Olena Stiazhkina, Volodymyr Yermolenko, Mychailo Wynnyckyj — March 27-29, 2022

Flash essays from the collection “Wars. Ukrainians. Humanity” tell about the insights, experiences, and beliefs of Ukrainians, which ignited their society in 2022, when the full-scale russian invasion of Ukraine began.

The Cultural Hub community and curators carefully collected, translated, and illustrated these texts in order to capture the values ​​of Ukrainians — Freedoms, Bravery, Dignity, Responsibility, and Humour. 

A series of publications in partnership with Chytomo introduces this collection to the English-speaking audience. Volume 8 continues to present the series. You can get acquainted with the previous collection here.

Olena Stiazhkina: Kyiv. March 27

After the Victory, someone will have to talk. It won’t be me. I don’t want to talk after the Victory, and I won’t be able to. I want it to be quiet so I could hear the wind, the grass, the tip-tap of cat’s predatory steps in the yard. No voice of mine, no voice of yours, no voice of anyone else. Quiet… No words or sounds shall drown out “that which does not die.”

But someone will have to talk. It will be a sacred duty, just like fighting on the frontlines, volunteering, or treating the wounded in hospitals. With their speeches, interviews, and reports, those able to talk will give others a chance to catch the whisper of those who are gone.  

Catch their whisper, their smell, their taste, the cold or the warmth of their hands. Somewhere here. It all will exist somewhere, mixed with air, leaves, water, perfumes, petrol, coffee, and Easter bread. Somewhere here, next to my hand and my ear that won’t hear anything but them.

It will not be in the dreams, or rather, not only in them. I want it to be a miracle come true. I want it to be everywhere at the same time, so everyone could recognize it. A miracle with a rolling “r,” a stutter, or operatic voice — tenor, soprano, or bass.

We will recognize their voices amid our silence, and our clenched jaws will then relax and perhaps let a few words out. Or maybe not. I don’t want to talk, and I won’t. I will keep searching, waiting, and listening. And I won’t talk until I find them.

Volodymyr Yermolenko: We’re not going to die. Our anthem will not let that happen. March 27

We do not yet really know what we’ll be like after this experience. But we will definitely change and come out stronger than ever. This experience will give rise to a new thinking and a new culture, a new vision of society, economy and the state. For such an experience gives strength and courage. In particular, the courage to think. With regard to the myriad of issues that made us feel like pupils of the great European culture, we will now feel like teachers. For any life-threatening experience gives access to sources. It helps us see the “things themselves.” And if you don’t die in that experience, you become the followed. And we’re not going to die. Our anthem will not let that happen.

Mychailo Wynnyckyj: Thoughts from Kyiv. March 27

“Be not afraid!” These were the words Pope John Paul II once told his fellow countrymen when Poland was fighting for its freedom.

Yesterday, President Biden, in Poland (!), quoted Saint Karol Wojtyła. His address began with the same message: don’t be afraid. He then went on to talk about the history of the battle for democracy and freedom in the Central and Eastern European region and delivered a direct message to Ukrainians: “We stand with you! Period.” Thank you for that!

President Biden then spoke about what the West has done to weaken russia’s military machine: imposing crippling sanctions on the russian economy, providing military assistance (weapons and intelligence) to Ukraine… Then he repeated the “sacred obligation” phrase about “not an inch of NATO territory.” And at that point many Ukrainians (probably) tuned out.

Mr. President! Please stop insulting Ukraine and Ukrainians with your references to Article 5! We are grateful for your help and assistance. We are grateful that you “stand with us.” But American forces are not directly helping us fight this war. And there is only one reason you are not directly involved: You are afraid!

You are afraid of “provoking” World War III. You have drawn a line on “NATO’s eastern flank,” but not on Ukraine’s (i.e. Europe’s) eastern border. You are obviously morally outraged by the humanitarian catastrophe that russia has caused in Ukraine, but you will not stop it directly because you are afraid.

