In Ukraine, particularly in the western regions, few are unfamiliar with the name Sheptytskyi. Beyond Ukraine, this noble family is also well-known for its many branches and its significant contributions to education, social affairs, and the church. Metropolitan Andrey Sheptytskyi, to whom the Ukrainian Greek Catholic Church owes its very existence, had several brothers, one of whom was Leon Sheptytskyi. The Sheptytskyi family boasts ancient Ruthenian roots. In 2020, Leon’s great-grandson and Andrey’s great-nephew, Jan Sheptytskyi, returned to Lviv following the call of his heart. He learned Ukrainian and now lives between two countries — Poland and Ukraine.
If there are any stereotypes about the status of a count, Jan quickly dispels them. With a good sense of humour and a down-to-earth attitude, he works in the veterinary field and doesn’t seek any extra pomp around his name. Sporting a simple t-shirt with a trident, he embodies a modest, unpretentious presence. But once you begin speaking with him, you quickly discover that beneath the humour lies a deep respect for his heritage and a commitment to the values passed down through his noble family.
The Ukrainian Week spoke with Jan Sheptytskyi about his childhood and famous ancestors, his life in Lviv, his contemporary perspective on the Ukrainian war, the changes unfolding in the country, the systemic shifts underway, and why greater freedom inevitably leads to less security.
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– How would you describe your upbringing? What kind of environment did you grow up in, and who were the people around you?
– I was born in 1972 in Poland, during the communist era, much like in Ukraine at the time. My father is a biology professor who worked in Kraków. My mother initially stayed home to care for us — we were four children in all. My oldest sister was born first, then me, followed by two younger siblings. A new child arrives every two years [smiles]. In our home, two portraits always hung on the wall: Alexander Fredro and the Metropolitan Uncle — that is, Metropolitan Andrey Sheptytskyi. Fredro’s portrait made sense to us, while Andrey was simply “the Metropolitan Uncle.” He was indeed my great-grandfather’s brother, making him an uncle to my grandfather, my father, and, in a way, to me as well. But this didn’t affect the atmosphere in our home; it was just a portrait on the wall.
Later, in school, during Polish language lessons, Fredro would come up, and I’d say, “He’s my great-grandfather.” But my teacher would just respond, “Quiet, silly boy, that’s impossible!” They didn’t believe me. I suppose the teacher didn’t know the genealogy — after all, Fredro’s daughter married a Sheptytskyi.
In my early years, I was somewhat detached from society. A little later, I discovered that Tarnowski was my uncle, Wielopolski was an uncle, Potocki was another uncle, and Badenii, connected to Lviv, lived in Kraków. The names we recognise from history are just part of my world; they are everyday surnames. We knew them as people. They would come over for coffee and chat with our parents, and we kids would run around between them, doing our own thing.
Later, I started high school in Kraków in the early ’90s — a fascinating time. It wasn’t like the current Revolution of Dignity in Ukraine, but it was a period of change. There was some “running from the police,” a bit of “fun with tear gas,” and police with batons. I was 17 then. My parents had no idea, but I’d wander around the city, getting into all sorts of things. I moved to Wrocław for university, where I studied veterinary medicine for six years. After that, I worked as a vet in Poznań, where I lived for 20 years.
– So you learned about your family from within — this history was shared with you, right?
– Of course. As you grow up, you start asking your parents more questions. You ask things like, “Who is that? Why are we different? How did it happen that Fredro is our ancestor? Dad, draw it out for me — who’s connected to whom, and what did our family look like? Why is she my aunt?” These kinds of questions would come up. In the ’90s, there were more family gatherings, and when I’d attend, it was important to know who was who. I was interested.
But you have to understand that, for us, “family” means more people than it might for others (laughs). I consider anyone with the same great-great-grandfather as me to be a cousin. So, for me, there are numerous cousins because we can trace our lives further than most people. Many don’t even remember their great-grandparents’ names. I’m fortunate to know several generations back — many great-grandparents and their stories.
– Why did you decide to become a veterinarian?
