What happens when the future loses its place in our cultural imagination—not as a speculative tool or techno-utopia, but as a generative and affectively charged dimension of political and social life? And how might we cultivate futures thinking in contexts where the very notion of ‘moving forward’ is contested terrain? These questions are far from abstract. They emerge in post-conflict societies burdened by unresolved pasts and polarized presents. They become particularly urgent in the face of war, ecological breakdown, and the erosion of political trust. As the Dutch sociologist Fred Polak once argued,[2] a society with no positive images of the future indicated a society in decline. Yet, what futures can be imagined—and by whom—depends on the semiotic frameworks we inherit, contest, and reconfigure.

While interest in the future has always been present, more concrete investigations appeared after World War Two in the form of strategic planning, technological forecasting, economic analysis, and the creation of the first major think tanks.[3] The field of futures studies originated in the 1960s and 1970s, a period marked by significant contributions such as Alvin Toffler’s Future shock (1970) and Edward Goldsmith’s Blueprint for survival (1972).

Oppressive governments, political agendas, exclusive norms and customs, as well as education systems grounded in hegemonic myths and narratives, can leave little or no space for alternatives. During crises and conflicts—as well as in post-conflict contexts burdened by violent pasts, traumas, and fraught historical narratives—opening the space to explicitly address and explore hopeful future scenarios can be significantly more challenging.

Futures studies theories and methods became of further interest for peace and conflict studies[4] and peace education.[5] For instance, in a more detailed overview of Elise Boulding’s scholarly contribution, David Hicks (2007) emphasizes Boulding’s collaboration with the futurist Warren Ziegler, which she describes in more detail in her book Building a Global Civic Culture: Education for an Interdependent World (1988). One of Boulding’s significant insights arose from this collaboration and her work with peace activists. Namely, she came to realize that, while peace activists had a clear idea of what they opposed, they found it difficult to visualize what they were for and how they envision their preferred future. Boulding continued working with various groups and exploring the role of social imagination, along with whether people can genuinely imagine a hopeful future when placed in an appropriately facilitative environment.[6]

However, possibilities for imagining hopeful futures and potential scenarios can be hindered by various factors. Oppressive governments, political agendas, exclusive norms and customs, as well as education systems grounded in hegemonic myths and narratives, can leave little or no space for alternatives. During crises and conflicts—as well as in post-conflict contexts burdened by violent pasts, traumas, and fraught historical narratives—opening the space to explicitly address and explore hopeful future scenarios can be significantly more challenging.

The Semiotics of the Future

In the words of the semiotician Katre Pärn, semiotics allows us to explore how future-making is mediated through signs, models, and cultural codes—often collectively, not merely individually.[7] Futures are not “out there,” waiting to be discovered. They are continuously constructed, modeled, and negotiated. And crucially, these constructions are as affective as they are cognitive, steeped in imaginaries of hope, fear, irony, and belonging.

Following the thoughts of Juri Lotman—the semiotician and literary scholar—and his concept of cultural explosion,[8] unpredictability flourishes in moments of rupture—where meaning becomes unstable, codes clash, and established narratives no longer suffice.[9] This semiotic turbulence, though unsettling, is also fertile ground. It generates new political imaginaries, hybrid narratives, and possibilities for transformation. Contestation, in this light, can be generative as much as it can be destructive.

Contestation as Meaning-Making

Take, for instance, the debates around contested symbols in post-Yugoslav Croatia. The World War Two Ustaša salute “Za dom spremni” (“Ready for the Homeland”) operates simultaneously as a historical marker, a political tool, and an affective trigger.[10] It evokes fear, pride, irony, and anger—all depending on who is looking, from where, and under what circumstances. Accordingly, such symbols do not merely reflect polarized memories—they actively shape the future by constraining or enabling the horizons of political possibility.

Similarly, in the context of the full-scale Russian invasion of Ukraine, symbolic contestation is palpable in the weaponization of historical narratives and the affective charge of war symbols—such as Russia’s “Z” (“Za pobedu” [за победу – for victory]) or “V” (“Sila v pravde” [сила в правде – strength in truth]), memes, monuments, and other military insignia. These symbols do more than represent—they mobilize, divide, and reconfigure collectives. They become dynamic semiotic condensers through which histories are re-narrated, legal claims are asserted, belonging is negotiated, and legacies created.

This semiotic turbulence, though unsettling, is also fertile ground. It generates new political imaginaries, hybrid narratives, and possibilities for transformation. Contestation, in this light, can be generative as much as it can be destructive.