Your predecessor Donald Trump was prepared to sell Ukraine out without a single shot fired. We now know that putin began his plan to invade Ukraine on the day the US election results were announced. On that day his plan to establish a sphere of russian influence along the borders of the former ussr became problematic, if not impossible.

Mr. Biden, had your opponent won, the US and russia would have divided Europe “peacefully” but Ukrainians would have been sold out. We thank you for your principled stand: values such as democracy and freedom are worthy of your support.

But please don’t tell us not to be afraid!

I am not afraid. My countrymen are fighting for freedom, and we know we are right. We are together. We are not afraid.

On Friday I traveled from the house that has become our home outside Kyiv into the city-center. I had some issues to take care of at work, and our dog has become quite ill as a result of a tick bite.

It may sound strange that we’d be taking care of a dog when hundreds of thousands of children throughout Ukraine have been displaced, when civilians are dying as a result of explosions, when our valiant fighting men are laying down their lives for us, for freedom, for what is right… But our Tasya is a valued member of our family. And she is very sick. And we are not afraid.

Getting in to Kyiv was fun: 4 hours in the car — just father and daughter and our sick dog. Normally the trip should have taken about an hour. We talked about philosophy, about our daughter’s plans for university, about her friends, about my friends… We made plans for next year. One thing is certain: this was not the conversation of a father and daughter who are afraid.

At each checkpoint we would show our ID cards. On the flip side, it states my place of birth: Canada. I was asked by one fellow how long I’ve lived in Ukraine: 20 years. He smiled and said “Thank you!” We glanced at each other and I drove on — not at all afraid.

The standard question at the checkpoints is whether you are carrying weapons. Sometimes I was asked to open the trunk, but usually that was a formality. When the guys with automatic rifles saw the dog in the back, they understood. As we cheerfully drove on, we understood that the checkpoints are for our own protection. We are not afraid.

Kyiv’s city center is much less busy than normal. Maidan again has barricades almost in the same places as during the protests against Yanukovych 8 years ago, but this time cars are allowed through. The atmosphere is a bit tense because normally people take lots of pictures on Maidan and this is not allowed now, but one gets the impression that the residents who have stayed have adjusted to the new normal. Certainly, no one is afraid.

Throughout our two days in the city center we could hear explosions from the direction of Hostomel (about 40km northwest): sounded like distant thunder. You get used to it quickly.

On Saturday morning people sat in coffee shops trying to relax after a night of listening to shelling and non-stop air raid sirens. Coffee and brownies are particularly tasty when prepared with a knowing smile from someone you’ve never met but with whom you’ve obviously lived through so much.

We spent the night in our apartment with a sick dog — very afraid for her life, but not ours.

The veterinarian in our neighborhood (Podil) is a saint. He works tirelessly to try to help the pet owners who come to the clinic in distress. We spent a total of five hours there over two days: Tasya needed intravenous treatment. As he helped us, Doctor Yevhen never stopped helping others — even distributing pet food for free because the local pet stores have closed. Apparently, his own dog died last week as they were evacuating from a village near Brovary (eastern suburb of Kyiv). He is not afraid.

The drive back yesterday was more stressful: Tasya is not doing well. The checkpoints went by faster. We stopped to fill up on gas and to buy food for our family for the next week (no shortage problems in Kyiv). I made it back to our village just in time for my 3-hour shift: we’ve organized nightly patrols after several lost russian soldiers were arrested last week in the area. Their APC was blown up by the Ukrainian forces, and after 3–4 days hiding in the woods the russians came out begging for food and water. The guys on my patrol were keen to know what’s going on in Kyiv. Some have been called back to work next week. None is afraid.

Mr. President — thank you! Thank you for your military, humanitarian and economic assistance. Thank you for understanding our war against the russians for what it is: a fight for freedom and democracy. Thank you for pledging your long-term support: we will need it.

But please don’t tell us not to be afraid! Save that message for your own citizens and for the people of the EU. Very soon this war will expand beyond Ukraine. Very soon, russia will escalate. Very soon the next “push” on Kyiv will fail. Very soon putin will have no choice but to test the resolve of NATO’s “sacred commitment” to Article 5.