– It happened somewhat by accident. After primary and high school, I wanted to try something more challenging, mostly because I wasn’t too keen on studying. That was one reason. The other was that I thought, “I want to live in the countryside, and I don’t want to be a doctor for people.” But that turned out not to be true. Now, I live in Lviv, work in a veterinary hospital, and interact more with people than with animals.
Toward the end of university, I met a man who taught me the profession. We worked together for 20 years and built a successful business in Poland. There, veterinarians have a different role than in Ukraine — they’re more like doctors but with higher earnings. The veterinary service is mostly privatised, so it’s competitive and run like a business. I learned how to manage a business, handle finances, and make a living. It was an exciting time.
– How did society treat your family, especially during the socialist era?
– Well, it was the socialist era — the Ukrainian Greek Catholic Church was banned, along with Metropolitan Andrey Sheptytskyi. Before the war, only Andrey and Klymentii had converted to Greek Catholicism; the rest remained Roman Catholics, so faith wasn’t an issue. But after the war, my father and his siblings — his sister and brother — all pursued academic careers. My uncle moved to the U.S. and became a professor of mathematics, my aunt became a professor of physics, and my father a professor of biology. My aunt, who studied in Kraków, often faced career limitations purely because of her last name. Higher positions were off-limits. You could work in the background, but with the surname Sheptytskyi, you couldn’t go public — you stayed in your place. That was the reality for my parents’ generation. In my generation, it wasn’t really an issue. I mentioned that people didn’t always believe my heritage. When I told friends I was a count, they’d just roll their eyes.
– Tell us more about your lineage from Leon Sheptytskyi. He wasn’t involved in the church, right?
– He had an estate in Prybych and managed his own land, that’s all. He was just an ordinary person.
– And your great-grandfather — what about your grandfather?
– My grandfather was born sometime around the 1910s, I think, though I’m not exactly sure. He earned a law degree, and later, Kazimir left him an estate in Davyatnyky, which he managed. That’s where my father was born in 1939. Still here.
– Did he leave during the war?
– Yes, he fled. My grandmother took him, and they escaped to Poland, while my grandfather stayed behind in Yazlivets. The NKVD arrested him and sent him to Brykinyak, a large prison, and then deported him to Siberia. He wrote his memoirs there and survived it all. Eventually, he travelled with the Polish army through Iran and Israel and fought at Monte Cassino. Later, he worked as a lawyer at the Nuremberg trials. He was afraid to return to Poland, though, and only came back for a month after Stalin’s death. He settled in South Africa, where his wife, who had fled with the children to Poland in 1939, joined him after 18 years apart. They lived there until he passed away, and later, my grandmother returned to Poland, where she passed.
– Your ancestor, Andrey Sheptytskyi, is often seen as a financially savvy person and even an investor. Do you know anything about this?
– The only notable investment of Andrey’s was in gold mines in Indonesia. He was simply trying to earn money for his family, whom he was moving to Poland.
– Back to you. You moved to Lviv a few years ago. How do you feel about the city now?
– The first time I came to Lviv was in 1993, so naturally, a lot has changed since then. But over the past four years, I’ve gotten to know the city more and more — the buildings, streets, places, and people. This changes how you see it. You start noticing repairs here and there or something new opening up. The city feels like, well, just a city. Scooters have appeared. The development feels natural.
– What about the people? With so many from across Ukraine now living here…
– I have friends here, mostly locals from Lviv. They’re passionate about their city, local patriots, and Bandera supporters. I know all kinds of people. But there’s something that sets the non-locals apart. It was particularly noticeable at the start of the invasion. Now, some have left, some have returned, and others have stayed. The situation has definitely shifted.
