Dïaspora Journal Issue 1

ISSUE 1

A LETTER FROM

THE EDITOR

When Ukraine is discussed on the news or even in standard conversation,

it’s often as a ‘country at war’; somewhere abstract and distant, reduced to

anonymous statistics. As a Ukrainian raised in the U.S., I have repeatedly

witnessed the ignorance regarding Ukraine and Ukrainians within the

Western world. Even after russia’s full-scale invasion and Ukraine’s

increased mention in the media, I continue to be asked whether the

national language of Ukraine is russian, I frown as ‘borscht’ is labelled

as a russian dish, and I observe how the Ukrainian literature and culture

that shaped my upbringing remains unheard of in English-speaking

classrooms.

At its heart, ‘Dїaspora’ seeks to showcase this vibrant culture and present

it as accessible and compelling to English-speaking audiences. The pieces

in this collection are raw, honest, and deeply human—they dismantle

‘Ukraine’ as a distant entity and illuminate the lived and nuanced

experiences of Ukrainian diasporas globally.

Both an act of resistance and a narrative of resilience, ‘Dїaspora’ strays

away from the headlines which portray a war-torn and one-dimensional

Ukraine. Rather, it aims to showcase Ukraine from closer to the ground; to

humanize Ukrainians, dismantle stereotypes, and reframe understandings

of Ukrainian life directly through a Ukrainian lens, rather than through

the colonial narratives which consume political discussion.

Donate to support

our future issues!

Editor-in-Chief

ELIZABETH MALONE

Editorial Tea

Elizabeth Maloe

Editor-in-Chief

Beya Pyatski

Project Manager

Ulrich Poehlman

Soerled Hederso

Alisa Bystrytska

Kira Satalova

Maryna Satalova

Anna Kozachuk

Anna Ko

Ruby Gad Seidita

Mae Lai

Editor

Desig Team

Kai Smolin

Head of Design

Anastasiia Turkot

Graphic Designer

Mae Lai

Graphic Designer

Dariia Hryschenko

Graphic Designer

FEELS LIKE

Kira Santalova

‘WHERE DO THE CHILDREN PLAY?’

Valeria Gerus

THE SECOND FRONT: UKRANIAN

JOURNALISM IN A TIME OF WAR

Anastasiia Hryschenko

HOW TO STAY ALIVE AFTER

WORKING IN THE CHORNOBYL

POWER PLANT

Anna Kozachuk

TOADS, NATIONALISTS,

MANKURTS, AND THE QUESTION

OF CAN I LOVE UKRAINE?

Oleksandr Kobzar

SIL

Maryna Santalova

THE SCARS ARE SHOWING THE

HISTORY

aryna Santalova

LY DREAM

Anna Ko

ITLED

UKRAINE’S MOST UKRAINIAN

ARCHITECTURE

Dan Malitskyy

AN ODE TO AN AUTUMN AMONG

THE BIRCHES

Benya Pyatski

WHITE HOUSE

Anna Ko

FATHERLAND

Pavlo Dyachenko

WHAT IS LIKE, YOUR

Andrii Kuzma

OFT POWER: AN OPPORTUNITY

TO ENGAGE FROM ABROAD

UKRANIAN LIFE

Kira Santalova

Matild

EXECUTED RENAISSANCE: THE

GENERATION OF TALENTS KILLED

BY THE SOVIET REGIME

a Molodynski Stokes

Artem Pishel

anna H

RESILIENCE IN RIFFS: TELEMA

AND THE RISE OF UKRAINE’S

WARTIME METAL SCENE

umenchuk

THE WAR DOESN’T RIDE THE

RAILS

isa Bystrytska

Fall 2025

CONTEST

IMAGE CREDITS

ED REMEMBRANCE:

CHALLENGES IN ACKNOWLEDGING

THE HOLODOMOR

3 4DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE

FEELS LIKE

KIRA SANTALOVA

I will give you my lips,

so you can speak my mother tongue.

And I will spare you a piece of my heart —

it will be a present of mine—

so you learn what my world really feels like.

If only we could speak the

same language,

I would be happy to take any lessons,

make mistakes, and try real hard—

only to learn what your world feels like.

without the constraints

and burdens

of second lines.

UKRAINE’S

MOST UKRAINIAN

ARCHITECTURE

Soviet modernism. Imperial classicism. French

Renaissance facades. These styles (borrowed,

imposed, adapted) form the urban face of Ukraine.

But is there anything beneath them? Something

unique; something unmistakably our own?

Ukrainian Architectural Modern (Ukrainian Art

Nouveau or UAM) is that something. A style that

prevailed briey and brilliantly in the early 20th

century. It is rooted in folk traditions and shaped

by national aspiration and identity. Unfortunately,

it is little known even within Ukraine. But it should

be. These buildings do not merely stand – they tell

a story. And what they say is both beautiful and

indispensable.

Across Europe, the early 1900s were a time of stylistic

rebellion. Art Nouveau, Secession, Jugendstil...each

region invented its own modern identity, rejecting

classical uniformity. In Ukraine, this artistic wave

collided with a deeper current: the search for

cultural sovereignty.

But what could a modern Ukrainian city look like?

Not one made in the image of Paris or Vienna, but

in the image of Ukraine itself. Not imitation, but

reinterpretation. Not nostalgia, but transformation.

Ukrainian Architectural Modern drew from the

vernacular: countryside homes (haty) with thick

white walls and thatched roofs, wooden churches

with tiered silhouettes, and national art. These

elements were not pasted on, they were woven into

the logic of design. This was architecture grown

from folklore.

Unlike the palaces of empires, these buildings were

lled with light and humility. Take, for instance, the

rural schools designed by Opanas Slastion, where

rooftop towers symbolised that ‘a school is a temple

of knowledge,’ and brick ornamentation resembled

woven embroidery (vyshyvanka). A national style,

carved from memory and thorough research.

Poltava, more than any other city, became the soul of

this movement. Vasyl Krychevsky’s masterpiece, the

Regional Studies Museum (formerly the Zemstvo

Building), is often seen as the birth of the style.

But the movement stretched far beyond: to Kyiv, to

Kharkiv, to Chernihiv, even as far as Kuban.

Across all these regions, a kind of architectural

dialect began to form – a visual grammar of

‘Ukrainianness’ in a building. There were

trapezoidal and hexagonal windows and doorways,

their unconventional forms drawing the eye and

being the most recognisable element in the style.

Semi-elliptical arches softened rigid geometries.

Roofs often swelled into tented peaks or folded

into tiered ridges, recalling mountain silhouettes.

Wooden galleries stretched along facades, their

pillars sometimes twisted into carved spirals.

Everywhere, tile and brick mosaics glimmered with

patterns lifted from vyshyvanky, pysanky (decorated

Easter eggs), and painted ceramics – fragments of

a folk memory reassembled in clay and stone.

Before this, only the Cossack Baroque had

given Ukraine a distinct architectural

voice, and mostly within churches.