When that happens (not “if”!), Ukrainians will have every right to tell you: don’t be afraid!

PS: Tasya is not healthy yet, but she seems to be getting better.

God help us!

#ThoughtsfromKyiv

Olena Stiazhkina: Kyiv. March 28

Serhiyko is four years old. He lives with his grandma on the eighth floor. When the air raid siren goes off, Serhiyko runs downstairs knocking on every door and calling out cheerfully: “Ladies and gentlemen! Go down to the shelter! Quickly!”

They don’t have any shelter, though — neither bomb shelter nor basement. People gather together on the first floor, bringing chairs and sleeping bags in case the air raid alert is not lifted for a long time.

They are hunkering down for ten minutes when Serhiyko asks loudly: “Does anyone have any kompot left at home? For one good and polite boy?”

People from two or even three apartments do have some left. Serhiyko tastes each kind. He keeps drinking and saying how good it tastes, as if hinting that his grandma “never makes such a tasty kompot.” Time goes by…

A “clumsy grandma” finds herself in a company of a “grandpa who caught a saboteur and took him to the enlistment office.”

Later, Serhiyko asks: “Does anyone have a piece of bread with honey for one polite boy?” He’s playing a trick. He doesn’t really want any bread or honey: he expects that his neighbors won’t have a ready-made sandwich at home but will bring a cookie, a candy, or a chocolate bar instead — a treat forbidden in peaceful times.  

He says to his grandma: “What if they kill all of us now — what would be the point of my shiny teeth and healthy food in my belly?”

He mispronounces a few sounds. But he always gets his senses right.  

***

People who fled to the countryside text that storks have come home. People who wait for their loved ones to evacuate from Mariupol text that kadyrov came to town.

Each of us experiences the war differently, but we all will experience Victory in the same way.  

***

The thirty-third of February. When I was a little girl, I was told that February is the shortest month of the year.

***

Mayors of many towns poured big money into their election campaigns. It is no secret that in Ukraine, the office of a mayor always meant access to the state budget they could take a big bite of. A bite big enough to buy a villa in Spain and pass a slice down to their children and grandchildren. And another slice for themselves — for a life of luxury.

But now it happens so that the mayors poured big money to become heroes. And sometimes even stalwart martyrs shot by the enemies for their loyalty to Ukraine.

No one knows when and how the power of being a human emerges. Our current history shows that it can emerge out of anything.

Mychailo Wynnyckyj: Thoughts from Kyiv. Afternoon of March 29 

Worldwide, the word “Ukrainian” has come to associated with resistance, endurance, defiance. Suddenly, the gripe expressed regularly for years both by Ukraine’s citizens and by members of the vast Ukrainian Diaspora throughout the world — that we were not recognized, that few non-Ukrainians know anything about the country, that we were often confused with russians — all of that abruptly changed in late February and early March 2022. Ukrainians (unexpectedly for themselves) became heroes and celebrities with whom citizens of planet Earth almost universally want to identify and even emulate.

Sadly, Ukrainians are also the object of pity and compassion. With over three million refugees fleeing the country, and many thousands dead, wounded or psychologically scarred, that is not surprising. And despite many years spent informing whomever would listen about the Holodomor, about the millions of Ukrainian victims of stalin’s terror, about the suffering of Ukraine during World War II (the epicenter of the “Bloodlands” described so eloquently by Timothy Snyder), somehow the “victim identity” now feels uncomfortable and strange.

In my student days in Canada, I remember a joke we liked to perpetuate: “There are only two kinds of people in this world: those who are Ukrainian, and those who wish they were.” To be honest, that had more to do with the fantastic zabavas we used to organize, but it certainly sounded good. The yarn reflected our strong in-group identity — symptomatic of Canada’s (or maybe Toronto’s) multicultural makeup. We regularly celebrated our difference from “the majority” with public rituals: Dauphin Festival, Plast (Ukrainian scouts), BloorWest Village, Easter egg markets (I made my first $1000 as a kid selling pysanky)…

On the flipside, we found it important to stress to our non-Ukrainian friends that Andreychuk, Hnatyshyn, Podborsky, Bossy, Palance, Freeland and many other prominent Canadians were all Ukrainian as well.

