At first glance, the line between western and eastern Europe might seem quite obvious. However, the theme of the Lyon Danse Biennale’s Forum – hospitality – revealed that the division is far more complex, where the words ‘European’, ‘white’ and ‘coloniser’ don’t all fall into the same simple box. For those who came to Lyon from post-Soviet states, such distinctions can be crucial.

I won’t hide the fact that the roles of colonisers and the colonised, as portrayed in the conversation ‘Dance, Climate and Contested Land’ by Australia’s leading Indigenous intercultural dance theatre company Marrugeku, both amused and angered some of us. Although the opening panel gestured towards the differences between the two Europes, the distinction soon disappeared, vanishing the moment the moderator took on an emotional ‘us – white people’ standpoint.

This tension peaked when an image of the map of Europe was overlaid on the map of Australia. Yet the Europe we saw on the screen was a strange one – everything east of Poland had vanished into a beige desert. Still, this situation led to an important revelation for me: it is time for us to liberate ourselves from the label of a ‘post-Soviet country’ and to begin framing ourselves in post-colonial terms instead.

First of all, keeping the Forum’s theme – hospitality – in mind, it is important to think carefully about the words we choose to define ourselves. As the Lithuanian playwright and screenwriter Birutė Kapustinskaitė states, the label ‘post-Soviet country’ works against our efforts to prove that we are more than just remnants of the Soviet Union, and encourages other countries to romanticise Russia and its history.

Secondly, accepting our post-colonial history allows us to think differently: not only what have we become today, but what have we lost? What was taken from us? Drawing inspiration from the ideas of Australian Indigenous artists, we might ask: how have our past landscapes shaped the culture? What, and how, do we dance because of that?

In Latvia, the dance scene is still tightly tied to Soviet-era politics. During the 50 years of Soviet occupation, dance mainly consisted of classical ballet, stylised folk dance, and a few independent movements that existed in spite of the cultural vacuum of the Soviet Union. Thirty-four years after gaining independence, the contemporary dance scene is still fighting to become fully institutionalised. The metaphor of land and its embodiment in Lyon’s Maison de la Danse (‘House of Dance’) resonates deeply: just weeks before I came to France, the first space in Latvia dedicated to contemporary dancers for practice and performance was opened, housed in the Kurtuve cultural centre. Although its future remains uncertain, we can say that contemporary dance has found its land – a place to dance.

Dancing in Fangas Nayaw and River Lin’s workshop ‘The Indigenous Peoples’ Basic Punk Law’, the rhythm and feeling of stomping my feet against the ground – with respect, yet with energy and confidence – made me think about Latvian folk dance’s lost connection to nature. Nature has always been a central part of Latvia’s identity, yet the elevated posture borrowed from classical ballet and incorporated into folk dance during Soviet colonisation signals something different: a desire for spectacle, built upon politicised, disciplined bodies. So how do we treat dance that tries to come closer to the audience? How do we approach dance whose virtuosity is more difficult to grasp? Are we ready to be hospitable towards an effort to understand ourselves – and to face the fact that a part of who we are was once taken from us?

The sensitive angle of the talk was softened when it turned towards the future, with the argument that looking back at our history allows us to prepare for this time, in which culture is becoming a battleground for political power. In recent weeks, Lithuania has seen large-scale protests against the transfer of the Ministry of Culture to the pro-Russian Nemuno Aušra (Dawn of Nemunas) party, ‘which employs a divisive and violent nationalist, Eurosceptic, and anti-Semitic rhetoric.’

On the last evening of my trip to Lyon, I noticed a banner displayed on the facade of the Théâtre de Lyon: Démocratie fragmentée, culture vivante et mobilisée (Democracy is fragmented; culture must be alive and mobilised). As I read it, I wondered: are we, those invested in culture, even capable of coming to terms with what culture truly is? Should we begin to fight for the vision of culture that we believe in? Despite the differences in our histories, politics and geographies, we live on much common ground.