Ukrainian Architectural Modern

took that voice to the streets. Schools,

cooperatives, and administrative buildings

– all were reshaped in a vernacular that felt

both timeless and thrillingly new.

DAN MALITSKYY

What do we see when we look at Ukrainian

cities?

5 6DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE

But we can, and must, learn from it. Preserve what

we have. Celebrate what survives. Not just physically,

but intellectually and emotionally. Because it is

not only the most Ukrainian architectural style

ever created, it is one of the most vivid expressions

of Art Nouveau anywhere in the world. And it is

vanishing. Too many buildings have fallen into

decay – their tiles cracked, their paint peeling, roofs

collapsing, and their meaning forgotten. Few people

(even among Ukrainians) know these names: Vasyl

Krychevsky, Opanas Slastion, Johann Levynsky.

Fewer still recognise the buildings that stand quietly

on our streets as historical artefacts.

UAM emerged at a time of radical social

transformation. It lived through (and barely

survived) the collapse of the russian empire, World

War I, Ukraine’s brief independence, and the rise

of Bolshevism. In those short years, dozens of

masterpieces were built. And then, suddenly, they

were not. The style was too national; too proud; too

rooted. Under the Soviets, it was branded ‘formalism’

or even ‘exoticism.’ The Zemstvo building was

called ‘pseudo-Moorish’ by oicials unfamiliar

with Ukrainian traditions. By the 1930s, Ukrainian

Architectural Modern was eectively dead, buried

under the concrete slabs of socialist realism and the

silence of censorship.

What made UAM remarkable was not just its form,

but its devotion to synthesis. Architecture became a

vessel for the applied arts.

For those who wonder: could we ever build

‘Український архітектурний модерн. Коротка

історія втраченої естетики.’

[‘Ukrainian Architectual Modernism. A Brief History of a

Lost Aesthetic’].

Texty.org.ua, 5 June 2013, texty.org.ua

articles/46453/Ukrajinskyj_arkhitekturnyj_modern_

Korotka_istorija_vtrachenoji_ jestetyky-46453/

Works Cited:

If you have never heard of UAM before, you’re not

alone. But now you have. If you want to go further,

here are a few starting points:

Ukrainian Architectural Modern is not just a

historical curiosity. It is a testimony. It is the voice of

great individuals who dared to speak and craft for

Ukraine and Ukrainians.

It is also fragile. Fewer than a hundred signicant

buildings survive in relatively good condition. Some

have been restored. Many are crumbling. And yet,

each is a museum in itself – not only of objects and

craftsmanship, but of ideas.

Look closer, ask questions, and remember. Because

sometimes, the most powerful act of cultural

memory is simply to notice.

The answer is probably no. Not really.

Ukrainian Architectural Modern was born

from a specic moment – from artists shaped

by folk memory, trained in craft schools, struggling

under the empire, and dreaming of a free culture.

Any ‘neo-UAM’ we might construct today would be

a well-meant imitation ‘inspired by,’ but not of the

original spirit.

in this style again?

7 8DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE

WHERE DO THE

CHILDREN PLAY?

VALERIA GERUS

hildren play on playgrounds, in parks, and

in gardens. Children play at home, in their

backyards, and in playrooms. Children play in

schools with their classmates and teachers, at home

with their parents and siblings, and in kindergarten

with their peers and nannies. Children play on

abandoned buildings. Children play on ruins where

their schools used to be. Children play on the ruins

of their houses. Children play in missile craters.

The last four places where children seek

amusement are hauntingly disturbing,

marked by the echoes of destruction that

no child should ever have to endure.

Parents do not wish for their children to

play in locations other than designated

safe areas. Yet, nowadays, when kids seek

entertainment, there are no gardens, parks,

or playgrounds available – they are ruined.

Ukraine is at war. My country is at war. Many other

countries all around the world are at war. Children

all around the globe play on craters, ruins, and

abandoned buildings, seeking entertainment to

forget about the horrors around them, just for a

brief moment. I look at all of the photos and videos

of destruction in the news, I read Ukrainian media

outlets that report on current events around the

world, and I see how people suer. I see the economy

being ruined, lives being destroyed, and buildings

becoming rubble.

During the rst month of the war, my

family and I moved to the central part of Ukraine,

in fear that the capital, where we lived, would be

the main target. We feared that the bridges would

be bombed and that we wouldn’t be able to escape

to the right bank of Kyiv. On our way, we heard

military jets ying by and missiles being red. I had

a feeling that they were chasing us. But even when

we arrived, jets would y above the house we stayed

in almost every night. My parents told me they

were Ukrainian planes patrolling, but I still wonder

whether it was indeed patrols, or if they told me that

to calm me down.

My classmates who stayed in Kyiv tell

me about air raid alerts, school being interrupted

because of them, and learning time being wasted

while they are hiding in a bomb shelter or

underground parking. Their siblings are afraid

of the sounds every night. If this is happening in

the capital, presumably the most defended part of

Ukraine, I can’t imagine the terror people endure in

the Eastern part of my country.

There are a lot of international organisations that

help children live through this war, such as UNICEF

and Save the Children, as well as Ukrainian

funds like the Rinat Akhmetov Foundation.

These organisations often collaborate with local

communities, governments, and other NGOs to

provide comprehensive support. They work to

create safe spaces for children, oer counselling and

mental health services, distribute essential supplies

like food, clean water, and medical care, and focus

on educational initiatives to help rebuild shattered

lives and futures. Their eorts not only address

immediate needs but also aim to build resilience

among children and communities, helping them

recover from the psychological scars of conict.

They help children nd hope in the demoralised

world we live in.

Children get torn away from their parents, parents

torn away from their children. Whether through

bombings shattering homes, or the heart-wrenching

act of children being snatched away, and taken far

from their loved ones by russian occupants – the

pain is unbearable. Imagine the terror in a child’s

eyes as they’re forcibly separated and the despair

of parents watching helplessly as their children

are torn away. It’s a gut-wrenching assault on love

and safety, leaving wounds that may never heal.

Innocence is shattered and replaced by fear and

unllable voids.

I don’t want my future kids and grandkids to

experience this ‘amusement’ of playing on ruins. I

don’t want them to suer from trauma after hearing

bombs falling from the sky, or drones and jets ying

right above their heads. I don’t want them to need

these foundations. I want them to have a better

childhood. I want them to feel safe and happy.

I want children to play on a playground.

910DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE

AN ODE TO AN

AUTUMN A MONG

THE BIRCHES BENYA PYATSKI

It’s autumn among the birches, or so I’m told–

I haven’t yet seen the leaves turn and fall.

It’s cold, but I missed the waves of

pink,

brown,

yellow,

red,

that should’ve come crashing down all over me.

If the leaves haven’t yet turned, then there’s still time–

time to prepare for my long, dark slumber

in the bowels of the caves of my daydreams.

Time to sing,

to dance,

to cry,

before the eternal dark of night.

Autumn among the birches reminds me that time is all eeting after

the long, warm bliss of summer.

Autumn among the birches gives me a new lease on life:

With every layer I put on–

With every breath of cold air–

A gi I could never repay.