It is possible that public displays of pride in ethnic heritage may have been a distinctive feature of the Ukrainian-Canadian community experience. I remember our Ukrainian-American friends finding the above joke a bit eccentric. Indeed, for many of them being Ukrainian meant taking on an additional burden of difference: a responsibility to explain (among other things) why one’s surname was difficult to pronounce, why one spoke a different language (not “American”) at home, why Christmas was celebrated in January (most Ukrainian-Americans gave up on that after a while). Unlike in Canada, being Ukrainian in the US was not necessarily “fun” (or perhaps that’s just my impression).

Being Ukrainian in Ukraine was completely different — even after the collapse of the ussr. Throughout the 1990’s, when I travelled to the land of my ancestors, and for years after I finally moved to Kyiv permanently (in 2002), I would struggle with the “Englishman in New York” syndrome: I understood everyone and they understood me, but yet I was never fully accepted as “us.” That changed in time, but deep down I felt the period of full acceptance as having dragged on forever.

From my experience, “Ukrainian” to Ukrainians had three separate dimensions:

1. a) ethnicity (I was OK on that one),
2. b) language (I worked on getting rid of my Diaspora accent for many years, and eventually was able to “blend in”),
3. c) citizenship (I finally got that in May 2019).

These three dimensions are mutually interdependent but not exclusive: in Ukraine one could be a russian-speaking Ukrainian citizen of Jewish origin and that was perfectly sufficient criteria to be elected President; one could be an ethnic Ukrainian who speaks Ukrainian but not a citizen (like me for 18 years), and that was just enough for others to call you Ukrainian, but did not give you full political rights; language, ethnicity and citizenship did not matter for those who joined the volunteer battalions that fought to defend Ukraine in the Donbas war, what was important was your identification with Ukraine (it is a fact that most Ukrainian patriot volunteers in these units were russian-speaking, but the volunteer battalions also welcomed Mark (Franko) Paslawsky from the US, who in turn made the ultimate sacrifice in the battle of Ilovaysk).

Identity is a complex social phenomenon. It involves feelings of belonging, “rationalization” of differences in language, history, culture. National identity is always and inevitably tied to territory and to political institutions such as citizenship.

When this war ends, the identity of “Ukrainian” in Ukraine will change. Tolerance of the russian language is likely to diminish. Indeed, we see this already: the latest opinion poll by Rating shows 83% of Ukrainians supporting the maintenance of Ukrainian as the sole state language in Ukraine. In time, we will become, like most European countries, a nation identified by language. We will still have regional dialects, and people will speak whatever language they choose to in their private lives, but the public sphere will become evermore Ukrainian.

This will make life easier for the Diaspora. Whereas previously, learning Ukrainian was a burden that was not always logical (after-all, where would one use this language except in the community? Even in Ukraine it wasn’t always required), this will now change. Ukrainian will become a “normal” European language on par with French, German, Italian, Polish…

Incidentally, my dear Diaspora friends, you can help with this process right now: how about contacting your local museum, art gallery or other tourist site, and making sure the multi-lingual audio guide includes Ukrainian? I could even imagine an argument being made that Ukrainian messaging should replace russian (kind of a “sanction” against the aggressor).

Every war eventually ends in peace. It’s time to start thinking about who and how will build the new Ukraine, and about what will become of the Diaspora after Ukraine reinstates its territorial integrity. We will become a nation of victors (no longer victims). Our identity will no longer be tied to cultural rituals of the past (pysanky, vyshyvky, varenyky, hopak…), but to a vibrant and confident future. We will have suffered and won, not just survived — triumphed!

In post-war Ukraine the institution of citizenship will become more important: the passport (ID card) will become a source of pride, a symbol of membership in a nation that withstood and prevailed against all odds.

