored.
Yet, as my research with Eric Zhang shows, the official war narratives of China and Russia are far from aligned. In 2023, we analyzed over 14,000 state-sponsored news articles from both countries and conducted extensive fieldwork in China. Our findings reveal that convergence is limited to shared silences—about wartime frictions between the two allies or Soviet crimes during the liberation of northeastern China—rather than a common historical narrative.
Divergent stories of who won the war
Russian narratives emphasize the Red Army's decisive role in defeating Japan, often downplaying China's contribution in tying down Japanese forces. Beijing, in contrast, claims it made the largest sacrifice among the Allies and was instrumental in prolonging Japan's entanglement and securing its defeat. These competing claims undermine the notion of a unified memory.
Strikingly, despite the strategic importance both sides attach to their friendship, they have made little of personal wartime stories. Roughly 1,500 Soviet advisers and 2,000 combat pilots supported China's early war effort, with about 200 of these 'Flying Eagles' killed. Yet their stories remain largely unknown to the public, with only a few commemorated in China.
One exception is Hryhorij Kulishenko, a Ukrainian-born Soviet pilot killed during the battle for Wuhan in October 1939. During a 2013 state visit to Russia, Chinese leader Xi Jinping highlighted Kulishenko's story as a symbol of enduring solidarity. Addressing the Moscow State Institute of International Relations, Xi described him as a hero who fought 'side by side with the Chinese people' and would never be forgotten. But in recent years, these 'Flying Eagles' have faded from China's official narrative.
By contrast, Chinese official accounts and history exhibitions are replete with references to Sino-US cooperation during the war, especially the American Volunteer Group known as the 'Flying Tigers.' Chinese state media have portrayed them as a lasting symbol of shared struggle and friendship. This trend has intensified, reaching a peak during Xi's recent state visit to Washington, where US President Donald Trump echoed Xi's praise for the Flying Tigers and recalled that the two countries had fought together as 'allies.'
This shift reflects a broader recalibration in Beijing's memory diplomacy. While the China-Russia alliance remains important, Beijing is increasingly using wartime history to build bridges with Washington, even as tensions persist on trade, technology, and Taiwan. The result is a diluted memory alliance that reveals the limits of the 'no-limits' partnership.
For Moscow, this is a worrying sign. The Kremlin has invested heavily in a shared war narrative to legitimize its own actions in Ukraine and to cement its status as a great power. But as China's focus shifts toward the US and the Indo-Pacific, the historical glue that binds the two countries is weakening. The wartime memory alliance, once a cornerstone of their partnership, now exposes its fragility.
As the region watches, the question is whether this divergence will translate into policy shifts. For now, both sides continue to project unity, but the cracks are visible. The 'limitless' partnership, it seems, has limits—and they are increasingly defined by history.