It was in dreams that I danced in my garden–for my awe may cloud me.

But beauty may bloom bitter dandelions–for she opened herself to me, yet her name I did not know,

as death’s breath chanted nevermore–for the elds are under the watch of storms.

From kisses delirious,

to faces frantic-

elaborate are dreams;

wandering thoughts.

Pounding sleep,

lovely language.

Sometimes, in rest,

I prick myself–

I can’t control me.

And it’s funny–I imagine she can’t too.

11 12DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE

SECOND FRONT

Ukrainia Journalis i a Tie of War

ANASTASIIA HRYSHCHENKO

On February 24, 2022, Ukraine entered a new

reality: full-scale war. Russia’s attack on

Ukraine fundamentally changed Ukrainian society,

aecting every individual and bringing lasting socio-

political and economic consequences. Journalism,

in particular, has changed dramatically during

wartime, as it plays a crucial role in covering events

that inuence how Ukraine and Ukrainians are

perceived both domestically and globally. Journalists

have had to adapt to these new conditions and form

a ‘second front’ — an informational one, behind the

lines of armed confrontation.

Journalists now have an even greater

social obligation than at any time in the

recent past, and changes in the standards

of reportage have become evident.

Reporting from the front lines has always

come with a tremendous responsibility,

but acquiring new and unique skills

is now essential for every journalist

working in the midst of war.

They must learn to distinguish what can and cannot

be reported and how to communicate with soldiers

respectfully. This process of understanding is key

to journalism in modern Ukraine. New laws also

reect journalists’ increased social responsibility.

Journalism has always been vital in shaping public

opinion, but today this role has become even more

critical. Media workers are under special scrutiny

because they shape how the majority of people see

the world. During the publication process, editors

must fully understand the implications that their

content will have for society and national security.

In this new reality, the rhetoric used by Ukrainian

journalists has also changed. The formal and

oicial tone used in the past has become more

conversational, with slang and neologisms now

commonplace. Despite deviating from traditional

journalistic standards, this new language appeals

to audiences by building trust and making the

information more accessible. Great responsibility

remains with the journalist, however, whose choices

dene the structure of a narrative presented to a wide

audience. Furthermore, nding eyewitness accounts

and consulting experts is of paramount importance,

considering that people are often biased.

One of the most pressing challenges Ukrainian

journalists face is the information war. Since 2014,

the media space has become a massive

battleground. While traditional propaganda

seeks to capture public consciousness,

Ukraine’s modern information campaign aims

not only to inuence the domestic audience

but to win the support of international

partners. The core goal of this eort is to

undermine the political strength of the opponent

and weaken its regime. In this way, the war

correspondent becomes an agent who documents

crimes, provides photo and video evidence,

sometimes exposing horrifying scenes — destroyed

buildings, mutilated bodies, and other atrocities

of war. War journalists become documentary

witnesses to ensure that history cannot be rewritten

by those for whom the truth is inconvenient.

Ukraine is enduring the most diicult period in its

modern history. In recent years, Ukrainians have

fought ercely for freedom against russia. How

journalists record and represent reality is of great

importance, as their reports can inuence, educate,

and inform the world about what is happening in

Ukraine. It is due to Ukrainian journalists that the

world knows the truth about what is happening in

Ukraine and the horrendous crimes committed by

russia. It is essential to acknowledge the work of

these correspondents who have become the world’s

eyes into the brutality of war.

As of September 15th, 2023, the The National Commission

for State Language Standards of Ukraine has allowed

for all letters in “Russia,” “Russian Federation,” “Russian

Empire,” “Moscow,” and other related words to be

written in lowercase. Diiaspora has chosen to follow this

convention throughout.

13 14DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE

WHITE HOUSE

ANNA KO

You know, you’re not grateful enough.

Mr. President, you’ve got to be tough!

You make it hard to do business,

Why don’t you want your country in pieces?

Mr. President, we’re playing cards,

It’s not my problem you’ve not got enough guards.

I do see the war, from my bed.

I just count the numbers of the dead.

I am the hero, I will enforce peace,

You’ll pay me back with a minerals lease.

Mr. President, you should thank me again.

You just surrender – that’s my perfect plan.

15 16DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE

17 18DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE

HOW TO STAY

ALIVE Aer Working at the

Chorobyl Nuclear Power Plat

ANNA KOZACHUK

r. Tsvirkun became a ‘walking reactor’ at

the age of 22 as he was sent to work at the

Chornobyl nuclear power plant, where his radiation

dose went o the scale.

Now Yuriy Tsvirkun is a 60-year-old man who lives in

the small Ukrainian village Kyryivka, 312 kilometers

away from Chornobyl. He continues to live his life

happily despite the hard times spent at the nuclear

power plant.

In 2022, radiation almost caught him twice. Ukraine,

his homeland, has been suering at the hands of

russian soldiers, who attacked two nuclear power

Mplants on the 24th of February, one of which was

Chornobyl. Since the russian occupation continues,

the radiation continues to increase. If the russian

troops carry on targeting nuclear facilities, the

consequences may become terrifying for the whole

of Europe.

‘They are wacky. They don’t understand that if it

explodes, the wind could blow in their direction,’ he

said.

Since the infamous Chornobyl disaster on the 26th

of April 1986, when the fourth energy block blew

up, the cancer rate in Ukraine has increased eight-

fold.. Moreover, the amount of isotope radiation

released into the atmosphere after the explosion

in Chornobyl was forty times higher than after the

USA’s bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki in Japan

during World War II.

‘I got to know about the explosion of the Chornobyl

nuclear power plant only one or two months after it

happened,’ he said.

At that time Yuriy was a soldier in the Samara region,

russia, about 1800 kilometers away from Chornobyl.

So, the news about the disaster found him far from

home. Soldiers who returned back from Chornobyl

personally told Mr. Tsvirkun about what had

happened, because the Soviet Union made eorts to

conceal this information from the mass media.

19 20DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE

Ukrainian historian Ivan Kostenko, whose grandfather was also a Chornobyl liquidator—one of

the people who removed the remains of the explosion—shared his opinion on why the Soviet

government did not want anyone, especially abroad, to know about the tragedy on the power plant.

‘If the Soviet party says that the Soviet Union is a progressive country that builds its own

communism, there could not be any problems,’ Mr Kostenko said. So, the best way to ght the

problem was to conceal it.

In 1987, the year when Yuriy returned to Ukraine, he was drafted to work at the Chornobyl power

plant. ‘I would never think that I could take part in the liquidation of the accident as I was only 22,’

Yuriy said. ‘I thought they would take some old people.’

He knew where he was going to go, but his thoughts were the same as those of other young boys

at that age. For the rst 3 days he was staying in Korosten, 159 kilometers away from Chornobyl, to

help him acclimate to the radiation. He felt dizzy and had an unquenchable thirst. Then he moved

to Radcha, which is 60 km closer.