Already we see the growth in importance of citizenship as an identity marker in Ukraine, and this is worrying for the Diaspora, for millions of individuals who identify with Ukraine, but are unlikely to ever fulfil the current requirements of Ukrainian citizenship — permanent residence + language + renunciation of alternate citizenship.

Clearly, we will need to transform the institution of citizenship. Dual and triple citizenship should become the norm, but with a ban on combining Ukrainian and russian citizenships.

Perhaps should follow the example of Israel: citizenship may be granted on arrival to anyone who proves their allegiance to the state. In our case that might involve a language test…

This has turned into a lengthy text. My point: What it means to be Ukrainian will necessarily change for all 60 million of us. The transformation is happening now, and it needs to be considered, discussed, understood. It will involve both institutional change and a transformation of everyday practices in communities throughout the world.

We can all start by forcing the typically Ukrainian gene — the one that has been dominant for centuries — that makes grumbling and complaining about the past, present and any hope for the future a behavioral requirement — into recession. We are on the cusp of becoming a nation of victors, heroes and truly free citizens of a Ukraine that is the envy of the world.

That, my friends, is a dream worth fighting for.

#ThoughtsfromKyiv

Olena Stiazhkina: Kyiv. March 29

A low hum fills the air. Windows do not rattle. Boom, boom, boom. Alright, these are our troops shooting. No need to drop to the ground and cover your head with your hands. You can continue on your way. It’s just the low hum in the air. We got used to it.

In Donetsk, there was less humming but more explosions. In 2014, some locals went down to their basements in summer and emerged from them in early winter. People in Kharkiv, Chernihiv, and Sumy now have a similar experience. No people in Kyiv so far.   

Last night, Serhiy Kot, a Ukrainian historian, died of a cardiac arrest. He dedicated his life to tracking down the Ukrainian cultural treasures smuggled or looted during the wars and helping bring them back to Ukraine. Serhiy put his heart into the restitution. But his heart is no longer beating.  

***

Serhiy Vahanov, a friend of mine, writes: “The city of Mariupol has turned into an outline map.”

***

We will not call our war “patriotic.” “The Great Patriotic War” is a russian military myth that gave rise to the russian form of Nazism. Just as the phrase “the third reich” had nothing in it but a historical allusion — and ended up having nothing in it but shame and blood.

We are fighting for our motherland. Not for a motherland as a symbol but for people and their freedom. Is it a pro-people war, then? A pro-human war? A war of independence? Hence — a hundred years’ war? A David’s war? An eight years’ war? A fierce war? A war of redemption? A victorious war? You can call a war like this, can’t you?

The editorial “rule of small letters” or the “rule of disrespect for criminals” applies to all the words related to evil, like names and surnames of terrorists, war criminals, rapists, murderers, and torturers. They do not deserve being capitalized but shall be written in italics to stay in the focus of the readers’ attention. 

The program “Wars. Ukrainians. Humanity” has been created by joint effort and with the financial support of the institution’s members of the Cultural Business Education Hub, the European Cultural Foundation, and BBK — the Regensburg Art and Culture Support Group from the Professional Association of Artists of Lower Bavaria/Upper Palatinate.

Authors: Olena Stiazhkina, Volodymyr Yermolenko, Mychailo Wynnyckyj

Translators (from Ukrainian): Hanna Leliv (Olena Stiazhkina’s essays), Halyna Bezukh (Volodymyr Yermolenko’s essay)

Illustrators: Victoria Boyko (Olena Stiazhkina & Mychailo Wynnyckyj’s essays), Nastya Gaydaenko (Volodymyr Yermolenko’s essay), plasticine panel by Olha Protasova

Copyeditors: Yuliia Moroz, Terra Friedman King

Proofreaders: Iryna Andrieieva, Tetiana Vorobtsova, Terra Friedman King

Content Editors: Maryna Korchaka, Natalia Babalyk

Program Directors: Julia Ovcharenko and Demyan Om Dyakiv-Slavitski