I was lucky to grow up in a Ukrainian-speaking household. It wasn’t a standardised, literary Ukrainian but a living language with elements of the Khmelnytskyi dialect and selective surzhyk, a Ukrainian-Russian pidgin. Words like ‘otovo‘ (instead of ‘os tse‘ in standard Ukrainian, meaning ‘this one’), ‘poniala‘ (instead of ‘zrozumila‘, meaning ‘understood’), ‘tay take’ (meaning ‘oh well’), ‘bolnytsya‘ (instead of ‘likarnya‘, meaning hospital), ‘kalidor’ (instead of ‘korydor‘, meaning corridor), or ‘kosy’ (instead of ‘volossya’, meaning ‘hair’) – are just a few examples.
My school years were during a time when Russian was still taught in school. I remember standing at the blackboard, and instead of the familiar Ukrainian ‘koma’ (comma), I’d hear Russian ‘zapyataya,’ and I’d accidentally use Ukrainian ‘krapka’ instead of Russian ‘tochka’ (a Russian for ‘dot’). At one point, my mother forced me to learn verses from these so-called “great Russian writers” because, in her mind, “every educated person should have read them.” I recall wasting an entire winter break immersed in Dostoevsky’s “Crime and Punishment” because it was a requirement from my foreign literature teacher. It was a classic case of the high-achiever syndrome: read it if you want a good grade, or else face specific questions you won’t know how to answer. In my early interviews as a student seeking part-time work, beads of cold sweat would form on my forehead when interviewers visibly reacted to my Ukrainian language proficiency. They’d casually insist on Russian, citing the seriousness of their office and the foreign nature of their partners.
During my university days, I found myself surrounded by both Ukrainian-speaking and Russian-speaking peers. While lectures and seminars were predominantly conducted in Ukrainian by professors, it wasn’t uncommon for students to present in Russian. To be fair, most lecturers promptly discouraged such practices. However, there were exceptions that allowed responses in Russian. Additionally, as students, we often adopted a “what’s the difference” mentality. I personally refrained from switching to Russian, except on one occasion, but my experiment didn’t last past the evening. Nonetheless, I didn’t strongly object when addressed in the language of our neighbouring country.
The seismic changes within the Russian-speaking community were set off by the Revolution of Dignity and subsequently by the enemy’s advances onto our territory. It’s been a decade since the initial Russian invasion of Ukraine, beginning with Crimea. By April 2014, the first hostile Russian infiltration units had penetrated cities in the Luhansk and Donetsk regions. During that period, Putin graced TV screens, spinning tales of “little green men” while vehemently denying any Russian role in the occupation of Ukrainian territories.
Moreover, here at home, in Ukraine, I increasingly heard Ukrainian being spoken as opposed to Russian. It was a beautiful, melodious, and sometimes overly correct Ukrainian. Some acquaintances who previously spoke Russian in everyday life now corrected me for using surzhyk.
In the end, in February 2022, Russia declared what it termed a “special military operation,” launching a bold full-scale invasion of Ukraine.
I won’t linger on the remarkable unity among Ukrainians, especially during the initial months of the full-scale war. I’ll simply note the significant surge of interest in all things Ukrainian—Ukrainian music, literature, advertisements, and cuisine. Hearing Russian back then was probably at least somewhat odd. However, some adapted quickly. Take, for instance, certain artists who recognised in due time that producing content in Russian wouldn’t be as lucrative anymore. Some openly admitted to previously promoting Russian culture among Ukrainians and only now realising their mistake. That was genuinely heartening to witness. Overall, I support a gradual process of Ukrainianisation, one that remains true to its essence.
As the major war enters its third year, I’m starting to notice a curious trend: Russia seems to be creeping back into the picture. It’s there in the shops, on public transport, and even on the streets. I catch fragments of conversations from people passing by—and more often than not, it’s in Russian.
In my son’s kindergarten, Ukrainian is the language of choice, with the institution regularly hosting patriotic events and a staff primarily fluent in Ukrainian. But here’s the kicker: most parents converse in Russian, and naturally, their children follow suit. I remember a story from a Lviv blogger about his daughter’s playground debate, insisting that her lyalka is called just that (Ukrainian for ‘doll’) and not kukla (the Russian term). While I’m not the final arbiter, it’s time we stopped tolerating Russian. We have a golden opportunity now to raise our children without the influence of what was once imposed on numerous generations as the ‘great Russians’.
With these thoughts swirling in my mind, I find myself in a taxi, racing against the clock to make it to a meeting. I often find myself reconfirming if we’re indeed headed to the correct address.
“Wow, it’s not often I hear someone speaking Ukrainian. It’s a bit of a challenge for me, but I’ll give it a go,” says the taxi driver, his long grey hair suggesting he’s well over 50. He’s originally from Kostyantynivka in the Donetsk region. I reassure him that it’s okay to make pronunciation mistakes as long as there’s a willingness to speak Ukrainian. I’ve always been curious why we understand Russian and can speak it at least a little while Russians can neither speak nor understand Ukrainian. “The great Russian language brings together people of all nationalities,” he throws at me. “That’s why I write songs in Russian, but it’s tough these days. Not everyone is keen to listen. It’s a shame.”
I can’t help but think it would be better if I didn’t even understand Russian.