There were around 500 people in the state. Every morning at 4 a.m., the squad went to the nuclear

power plant. Their path was poured over with a special solution to catch the radiation dust. When

the liquidators had to work in dangerous conditions, they were given special military protective

suits with the respirators ‘Lepestok’ (a Petal).

‘There were tons of them. We had to change them very often but, to be honest, nobody even paid

attention to that,’ he recalled. Yuriy’s job was to take out the graphite from the concrete fragments as

they radiated. The radiation was so high that he only worked for 3 minutes at a time.

‘You can not even eat ice cream for that time, you know,’ he said. After work like that, all of them

had to take a cold shower for 10 minutes as hot water would expand their pores and accumulate

more radiation. Then, everyone was checked with the Geiger counter, which was an electronic

instrument for measuring ionizing radiation. During the working day, everybody had to have a

special accumulator of radiation which helped the supervisors record the workerʼs dose per day.

‘They denitely wrote down the lower dose. I think I have much more than what was written in

a document. Nobody would jot you down the truth. I had 8,036 Ber (unit of measurement of an

equivalent radiation dose) per 96 days oicially, but for real we could get 250 Ber per hour,’ Mr

Tsvirkyn said.

The norm for people who work with radiation is 0,5 Ber per 96 days. Yuriy’s dose was 16 times higher

than it should be, not even considering the fact that his reported dosage was still understated. Yuriy’s

other task was washing the 3D engine room with a powder that he also used to wash out the radiation

from his uniform. Later, he cleaned the roof of the 4th energy block when the robots that were there

broke down from the eects of the radiation.

21 22DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE

‘Those robots just died. We put them aside and worked instead. They could not work in those

conditions, but we, humans, worked,’ he said. Nevertheless, this dangerous job was well paid. Yuriy

Tsvirkun got a vefold increased salary. Unfortunately, he did not remember the exact number.

As for the food there, Mr Tsvirkun recalls it positively. There were lots of dierent delicacies like

salmon, cod liver, condensed and chocolate milk, chocolate, and fresh fruits. At that time, all the

mentioned food was a pure luxury that the average Ukrainian could not aord.

On weekends, Yuriy always had some kind of entertainment, like listening to the choir or watching

lm demonstrations, so that he didn’t feel as much tension, despite the unusual conditions. Yuriy

also mentioned that there was a doctor, who supported him, saying the needed phrase for that

moment: ‘Think less, live a life as you did it before.’

Now, Yuriy is a pensioner. He receives 250 Hryvnias (5 Є) a month for being a former Chornobyl

liquidator. ‘It won’t be so oensive to me if they don’t give it at all,’ he said.

It was diicult for Mr Tsvirkun to prove that he was a Chornobyl liquidator during his registration

at the pensioner oice, because at that time they were forbidden from telling anyone what they

did there and most of documents that conrmed their relation to the Chornobyl power plant were

demolished . ‘All the archives were destroyed,’ he said.

Yuriy remains positive. After he endured Chornobyl, he started to appreciate his life, friendship

and supportive family more than ever. ‘When everybody at school was asking me if my dad was a

liquidator, I replied “yes,” being so proud of my father,’ his daughter Juliana said. ‘Sometimes I can

see a pain in his eyes, but he tries to stay happy,’ she added.

His wife Tetyana described Mr Tsvirkun as a reliable friend who would always support her when she

needed help. Tetyana shared a story of their marriage at the time when everyone in her village was

spreading rumours about them.

‘They were saying that he could not have children as there was an assumption that he had leukemia,

cancer of the body’s blood-forming tissues. I set a goal and said that he could manage everything

together with me. Now we have two children, one 35-year-old son, who already has his own kid, and

one 31-year-old married daughter,’ she said. Both the son and the daughter’s husband are ghting

for Ukraine now.

All of Yuriy’s life the number 22 has followed him, Tetyana says. It was the number of his house, the

age and the day when he was sent to the nuclear power plant, his birth date, and the number of the

car in Chornobyl. ‘Thank God our wedding was on the 26th of February,’ he said.

Війна мені замінила батька.

Ну, якщо батько вчить мати серйозне обличчя,

тримати сльози на мертвому параді січня,

тримати не святкову свічку на девʼятиріччя.

Батько новий мій доволі суворий.

Розкаже про смерть. Вижене з дому.

Розтроще етап, почавши новий.

Каратиме знову і знову, за покоління мого

народу.

Батько розкаже про друзів своїх минулих

благально,

про ворогів розповість тривога.

Батько навчить розмовляти правильно,

навіть якщо все життя я розмовляв мовою ворога.

War became my father.

If a father is the one

who teaches you

how to hold your face still,

to ght tears

at a dead January parade,

to carry a candle,

not for birthday cake

but for the ninth year of grief.

My new father is stern.

He speaks of death.

He kicks you out of the house

Destroying the era, building a new one

He punishes us, over and over,

For the legacy of our forefathers

The father enticingly tells me of his old mates

The air raid will tell me about enemies

Father will teach me to speak correctly

Even if my whole life I spoke my enemy’s tongue

23 24DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE

FATHER

LAND

PAVLO DYACHENKO

krainians have, perhaps more than any other

people, become keen observers of European

based on their shared ideology of transnational

cooperation. But the emergence of an organised

right-wing nationalist international (a transnational

organisation of political parties/movements with a

shared ideology), with a common vocabulary of anti-

globalism, anti-Europeanism, and anti-liberalism,

is more counter-intuitive. These international

nationalists also tend to partake in culture war

issues that originate in the West, regardless of the

local relevance of these issues. Anti-globalism is now

global, and nationalists kiss the rings of national

enemies as long as they share a similar ideology.

What gives?

A clue may be their incessant references to ‘globalists’

and ‘globalism.’ Every time I hear the word I’m

reminded of Stalin’s ‘rootless cosmopolitanism’ – a

similar slur he directed at intellectuals (most often

Jews) he saw as harbouring ‘un-Soviet’ attitudes

and inuenced by western ideas. The Stalinist term

and the modern term make essentially the same

accusation: that the subjects of their insults are ‘un-

rooted’ from their origins, nations, and societies.

The accusers in turn brand themselves as the most

‘rooted’ and national, and thus the only ones t

to take the reins of power on behalf of the people.

There may be a kernel of truth in the nationalist’s

argument that unproductive attitudes of self-hatred

and self-abasement do abound in Eastern European

society, but the irony is that these accusers are

themselves ‘rootless’, in that they fail to accept and

politics since the beginning of the full-scale invasion.

Every election in Europe has direct consequences

for Ukraine in terms of the support it receives, so

Ukrainians feel the developments in regional and

global politics particularly acutely — often painfully.

Recent presidential elections in Poland and Romania

proved to be a mixed bag for Ukraine, with unfriendly

right-wing populists securing a victory in Poland

while losing in Romania. In many ways, these two

elections were international events. After winning

the presidency in Romania, centrist politician

Nicușor Dan travelled to Poland to campaign for

Rafał Trzakowski of the governing centrist coalition,

while the loser George Simion did the same for

Karol Nawrocki of the national conservative PiS

party. The government of Hungary also involved

itself in both elections, backing Nawrocki at the

Conservative Political Action Conference, organised

by the US Republican Party in Budapest. Even more

curiously, the former football hooligan Simion,

whose illustrious CV includes the infamous

desecration of a cemetery of the Székely Magyars

(ethnic Hungarians) in Romanian Transylvania,

received cautious boosts from Viktor Orbán, the

toad in Budapest, and Simion returned the favour.