– You mentioned that at the start of the Russian invasion in 2022, you were in Przemyśl, and that’s where your volunteering began. I actually spent a winter at an art residency in Przemyśl, where I spoke with many Ukrainians born in Poland, often the third generation after Operation Vistula. The question they most commonly face is whether they are Ukrainian or Polish…
– Questions of identity are always complicated. I get asked that a lot, too: Are you Polish or Ukrainian? My first answer is Ukrainian. But then I always ask what people mean by that. Are they asking about my parents, my grandparents, my passport, my language, where I want to live, or where I was born? There’s an answer for each. According to my passport, I’m Polish; my first language is Polish. But I identify with Lviv and Ukraine. For example, my parents are technically Polish, but I was born here. When people ask how I can be Ukrainian, I ask back, “Was Metropolitan Andrey Polish or Ukrainian?” All Lviv locals will say he was Ukrainian. So if my relative was Ukrainian, why can’t I be Ukrainian? (laughs)
– My question is a little different. On the one hand, Poles have been incredibly supportive during the invasion, and many continue to be. On the other hand, there’s also a more negative side, where chauvinistic and hostile attitudes toward Ukrainians sometimes emerge. How do you respond when you encounter these situations?
– The same thing happens on the Ukrainian side toward Poles. There are always a few narrow-minded people; it’s a reality in every nation. Personally, I’m generally calm. But if someone in Poland starts saying something offensive or tries to harm me, I give them a warning—better not to push it, or I’ll start singing “Batko Nash Bandera” [laughs – ed.].
On the Ukrainian side, there were some who didn’t like that I spoke Polish. But since the full-scale war began, the situation has shifted. A few times in Lviv, and even in Kyiv, when I was speaking Polish on the phone, strangers approached me, asking if I was Polish and telling me to convey their deep gratitude to the Polish people. So, Ukrainian attitudes have definitely changed for the better. The Polish perspective hasn’t fully shifted yet, but there’s progress. When the usual fear-mongering about Bandera comes up, I try to dispel it. I simply ask, “What do you really know about Bandera’s history?” He didn’t do much; he spent most of the war in prison. In my view, it’s Russian propaganda that has shaped the image of Bandera. This is the Bandera that Poles fear, but also the one Ukrainians regard as a hero. The question of truth and history is incredibly complex. I’m not a historian, but every third conversation I have with Poles who come to Lviv seems to revolve around Bandera and my personal stance on him.
The question of who is a hero and who isn’t is a bit like asking whether you’re Polish or Ukrainian. I don’t think you can answer it in one word. It really depends on who I’m talking to: if I’m speaking to Poles in Poland, for instance, I’m Ukrainian because that’s how I feel, and that’s the end of it. It’s a complex issue. The same applies to Bandera and the Polish-Ukrainian conflicts—you can’t just sum it up in one word. It requires a more strategic approach, and fortunately, that process is already underway.
– Do you think there’s a Russian influence behind these conflicts between Ukraine and Poland, like in the situation with Polish farmers—or so-called Polish farmers?
– Absolutely, I do. I’m a child of communism; I was born into it, and I can see the Russian factor almost everywhere.
– I mean, it’s often not even about Polish-Ukrainian relations specifically but more about who’s pulling the strings behind the scenes and financing it, right?
– Of course, that’s true from both sides. The question of who’s profiting is always there. People on both the Ukrainian and Polish sides profit from various things. It’s not always for the best, but as I’ve said, every nation has its share of destructive elements. Or people for whom money is the most important thing, and they’re willing to do anything foolish for it. And yes, the Russian factor is definitely there.
– In the Sheptytsky family, there was this fascinating blend of entrepreneurial talent, strategic thinking, and a strong sense of values. It wasn’t just about making money—it was about respecting people and doing things the right way. Do you feel that same sense of discernment today? Can you tell who to trust and who to steer clear of? Are you good at reading people?
– Unfortunately, I’m not particularly good at reading people; it’s not a skill I have. Over the years, I’ve found myself in both good and bad company. There were times when I worked with someone for a long time only to later discover they weren’t trustworthy. So, unlike my ancestors, I don’t have that instinct for discerning character. But when it comes to business and values, one principle from my family stands out—a relative once said, “You can do whatever you want, but you only have one family name. That’s it.” If word gets out in Lviv that a Sheptytsky has deceived someone or stolen, it leaves a lasting stain. Once it’s done, it’s done. So, I only have one name to uphold.
