WHERE THE RIGHT DOOR LEADS

In the long corridor of the Modern and Medieval Languages Department of the University of Cambridge, I stand between two doors. From the right comes the Ukrainian language; from the left — Russian. Further along the corridor, there are numerous other doors through which I can hear many languages of the world.

Every day, students walk, run, or, as I have witnessed on at least one memorable occasion, crawl through this corridor, committing themselves to a particular worldview by opening one door or another.

What makes someone turn right and join the Ukrainian language lesson? I am here to find out.

The door opens, and Andrii, the Ukrainian language teacher, ushers me in for the final fifteen minutes of his beginner's class. I give a very insightful introduction to the students — 'Я дівчинка' (I am a girl). 'В мене є собака' (I have a dog). 'Я люблю блакитний колір' (I love the colour blue). After delivering these essential biographical details, I finally ask the question I came for:

'Why study Ukrainian?'

I am hit with a long, uncomfortable cinematic silence — the type of silence often reserved for existential crises, major plot twists or, in my case, potentially unsuccessful article interviews. I'd like to think that it was my commanding presence rather than Andrii's authoritative encouragement which finally set off the discussion.

This article is the outcome of many intrusions into Ukrainian language lessons. From speaking with Andrii's students, I learned that each had a unique story behind their decision to take the class. Nonetheless, patterns emerged: some see the Ukrainian language as a form of solidarity and resistance. For others, it is a tool for bonding with important people in their lives or a stepping stone for their professional future. And some find simple academic pleasure in learning Ukrainian.

LEARNING THE NATION
Many students framed learning Ukrainian as a gesture of solidarity with a nation under attack. My friend from Hong Kong explained that, coming from a place that has also faced repression by a physically larger power, he understands the urgency of protecting cultural identity. For him, learning and speaking Ukrainian is a way to stand in solidarity with his friends, along with joining the 'Слава Україні!' (Slava Ukraini) salute during protests. A student from Sakartvelo in another class echoed his reasoning, telling me that she wanted to contribute to the preservation of Ukraine's identity and learn more about how Ukraine's history of struggle parallels that of her own country.

From the perspective of these students, language emerges as an instrument of power, where such an everyday practice as language choice can be a subtle but potent act of resistance, and mark one's belonging to a group which refuses to submit. I do agree with these students — the best way to understand fundamental events such as the Orange Revolution, the Revolution of Dignity, and the current full-scale war against Russia is through the language which conveys the values Ukrainians continue to stand for: 'незалежність' (independence), 'свобода' (freedom), and 'гідність' (dignity).

Beyond collective resistance and expressions of solidarity, language is also a tool for personal decolonisation. A woman in her thirties told me she began learning Ukrainian only after she left Mariupol and came to Cambridge in 2022. She is determined to pass this language on to her young children and end the cycle of Russification. This story emphasises the importance of language in preserving national identity and political community throughout the generations. The choice to reimagine oneself within a Ukrainian cultural and national community can be made at any point in one's life.

CONNECTING THE DOTS (AND THE PEOPLE)
Beyond solidarity and resistance, many students learned Ukrainian for a simpler reason: to connect with the people around them. A boy from London and a girl from the Czech Republic both began studying Ukrainian while volunteering at welcome centres for Ukrainian refugees in 2022. A practical necessity gradually evolved into a long-term commitment to maintain the relationships they had built.

For the Ukrainian refugees themselves, their native language is a source of comfort. Through their earnest efforts and battles with grammatical cases, they signal to Ukrainians that someone is there to acknowledge their culture far away from home. To me, this is one of the most humane acts possible — an attempt to speak the native language of another person.

Some students had Ukrainian family connections: a Ukrainian parent, grandparent or cousin. For them, learning Ukrainian was a way to access a heritage that had always felt slightly out of reach. Language can unlock histories, stories, and relationships that were previously inaccessible.

However, not all choices to join the Ukrainian class seemed entirely voluntary. Several students admitted they were 'strongly encouraged' by their Ukrainian partners to learn the language to speak with their parents or grandparents. As the saying goes (that Machiavelli definitely never said), 'the end justifies the means', and I strongly believe that in the grand project of Ukrainization, every tool is acceptable.

While I am not advocating fear or intimidation as motivational methods, one must recognise that they can be remarkably effective in specific interpersonal contexts.

When one class spoke enthusiastically about the iconic 'Львівський метрополітен імені Степана Бандери' (Stepan Bandera Lviv Metro Station) meme, I understood that Andrii is giving his students the best Ukrainian online culture has to offer. And, of course, I eagerly await their progression to the category of political memes — the true window into the inner workings of the Ukrainian soul. Some students confessed to giving in to peer pressure exercised by their Ukrainian friends. At stake was the understanding of Ukrainian memes.

MONETISING SUCCESS
For some learners, Ukrainian was not just a matter of solidarity or emotional connection. Rather, it was a professional asset. A priest in the class was learning Ukrainian to communicate with members of his parish. Another person, responsible for the Ukrainian section of the Modern and Medieval Languages Department Library, needed the language to avoid the hazard of shelving books upside down or misidentifying grammar guides as poetry collections.

Then there was the woman who had spent thirty-three years working as a Russian-English translator, only to retire and take up Ukrainian. Her Ukrainian was, frankly, impeccable. As one of her retirement hobbies, she is assisting a Cambridge researcher with translating Cossack manuscripts.

I also spoke to two students who are undertaking a module on Ukrainian language and culture as part of their degree. Their approach was noticeably more serious, and their Ukrainian was strong. Our conversations were in Ukrainian, and we even emailed each other in the language. I believe that installing a Cyrillic keyboard is a significant milestone in one's language learning path. One of these students had lived in Ukraine before the full-scale invasion and hoped to return there to work and live. The other aimed to work in defence and security, fully aware that Ukraine now plays a central role in Europe's evolving security landscape.

In many students' stories, Ukrainian emerges as a language of the future — useful in diplomacy, research, security, and cultural work. Through learning it, people fall in love with the country, its history, and its resilience, and many begin imagining futures that lead back to Ukraine itself.

THE CAMBRIDGE WAY
And, of course, Cambridge would not be Cambridge if people weren't learning something simply because it is intellectually stimulating. Many linguists across different classes were drawn to Ukrainian as a member of the Slavic language family. It was useful for them to broaden their linguistic horizons and understand the broader picture of language evolution. There was also one student who described the sheer pleasure of discovering grammar patterns and perfecting his pronunciation, treating Ukrainian like a finely crafted object to be studied and admired.

I strongly believe that such an approach matters. Enjoying Ukrainian beyond the war, beyond tragedy, beyond narratives of victimhood is an essential act in itself. Curiosity is a form of respect. When learners treat Ukrainian as an academic delight, it restores a sense of normality to a language too often discussed only in the context of conflict. In this sense, Ukrainian gains ontological power: it becomes part of the academic body, transforming from a language of crisis to a language of ideas.

TAKING THE RIGHT TURN
In the end, every student I spoke to had a unique story — a personal reason for turning right and opening the door to the Ukrainian class. Some did so to stand with a nation under attack, treating the Ukrainian language as a political act. Others came in to better understand their loved ones — partners, friends or family. Knowledge of Ukrainian was also sought by some as a professional asset, a language of one's future. And many simply came for the linguistic challenge and intellectual enjoyment.

'Why study Ukrainian?' had a different answer for each person that I spoke with. Yet, consciously or not, each person who opens the door to the Ukrainian class participates in shaping the cultural and political future of a country currently fighting for its existence. In that corridor, turning right could be just a direction. But for many who make the choice, turning right also becomes exactly that — the right choice.