It isn’t strange for pro-Europeans in dierent

countries to collaborate across national borders

TOADS, NATIONALISTS, MANKURTS, AND

THE QUESTION OF CAN I LOVE UKRAINE?

OLEKSANDR KOBZAR

25 26DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE

27 28DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE

WHAT IS IT LIKE,

YOUR UKRAINIAN

LIFE? KIRA SANTALOVA

It’s waking up at 6.30,

to go swim in the lake, just nearby.

It’s drinking tea from a big metal bottle,

and it tastes slightly like coee.

It’s celebrating kids who were born the same month,

baking a cake and sharing it in class.

It’s doing assigned reading on a summer vacation,

wondering what has been lost in translation.

It’s making a batch of Easter buns with your grandma, and bringing them to the family table.

It’s watering your growing strawberries,

picking cherries, and making jams.

It’s getting tanned by the summer sun,

just laying in your backyard.

It’s drinking more cups of tea

than you could’ve drank water.

It’s going out to meet with your friend

When you have no money to spend

It’s when your cousin is just ‘a sister’ —

and it isn’t wrong — it’s our way of thinking.

It’s so many things

— some of them silly, some might seem odd —

and no dictionary will ever have enough words.

It’s so many things,

and so many more.

29 30DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE

It’s buying a cake on a random Tuesday,

Sitting on the grass, letting the fresh air fill your lungs.

CONTESTED

REMEMBANCE

Legal ad Political Challenges i Ackowledging

the Holodoor

MATILDA MOLODYNSKI STOKES

the recognition of the Holodomor as genocide.

Nearly a century later, the famine of 1932-33 remains

a highly contested subject, both within Ukraine and

internationally. The legal and political interpretation

of the Holodomor has always been conducted under

the inuence of past or present russian aggression,

whether during the early 2000s, when the rst

memorial was established, or in the present day.

I rst came across the Holodomor during my

studies at the University of Warsaw. After enrolling

on a course that promised to guide us through the

complex eld of both historical and contemporary

Ukrainian politics, I logged on every week to a

lecture delivered by a fantastic professor who,

still teaching from Kyiv, had taken up a temporary

position in Poland due to the invasion. As we were

taken through Ukraine’s long history of erasure

and subjugation by its neighbours — and, most

importantly, due to the professor’s insistence on

highlighting this point — I began to realise the

parallels between historical injustice and russia’s

war in Ukraine today. It is because of historical and

contemporary eorts to minimise and suppress the

Ukrainian language, culture and national identity

that the writing of Ukraine’s history is vital in

ensuring these aims of erasure do not succeed. I

therefore hope to make a small contribution to this

eort here, with a discussion of how denial has

functioned as a barrier to the recognition of the

Holodomor as an act of genocide.

The key aspect of the Holodomor period (1932-1933)

that sets it apart from the earlier (1921-1923) and later

(1946-1947) famines is its articial and intentional

nature. Marc Jansen (2017), among others, addresses

this in his scholarship, asserting that although many

claim that poor harvests and weather conditions

played a role in the famine, the primary cause

was ‘chaos following the forced collectivisation of

agriculture,’ a policy implemented by the Soviet

regime. Moscow had rejected requests from

Ukrainian oicials to reduce grain quotas and

instead pursued a policy of searching Ukrainian

collectivised farms, conscating any last ‘hidden’

remnants of grain that had been kept for survival

(Jansen, 2017). The level of starvation reached by

May 1933, the time when ‘little help’ had arrived, had

driven people to desperation (Jansen, 2017).

Whether in the context of recognition of the

genocidal nature of the Holodomor by the

EU or the refusal of its recognition by the

UN, the debate surrounding the legal

categorisation of the Holodomor

under the Genocide Convention has

stood under the shadow of russian

dominance over international

political, legal and academic

spheres.

In Ukraine, memory is political. Nowhere is this

more apparent than in the ongoing debate over

DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE 32

Recognition of the genocidal nature of the

Holodomor by Ukrainian political actors preceded

international recognition of the severity of the

event. In her scholarship, Tatiana Zhurzhenko (2014)

describes the year 2006, in which the Ukrainian

parliament passed the ‘Law on the Holodomor of

1932-33 in Ukraine’, declaring the Holodomor as an

act of genocide against Ukrainian civilians. The move

was opposed by the Party of Regions, which proposed

to replace the word ‘genocide’ with ‘crime against

humanity,’ and the Communist Party, which denied

that the famine was articially created (Zhurzhenko,

2014). To curb dissent to the classication by the

government as a genocide, Yushchenko, in 2007,

proposed a new law criminalising the ‘denial of the

Holodomor as a Genocide’, although the law was

not supported by parliament (Zhurzhenko, 2014).

In November 2008, a national monument to the

victims of the Holodomor, known as the ‘Candle

of Memory,’ was unveiled in Kyiv as part of an

oicial commemoration of the Holodomor’s

75th anniversary. This ceremony included the

establishment of The Memorial in Commemoration

of Famine Victims in Ukraine, which, as its name

suggests, did not commit to naming the Holodomor

as a genocide (Zhurzhenko, 2014). In 2019, the

museum was renamed the National Museum of the

Holodomor Genocide in recognition of its genocidal

nature (Holodomor Museum Kyiv, 2023). Although

this form of memorial was successful in Kyiv, a

‘major conict’ between the regional administration

and the mayor emerged in 2007 regarding the

memorialisation of victims in the Kharkiv region

(Zhurzhenko, 2014). There were disagreements

in the Kharkiv regional assembly regarding the

memorial, with the most signicant obstacle being

that the majority of the assembly (aligned with the

Party of Regions) oicially rejected the denition of

the Holodomor as a genocide (Zhurzhenko, 2014).

The intention of the Soviet authorities regarding the

Holodomor has been identied by many scholars

as being to nally ‘crush the peasants’ resistance’

to collectivisation (Khiterer, 2020). In 1930,

approximately 6,000 peasant revolts occurred in

the Soviet Union, with nearly 2,000 of these taking

place in Ukraine (Khiterer, 2020). It is due to this,

and the later policies of conscation and refusal of

aid to certain Ukrainian regions, that led scholars

to conclude that the famine was a targeted event

against Ukrainian peasants. The Soviet authorities

were intent on isolating and containing famine

within Ukraine, such as with Stalin personally

drafting a letter demanding the closure of borders

to prevent victims of starvation from entering more

prosperous regions in 1933 (Kulchytskyi, 2012). It is

clear from this that ethnicity and nationality, based

on the frequency of dissent, were the criteria against

which the Soviet authorities determined the extent

of aid distribution.