There’s also another truth that’s harder to accept. As an elderly Polish woman once said, “The nobility of your ancestors may inspire you, but your actions prove your own nobility.” I’m proud of my ancestors, but that doesn’t define my own sense of nobility. Being a count on paper isn’t enough. It’s my actions that speak for me. People are straightforward in this regard—if there’s any nonsense, they’ll remember it. But if something good happens, it’s often taken for granted. So, there’s always this underlying sense of responsibility.
– In the conversation, you mentioned that Ukraine needs a complete overhaul of its system. And indeed, a lot isn’t working properly here. There are two main responses to the full-scale war in society: one is focused on how to physically survive and reclaim territory—the military response—and the other is about what we actually intend to rebuild or renew: what system, principles, values, and so on. As an individual, not as an expert, what do you think we need to renew in Ukraine?
– Everything. Honestly, everything. The longer I live here, the more I realise that the system just doesn’t work, yet people somehow manage to get by. They’ve learned to survive within it, finding ways to fill the gaps left by the government or local authorities. So, people make their own decisions to live more comfortably. Corruption is a common topic, but someone once explained how it works here. For example, if a doctor has a low salary and a patient comes in for advice or a prescription, leaving a small amount of money as a thank you, some might call that corruption. But it’s not really corruption because everyone understands that if they don’t support the doctor, he might leave. Right? Yes, and that’s not corruption; it just means the government hasn’t paid the doctor for his work, so the people end up taking on the responsibility of the state. And yes, people can live like this. But unfortunately, there’s no force in Ukraine willing to change this, is there?
– Do you mean a political force or just in general?
– There’s no force to change things at all. Take business, for example. The conditions in Ukraine are what they are. People run successful businesses and make money, but because the system works the way it does, no Western European competitors are entering the market. Everyone’s either afraid or doesn’t understand how things work here. Local businesses aren’t interested in competition. Why let in competitors when they already know how to “resolve” things here? It’s not in their interest—that’s the first point. And the officials? Of course, they’re not interested in change either; they’re getting their cut, so everything’s fine for them. Then there’s the police and law enforcement, who are aligned with the officials and are perfectly content with the status quo. And society? Society lacks the power to make a difference. There’s a disturbing tolerance for lies in Ukraine. Someone can take the political stage and tell outright lies, and no one will hold them accountable.
– Or it’s quickly forgotten…
– I have a dream, and it’s not just about Ukraine—it includes Poland too. I dream of bringing back duelling laws [smiles]. So, you lied about me? Alright, let’s settle it. Maybe then people would think twice before speaking. And don’t even get me started on Ukrainian MPs. I don’t know them all, of course, but I watch a few YouTube shows, and the gossip about them is honestly embarrassing. They went to parliament to make money, and as a result, there was no one left to actually change the laws. Sadly, I don’t see any force in Ukraine capable of driving real change. Many people hope the European Union will sort everything out. Maybe it will, maybe it won’t. And even if it does, it’ll be a slow and painful process.
Believe me, from my experience in Poland, I’ve seen how you can play the European Union. It’s possible to pass laws that look good to Europeans but still run your own little schemes behind the scenes.
Again, I’m not a political scientist, and I don’t know everyone involved, of course. But is there anyone in Ukraine about whom there are no questions? For example, I had a meeting with the Venice Commission, which is currently holding hearings on the Supreme Court in Ukraine. I heard what the candidates were saying there… Honestly, maybe I should apply to be a judge too. There’s a Polish woman, Ms. Suchocka, on this commission. I met her in Poznań this summer and asked how things were going. She told me it’s disheartening because there’s no one to choose from. There are no competent people who want to work. We need individuals who go into government because it’s a job, not because they want to make money. People who would say, “I don’t need money.” Because if you say you don’t need money, where’s the corruption? If you don’t want money, there’s nothing anyone can use against you.
