What should the approach to Ukrainisation be—gentle or forceful? Which methods genuinely resonate, and which ones push people away? In theory, everyone seems to have the answers, but what about in practice? As I conduct field research on the Ukrainian language, here’s a snapshot from my ‘lab’.
“Pour me a drink; I’m a Ukrainian language lecturer!” My friend Serhiy Savin bursts into the bar, embodying the vibrant spirit of his craft. At just 27, he’s a talented poet and philologist who genuinely teaches Ukrainian and works with actors’ language at the Lesya Ukrainka Theatre in the capital (thankfully no longer labelled as a “Russian Drama Theatre”). Serhiy has come to Lviv to pay his respects at the funeral of Iryna Farion, whose tragic murder brought him to tears. Their connection ran deep, underscoring a vital truth. “Language matters,” chanted the throngs of mourners during the procession for Iryna Farion [a former MP fatally shot in Lviv in July 2024 – ed.], a poignant reminder of the role language plays in identity and community.
They had a personal connection—at just 17, Serhiy boarded a bus from his hometown of Mohyliv-Podilskyi to Lviv, flowers in hand, and bravely invited Iryna Farion for coffee. From that moment on, a lasting friendship blossomed. He often jokes that he selected his girlfriends based on how they viewed Iryna Farion. Artistic and charismatic, Serhiy has an incredible talent for transforming any setting into a poetry festival. He reads his verses in public squares, effortlessly capturing the attention of passersby. Over time, we’ve embarked on numerous social experiments, including spontaneous Ukrainian language lessons—practical, persistent, and inspiring. Serhiy had pressing matters to address with everyone speaking Russian around him, and he was determined to make a change.
“Come to my office,” he once said. But he’s a Kyiv poet, and his office is simply under the sky on Volodymyrska Hill. However, his teaching space is also here—before long, the random passers-by who had the misfortune of speaking Russian that day in the capital’s centre were eager to put their journals on the table and promise to return tomorrow with their parents. There’s something innate in a teacher’s tone, a vestige from childhood, that touches on all uncertainties within and compels submission. Yet this approach isn’t always appropriate. Serhiy senses this nuance keenly, which is why he engages with the girls speaking Russian in the bar, not as an educator but as a lyrical poet.
He envelops them in the beauty of the Ukrainian language, showering them with compliments and metaphors that are far from ordinary. And it works. In a moment, the girls are glowing and chattering in Ukrainian, as if that had always been the case.
I’m writing this column on the Dnipro waterfront while students nearby are listening to Korol i Shut [Russian punk rock band – ed.]. Why is this band suddenly in vogue again in 2024? I think if Serhiy were here now, they’d be swaying like idols. Once, he invited a group of young people to join us. We drank wine and talked about poetry. At our request, everyone switched to Ukrainian except for one beautiful girl. “She’s from Crimea, you see,” said the young man we had already poured wine for, gazing at her fondly. “We don’t understand.” We treated everyone but the girl. “We can only pour vodka for her.” And we asked them to leave.
Everyone must navigate this decision for themselves. It’s time to ask: Why do you speak (or not speak) Ukrainian? Who has devoted their efforts to this cause over the years?
For me, the primary reason I speak and create in Ukrainian lies in my education. A solid school and university not only taught me the language but also instilled resilience—the conviction to embrace Ukrainian despite the odds.
Speaking Ukrainian today is not just a cultural choice; it’s a matter of national security. It helps us distinguish a friend from foe on the battlefield. After the invasion, the landscape appeared black and white for a while, but now, as we enter the third year of war, we’re witnessing some troubling reversals. This makes it essential to approach the language with care and intention at all levels.
So, what is the most effective approach? It needs to be comprehensive while also tailored to individual needs. We require wise and measured state policy (a rarity in our experience) alongside quotas and robust support for everything in Ukrainian. In theory, everyone understands this; in practice, however, it’s often the same old story. The language issue is frequently manipulated for various agendas. Some people respond solely to the language of money, meaning it must become financially disadvantageous for them not to use Ukrainian, or conversely, financially beneficial to adopt it. Others are swayed by the language of power, while some seek tenderness and support. For others still, inspiration is key, while fear may serve as a motivator for yet another group.
Another unforgettable lesson unfolded in May 2023, filled with jokes about Shchekavytsia and surrounded by a Kyiv alive with lilacs and chestnuts. We wrapped up a day brimming with adventures at Samosad in Podil. My friend Anna Arinarkhova—who teaches chemistry rather than Ukrainian—was by my side, but her teaching tone was genuine and heartfelt.
“Turn off the Russian music, please!” I called out to the group of drunks, who were blasting tunes in the language of the occupiers.
“If you don’t like it, get up and leave!” one of them throws back at me in Russian.
“Please, just turn off the Russian crap!”
“What’s the problem? We have freedom of speech!”
“Well, we’re calling the police,” I retorted.
“Go ahead!” they replied, unfazed.
The air crackles with tension as the crowd in the park starts to polarise. A stranger stands up and approaches us, clearly ready for a fight. We decided to call the police, and my friend put her phone on loudspeakers.
“Police? Good afternoon! There are young people here playing Russian music very loud.”
The operator asks for our address and details. “We’re on our way,” a cheerful voice promises. They could easily walk over—the station is just down the street. Suddenly, our drunk opponents turn off the music and start gathering their things.
“We’ll listen at home anyway. Are you happy now?” one of them scoffs.
“Oh, I’m very pleased,” Anna says, and the other park guests echo her sentiment. We decide to call the police to cancel our earlier request. They respond with courtesy and a cheerful tone.
“Just give us a call if anything happens.”
But my most memorable lesson in Ukrainian took place in Chernivtsi. I was wearing one of those dresses that could easily be deemed a weapon of mass destruction. I had just left a lecture by Yosyp Zisels on identity at Meridian Czernowitz, where he asserted that victory is impossible until society unites, noting that only about 30 per cent of us currently grasp who we are and where we’re headed. This is particularly relevant when it comes to language and culture.
As I sat in the café, a towering soldier—easily two metres tall—approached me, launching into a lengthy speech laden with compliments about my ‘ideal forms’. The dress, it must be said, was indeed very flattering, crafted by a Ukrainian designer. But before he could finish his remarks, the conversation took an unexpected turn.
“I don’t understand Russian,” I say.
He hesitates for a moment, then shoots me an offended glare: “Very bad.”
“Why?” I laugh, turning my back to him.
If only he weren’t a soldier. He genuinely seems oblivious to what’s wrong. But I’m hopeful that my response will give him something to ponder. After all, when a woman declines to accept compliments simply because they’re in Russian, it certainly leaves an impression—and feels surprisingly powerful.