There are those scholars and those within the

political eld who reject the categorisation of the

Holodomor as a genocide. Often, this view is held

by those within the modern russian political sphere.

This piece will primarily focus on examples of the

denial of the event’s genocidal character within

the international legal sphere. To thoroughly

discuss the role the Soviet government played in

exacerbating the famine and the extent to which its

intent can be proven, we must analyse the context in

which the Holodomor famine occurred. Mark Von

Hagen (2013) asserts that during the 1910s in Ukraine

numerous instances of violence had occurred

against Ukrainian intellectuals, that russian military

forces would often persecute those who were heard

speaking the Ukrainian language, and that a policy

of annihilation of the Ukrainian intelligentsia,

including the abolition of Ukrainian language

education, had been pursued in the region. This

demonstrates a similar policy of eliminating specic

groups within Ukrainian society. Additionally,

Von Hagen (2016) analyses the policy of forced

collectivisation, and the ‘famines that accompanied

it,’ in terms of its links with the rise of the NKVD

and the Gulag, linking Holodomor and other tools

of violent oppression.

DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE 3

334

The international political and academic reaction to

the proposition of the Holodomor as a genocide was

of a similar controversial nature to that within the

Ukrainian context. The United Nations’ denition

of genocide is based primarily on Raphael Lemkin’s

working denition, which links mass killing and

cultural genocide. Norman Naimark (2015) places

a particular focus on Soviet dissent to Lemkin’s

denition, as well as their rejection of the inclusion

of ‘social and political groups’ within the denition.

The inclusion of these two types of groups is crucial

for classifying the Holodomor under this denition.

Ultimately, due to this dissent, the Convention

on the Prevention and Punishment of Genocide,

adopted in 1948, dened genocide as ‘acts committed

with the intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a

national, ethnic, racial or religious group’, lacking

mention of social, political and national groups

(Naimark, 2015). Naimark (2015) analyses the further

impact that Soviet international inuence had on

Lemkin’s quest for recognition of the Holodomor

within the genocide convention, as his 1953 speech

on the subject, ‘Soviet Genocide and Ukraine’,

was dismissed mainly due to his ‘extreme anti-

Soviet and anti-Communist rhetoric’. Due to

the adoption of this version of the genocide

convention, the Holodomor continues to

be recognised by the United Nations as a

‘tragedy’, a ‘horror’, an ‘atrocity’, as a ‘tragic

page in global history’, but is not deemed

as falling under the scope of the genocide

convention (Holodomor Museum Kyiv,

2023).

The path to recognition of the Holodomor as a

genocide has been controversial politically, legally

and academically since the beginning of the atrocity.

Russian inuence over the Ukrainian societal and

political sphere has continued to impact domestic

discussions surrounding the recognition and

memorialisation of both the event and the victims

of the Holodomor. The international inuence

wielded by russia has indeed succeeded in the

implementation of denitions of genocide that t

their agenda of denial. Although, thankfully, in many

academic circles, attempts to obfuscate the intention

behind genocidal governmental policies have been

cast aside. Scholars have instead chosen to analyse in

depth evidence of oppressive and intentional Soviet

policy towards groups of Ukrainian civilians during

the 20th century and have placed the Holodomor

within this context. Ultimately, the battle for the

recognition of the Holodomor is not only about the

past. Its recognition allows us to name injustice,

remember the dead, and resist erasure of Ukraine’s

history in the present day.

Works Cited

Jansen, Marc. 2017. ‘Was the famine in Ukraine

genocide?’. RAAM, hps://raamoprusland.nl/dossiers/

geschiedschrijving/783_was_de_hongersnood_in_

oekraine_genocide.

Khiterer, Victoria. 2020. ‘The Holodomor and Jews in

Kyiv and Ukraine: An Introduction and Observations on

a Neglected Topic.’ Nationalities Papers 48, no. 3.

Kulchytskyi, Stanislav V. 2012. ‘Holodomor in Ukraine

1932–1933: An Interpretation of Facts.’ In Holodomor and

Gorta Mór: Histories, Memories and Representations of

Famine in Ukraine and Ireland, eds. Christian Noack,

Lindsay Janssen, and Vincent Comerford. Anthem

Series on Russian, East European and Eurasian Studies

(Anthem Press, 2012).

Naimark, Norman. 2015. ‘How the Holodomor Can Be

Integrated into Our Understanding of Genocide’. East/

West: Journal of Ukrainian Studies, 2015.

Von Hagen, Mark. 2013. ‘Rethinking the Meaning of the

Holodomor: ‘Notes and Materials’ toward a(n) (anti)

(post) colonial history of Ukraine.’ Taking Measure of the

Holodomor (New York: The Center for U.S.-Ukrainian

Relations, 2013).

Von Hagen, Mark. 2016. ‘Wartime Occupation and

Peacetime Alien Rule: ‘Notes and Materials’ toward a(n)

(Anti-) (Post-) Colonial History of Ukraine.’ Harvard

Ukrainian Studies 34, no.1-4. 2015-2016.

Zhurzhenko, Tatiana. 2014. ‘Commemorating the Famine

as Genocide: The Contested Meanings of Holodomor

Memorials in Ukraine.’ In Memorials in Times of

Transition. Eds. Susanne Buckley-Zistel and Stefanie

Schäfer. Series on Transitional Justice (Intersentia, 2014).

Holodomor Museum Kyiv. hps://holodomormuseum.

org.ua/en/history-of-national-holodomor-genocide-

museum/

DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE 36

я люблю як ніколи твої щирі очі,

запам‘ятаю назавжди ці безсонні ночі.

всередині цупко оселився страх,

що ніколи більше не побачу рідний дах.

кожен день, як наступає пітьма,

ввижається, ніби крокує орда.

кожна новина сьогодні нагальна,

кожна ніч неначе остання.

мені шкода, що не обійнялись тоді сильніше.

шкода, бо щось дурне було тоді важливіше.

я не цінувала досі свободи,

сьогодні ж військові захищають наші води.

я думала війна—лише історія.

недалеко ж скрипить під танками колія.

UNTITLED

ANNA KO

I love your sincere eyes more than ever,

I will remember these sleepless nights forever.

Fear settled deeply in my brain,

That I will never see my home again.

Every day as darkness falls,

It feels like a horde is marching round the walls.

All the news today is vital,

Every night feels like survival.

I’m sorry that we didn’t hug each other more,

It’s a pity, as something stupid was what we adored.

I didn’t value freedom until now,

The military today protects our ground.

I thought that war was just the past —

Not far away, tanks roll through rust.

UNTITLED

ANNA KO

DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE 38

EXECUTED

RENAISSANCE:

The Geeratio of

Talets Killed by the

Soviet Regie

hen Ukrainians talk about russian

imperialism, they are referring to a long-

term history of cultural appropriation, repressions,

and the consequences of such atrocities.

Almost 100 years ago, the whole generation of

Ukrainian poets, writers, and artists was killed,

repressed, or silenced by the Soviet regime.