– But there’s another trend we can’t ignore. A large group of volunteers is dealing with precisely what you mentioned earlier—they’re taking on government responsibilities, from arms and ammunition to tactical medicine, and the state is perfectly fine with that. “Great, no need for us to do the hard work. We’ll just praise the volunteers.” But these are real people who’ve burned out multiple times and often carry trauma. For officials, it’s easier to send them on a five-day break in the Carpathians than to address the underlying issues. And this creates a huge gap between civil society and those in power, doesn’t it?
– Oh yes! You can see it in the way officials behave. Where do they get all these assets, cars, and everything else? I’m not saying that someone with money shouldn’t have a car, but they should be transparent about where their funds come from. You know, Ukraine has the largest “collective of businesswomen” in the world. Pseudo-businesswomen. Somehow, every official just happens to marry a successful businesswoman—grandmothers, wives—they’ve “gifted” them everything, and now they’re rich. But this issue runs deeper; it’s about asset protection. If you’re under investigation, they can seize your assets. If you run your business honestly, a police officer can come to you, and the next day you’re facing a case. Everyone knows you’re innocent, but if you own property, a factory, whatever, you’re either forced to accept their terms or dragged through the courts for years until your business goes bankrupt. So, there’s a huge conversation about change here. I talk with many people about this because it concerns me, and we all come to the same conclusion: the judicial system, along with the prosecutors and police, must be reformed. Because if that doesn’t happen, all you need to do is make a deal with them, and you’re untouchable.
– These are really the pillars of the state. When Yanukovych seized power, the first thing he targeted was the judiciary and the humanities.
– It’s interesting—I’m currently reading a book about past legal conflicts. It was written by a Ukrainian author, but I’m reading it in Polish. The book discusses the Ruthenian nobility in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and the crucial role the courts played for them. For them, it was essential. They wanted the courts in Ruthenia to speak Ruthenian and protested the idea of courts operating in Polish. That’s when I realised that this judicial system should be something an ordinary person never has to deal with. Because if you’re an honest person, why would you need it? Maybe for receiving an inheritance or due to a marriage or death. But this system should operate quietly and fairly. If it doesn’t, there will be no investments and no changes in cities or local government because some local “lord” will always be able to make a deal with the court. So, without judicial reform, nothing will move forward.
– But what do you think? Is this a post-Soviet legacy or a way of thinking? It seems like they think that way and are never satisfied. What do you think the possible solutions might be?
– Let’s reset for a moment and imagine this: if the court system isn’t functioning, what difference does it make whether it exists or not? Let’s suspend all courts for six months, and then after that, we’ll create new ones. Of course, change in Poland was slow—it took 20 to 30 years. I’m no expert in judicial reform, but when I took part in discussions about Ukrainian legislation and mentioned Polish examples, Ukrainians would say they wanted to do it better than the Poles. Sure, it’s good to aim higher, but if you’re always focused on outdoing others, you end up achieving nothing. It just takes too long and becomes too complicated. Sometimes, you just need to take what works and replicate it—copy the whole structure: who pays whom and where the money comes from.
The EU factor is probably significant, too, since Poland is part of the European Union.
By copying the current Polish laws, we’d have a ready-made legal framework for the EU since they’re already in use. I understand that there are differences between countries, but some things can simply be copied and implemented rather than endlessly trying to create something perfect. This conversation wasn’t really about legislative change—it was more about protecting interests. Everyone thinks it will take too long anyway, so why change anything? We’ll deal with it later.
– Returning to your family’s heritage, what is the current situation with the Sheptytsky inheritance? As I understand it, some of it has the necessary documents and legal procedures in place, while some does not. Does your physical presence as a descendant have any impact on this?