The ‘Executed Renaissance’ (Rozstriliane

Vidrodzhennia) refers to a vibrant yet brutally

repressed cultural and intellectual movement in

Ukraine during the 1920s and 1930s. It was a period

known for cultural achievements and ourishing

artistic movements under the early Soviet regime,

and then violently repressed during Stalin’s Great

Terror. The movement is remembered today as

a symbol of Ukrainian national resilience under

Soviet rule.

Right after the russian revolution and Ukraine’s

brief independence (1917–1921), the Soviet regime

created a tricky policy of Ukrainisation, which

was the promotion of the Ukrainian language

and culture as part of the regime’s eorts to gain

control over opposition to the Soviet Union.

This policy encouraged the emergence of a new

generation of Ukrainian writers, poets, artists,

and intellectuals eager to promote the culture,

eliminate the narrative of the ‘poor’, and foster

creativity with movements. This opportunity

allowed poets to write in their native language.

Artists also had a chance to get recognition for their

talents, and playwrights gained the staging skills to

showcase the richness of Ukrainian theatre.

Figures such as Mykola Khvylovy, Les Kurbas,

Valerian Pidmohylny, Mykola Kulish, and Mykhailo

Semenko became well-known Ukrainians

through the burst of creativity in literature,

theatre, visual arts, and philosophy. Most of the

representatives of the

Executed Renaissance

ALISA BYSTRYTSKA

claimed that their mission was to educate

future generations on new moral and ethical

principles and to raise national art to a higher

artistic level.

This period also saw the founding of key institutions

such as the Berezil Theatre, led by Les Kurbas, and

literary groups like VAPLITE (Free Academy of

Proletarian Literature), which debated Ukraine’s

cultural trajectory and its place in the global literary

landscape.

One of the greatest symbols of the Executed

Renaissance is the Slovo House in Kharkiv (then the

capital of Soviet Ukraine). Built in 1927 specically

for Ukrainian writers to live in, it was a modernist

building where nearly all of Ukraine’s leading literary

minds resided. ‘Slovo’ means ‘word’ in Ukrainian,

reecting the creative purpose of the residence. The

state oered apartments in the Slovo House as part

of its eort to elevate Ukrainian culture under the

Ukrainisation policy. The building became a hub of

artistic exchange, intellectual debate, and literary

innovation. But it was also a gilded cage.

As the Soviet repression intensied in the 1930s,

the Slovo House became a trap. The walls that

once nurtured creativity now witnessed arrests,

surveillance, and fear. The NKVD (The People’s

Commissariat for Internal Aairs) agents inltrated

the building, and one by one, its residents were

taken — often in the middle of the night — never

to return.

Among those who lived in the Slovo House and

were repressed were Mykola Khvylovy, who died by

suicide in 1933 as a protest against the growing Soviet

repression, and Mykola Kulish, who was executed in

1937 in the Sandarmokh forest massif, the Respublic

of Karelia, Russia, which became an execution site

for the thousands of victims of Stalin’s Great Terror.

Today, the Slovo House is remembered as both a

monument to cultural brilliance and a site of mass

repression. It stands as a haunting reminder of

how creativity and state violence coexisted under

totalitarian rule.

Despite the initial support, the Soviet Regime began

to consider literature and art as one of the areas of the

‘cultural front’. The wave of mass repressions against

cultural gures of the movement began in May 1933,

after the authorities had arrested Mykhailo Yalovyi

— a Ukrainian poet-futurist, a playwright and a

prose writer. Mykhailo was arrested on charges of

espionage and organising an assassination attempt

DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE 40

on the second secretary of the Communist Party,

Pavlo Postyshov. This arrest was the last straw for

Mykola Khvylovy, who committed suicide in a

protest on 13th of May, 1933. On that day, he invited

his friends over. At the end of the gathering, he told

them that he would show them how a proletarian

writer should work in the current conditions and

went into another room. Instead of presenting a new

work, a few moments later, a shot rang out, killing

the writer. In his suicide note, he said: ‘Yalovyi’s

arrest was the execution of an entire generation.

For what? For being the most sincere communists?

I don’t understand anything…’ (‘The suicide note’,

2021).

The massacre of Ukrainian artists culminated in

1937. From 27 October to 4 November, to ‘over full

the plan’ to destroy the ‘enemies of the people’ on the

20th anniversary of the October Revolution, NKVD

executioners shot 1111 prisoners of the Solovetskiy

special purpose camp in the Sandarmokh (Kotubei-

Gerutska, 2022). More than 250 of them were the

representatives of the Executed Renaissance.

According to the researchers, the prisoners were

‘prepared’ for the execution in three rooms of

their barracks. Their personality was checked in

the rst room, and the prisoners were undressed.

In the second room, they were tied up, and in the

third room, they were beaten on the head to make

them lose consciousness. Then, the prisoners were

loaded onto trucks and transported towards the

Sandarmokh. The half-alive prisoners were thrown

into large pits, and a member of the execution

brigade — Mikhail Matveyev — personally shot

each prisoner in the head.

The term ‘Executed Renaissance’ was popularised

in 1959 by Ukrainian literary critic Yurii Lavrinenko,

who compiled a landmark anthology of Ukrainian

literature from 1917 to 1933, published in the West.

The book served as a memorial and a call to restore

Ukraine’s lost literary heritage. For decades, Soviet

authorities suppressed knowledge of these gures,

censoring their works and rewriting cultural

history. Only in the late 1980s and early 1990s,

during ‘perestroika’ (political reform movement by

Mykhailo Gorbachov, the last leader of the Soviet

Union) and following Ukraine’s independence in

1991, did a full reevaluation of the period begin.

Today, the Executed Renaissance is recognised

as one of the most crucial and tragic periods in

Ukrainian cultural history. Here, in Scotland, the

Executed Renaissance wasn’t left without attention.

On the 31st of May 2025, ‘shevchenko.philia’, a non-

prot organisation that promotes Ukrainian culture

in Scotland, hosted a tribute exhibition dedicated

to the Executed Renaissance, followed by the

documentary screening of ‘Slovo House’ (2017) by

Taras Tomenko. The exhibition included a memorial

plaque of every artist aected by the regime,

documents from NKVD describing their searches

and arrests, the exploration of literary organisations

and magazines that existed at the time and a much

more in-depth description of this signicant period.

As Arina Tishchenko, who came up with the idea of

such exhibition, explains: ‘When I rst learnt about

the Executed Renaissance, I kept coming back to the

gures of the period and philosophy of their art...

One thing was always clear — Ukrainian culture

would have looked completely dierent if thousands

of people had not been killed or imprisoned in

the 1930s. Wrapping the only reason — Ukrainian

identity — in false denunciations, accusations, and

solemn speeches for everyone and no one. It was

important for me to make it clear to the locals how

much art was destroyed and how barbaric it was. I

did not have a question about organising this event,

the idea came to me organically, as something that

went without saying, leaving me no choice but to

bring it to life.’

Works Cited:

‘Передсмертна записка Миколи Хвильового.’