– First of all, Ukraine doesn’t have any laws on re-privatisation, and I don’t think it ever will. If they did, they’d have to return all of Lviv. So, there’s no legal way for me to reclaim anything. But even if there were, I don’t want to. As I’ve said before, there’s only one name. I don’t want people saying, “Sheptytsky came and took everything.” I’d rather earn my own money and buy something later. I’ll wait. Maybe I’ll end up buying something that once belonged to my ancestors—maybe not, I’m not sure yet. Almost everything was destroyed: the palace in Prymychi is gone, the house in Devyatnyky is gone. What’s left in Lviv? For example, my great-grandfather Leon’s house on Zelena Street, which is now a library. I work with them, so my presence here should mean something. I don’t want my presence to suggest we’re taking anything; I want it to remind people that the Sheptytskys were here, that this was our heritage—and we’re here to stay.
– Did you have any sense that Russia’s full-scale invasion was coming?
– No, I didn’t believe the Russians could be that stupid. I had already been living in Lviv for two years and saw how locals felt about moskals [a derogatory term for Russians – ed.]. I understood that things wouldn’t unfold the way they dreamed—Kyiv wouldn’t fall in three days with parades and flowers. But they didn’t know that. Medvedchuk’s role here was to lie convincingly to Putin for a hefty sum, and Putin believed him. He came here expecting one thing, only to find everything was completely different. On one hand, the war was unexpected, yet looking back at our entire history, it was also quite predictable.
– What do you think Ukraine could offer to the rest of Europe? It seems like the European community is facing its own crisis, even though their security issues seem to be more or less under control.
– Ukraine has a lot to offer. As for those so-called secure countries—that’s the price they’ve paid. You trade freedom for security, and that’s how it always works. If you want freedom, you give up safety, and vice versa. In the European Union, everything is systematic. You know exactly what to do, where to pay, how to pay—it’s all clear, or almost all of it. And with that, you’re safe. In Ukraine, people live differently. There’s more imagination, more freedom, but less security.
What Ukraine can bring to Europe is enthusiasm. Those who are hungry are motivated to work hard, and Ukrainians are like that. All the businesspeople I know are driven and eager to earn more. You don’t find that as much in Poland anymore; it was like that there 30 years ago. So, that enthusiasm could be what Ukraine offers to the rest of Europe in the future.
There’s something else, too: as technology advances, not every country follows the same stages, and processes don’t unfold in the same way everywhere. For example, I learned that in Kenya, they never had landline phones—everyone just has a mobile because they skipped that phase of technological progress. In Ukraine, things are far more digitalised than in many European countries, but not always. For instance, I need to visit the immigration office now to submit documents for my temporary residence permit. Every year, I have to provide a notarised copy of my passport in paper form—for the fifth time. Why? So the notary can charge me 200 hryvnias or so. The worst part is that someone wrote this into the law, and no one questions whether it still makes sense. A fresh perspective on outdated requirements would be much appreciated.
– I was curious about your comment on security and freedom. Do you feel like you have to choose between the two in your life?
– Exactly [laughs]. It’s easier to breathe here and more freedom, but I have a Polish passport, which is an EU passport—and that provides security. But when you look at civilisational development, there’s not much of a choice. In Ukraine, there’s less freedom. What does freedom really mean, though? It means you don’t have to take others into account. Or, to be precise, you behave the way you’ve agreed. Someone once said: there’s no corruption in Ukraine—just find a godfather who can sort everything out. And that’s freedom. But it comes with a lack of security. And when there’s security, freedom becomes more limited. Of course, there’s a balance. One country leans more towards security, while the other leans towards freedom. That’s the fundamental difference between countries.
I’m talking about a security model where the laws are clear and where you know what to do. If you want to build a house, you know exactly how it works. And if you don’t, you hire a lawyer who explains it to you. Take licenses, for example. In Ukraine, nearly everything requires a license. In Poland, if I want to open a construction company, I can do it tomorrow without needing any licenses. Sure, I’ll need licensed engineers for their work, but not for everything. What are these rules, anyway? A license to prove I have two legs? In Poland, I can own any company.
I have two dreams: One is for someone to compile a list of all the licenses in Ukraine. It would be interesting. Maybe people would realise that a license doesn’t mean much. The second is to create a document listing all the top officials in Europe and their assets. I’m curious, for instance, to compare them with the assets of Ukrainian officials. That would be very revealing.