[‘The suicide note of Mykola Khyvoly’]. Digital

Archive of Ukrainian Liberation Movement, 2021

Olesya Kotubei-Gerutska. ‘Сандармох: трагедія

“Розстріляного відродження”, яку Україна не

має права забути.’ [‘1111 victims of Sandarmokh:

the tragedy of the “Executed Renaissance”,

which Ukraine has no right to forget’]. Суспільне

Культура, 3 November 2022,

‘Розстріляне Відродження: Як Москва вбивала

українських митців 90 років тому.’ [‘The Revival

of Those Shot Dead: How Moscow Killed Ukrainian

Artists 90 Years Ago’]. Ukrinform.ua, 7 July 2023,

‘“Розстріляне відродження” як культурний

процес на Україні в 30-х роках.’[‘The Executed

Renaissance’ as a cultural process in Ukraine during

the 1930s’]. Освіta.UA, 8 October 2010

‘Slovo Building. How Did the Executed Renaissance

Aect Kharkiv’s Cultural Identity?’. Svidomi.ua,

DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE 4

412

SILLY

MARYNA

SANTALOVA

DREAM

it’s holding me —

tying my hands, closing my eyes.

‘sleep, girl, it’s warm here—

let me show you around’.

tighter and tighter

it’s tying the knots;

the longer I hide—

the further I fall.

taken into captivity

by the tricks of my mind,

deeper and deeper into oblivion—

I’ve gone very far.

a forgotten anthem

stuck in my thoughts.

dreaming of something charming;

my legs can no longer walk.

dreaming of ower elds,

clear skies and no ceilings—

in this silly dream

I feel the freest.

DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE 4

434

HANNA HUMENCHUK

thought as I stared at the half-nished university

essay on my laptop screen. It had to be done by the

end of next week. But for now, a weekend awaited

me—away from the chaos of Kyiv, with its constant

air alarms and missile strikes. To be honest, there is

no truly safe place in Ukraine now. But still

it’s much calmer in the countryside than

in the capital.

I stretched. My spine clearly didn’t

approve of the amount of time

students were expected to

spend hunched over

their laptops. The

brakes screeched,

and the train

slowly

ground to

a halt.

‘Fastiv, dear passengers!’ bellowed a portly, sweaty

conductor as he rushed through the old and tired

third-class carriage.

New passengers entered, heads turning every

which way in search of their seats. After a few

minutes, an elderly woman settled into the seat

across from me,

he rhythmic clatter of the train lulled me. I

rubbed my dry eyes, trying to weave a coherent

THE WAR

DOESN’T

RIDE THE

RAILS

DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE 46

long skirt and carrying a large checkered bag.

‘Good afternoon,’ I nodded politely.

‘And a good afternoon to you, child,’ she replied.

The train started moving again. My earbuds had

nally died, so I tucked them away and went back

to watching the trees icker past the window. The

woman clearly saw my empty ears as an invitation

to talk.

‘So you’re… a student, I suppose?’ she said as

she wiped her nose with a cotton handkerchief, then

tucked it into her pocket. ‘I am,’ I replied, eyes still

xed on the window.

I didn’t feel like chatting. I didn’t want to

spend the next two hours hearing about grandkids,

ungrateful youth, and government subsidies.

‘I knew it! So young, and with a laptop too—must be

a student!’ she continued cheerfully.

I sighed inwardly and silently scolded myself for not

charging my earbuds.

‘You see, my youngest daughter’s nishing her

second year. That’s why I can always tell who’s a

student,’ she added with a grin. I forced a weak

smile in return.

‘What year are you in?’ She studied me with curiosity.

‘First,’ I replied curtly.

She must have sensed my disinterest because she

fell silent and pulled out some knitting. And just

as I caught the pungent smell—boiled eggs, and

probably sausages too.

Of course: third-class carriage, heat, and eggs

with sausages. Classic. Please, God, don’t let

her have onions as well…

She clicked her needles busily, and I found peace in

the quiet, even if it came with the scent of eggs and

meat. Minutes passed. The train rumbled on, and

my eyes drifted to the rhythm of the knitting in her

hands. She noticed my gaze and smiled.

‘I’m knitting this for my grandson,’ she said

gently.

‘That’s very sweet,’ I replied—and I meant it.

Her eyes sparkled with joy.

‘He’s turning two soon. I’m on my way to see

him for his birthday. Got him a gift,

an expensive one, been saving from

my pension. And I’m knitting him this little

outt too.’

‘Sounds lovely,’ I nodded.

‘Oh yes,’ she brightened, clearly happy I

was nally engaging. ‘He’s a good

boy. But lately a little bit naughty, not

listening to his mama—my daughter,

Solomiya.’

She shed a phone from her pocket, the kind with a

ip cover, and looked ready to show me photos.

I sighed internally again and braced myself for

the parade of baby pictures. In adulthood, there’s

an unwritten rule: you pretend to be fascinated by

photos of other people’s children, no matter how

little you care. So I leaned in with a polite smile.

‘He’s adorable,’ I told her. She nodded, pleased, and

swiped to the next photo.

‘And here’s a vest I made him last month.

Pretty, right?’ ‘Very pretty,’ I said, wondering how

many babies and vests I still had to compliment.

She kept swiping. I kept watching. And then—

suddenly—a photo of a young man in military

uniform appeared. Smiling broadly, rie in hand.

Dust lined the creases around his eyes. His face was

unshaven. I must’ve reacted, because she glanced at

the screen and said, ‘Oh, that’s my son-in-law Andrii.’

I looked at her, then back at the screen. The man

looked barely older than a teenager.

‘He was killed at the beginning of June. Not even

forty days yet…,’ she added softly.

Something thudded in my chest. I looked at the

woman—really looked at her—for the rst time.

‘Honestly,’ she continued, her voice hollow and far

away, ‘I thought Solomiya would lose her mind. She

was home alone when they told her. Oh, she was

screaming and crying desperately… I thought I’d

lose my daughter too.’

I heard her voice as though through water. My eyes

stayed xed on the soldier’s face.

She swiped again. A young woman stared back at us

from the screen—barely older than me, red-rimmed

eyes, a black mourning band on her forehead. Her

face pale, almost blue. A chubby little boy leaned

against her shoulder. I wanted to say something. To

that mother. To the woman sitting in front of me,

who carried her daughter’s grief as though it were

her own. But the relentless years of war had bred a

strange immunity in me.

Not numbness—no. I felt it all. Deeply, truly.

But if you let yourself break over every fallen

soldier, every wounded civilian—you’ll end up in a

psychiatric ward before long. My tongue forgot how

to move.

‘May Andrii rest in peace,’ I muttered, barely

audible. ‘Thank you…’ she sighed. ‘He would’ve

turned twenty-three this August. Dropped out of

law school and volunteered for the front. The rst

time he was given leave, he and my daughter got

married. You see, they were in such a hurry

to live…’

She paused.

‘Then came Tymoy. Andrii saw his child maybe

three times. And now… now Tymoy visits his

father at the cemetery. Kisses the cross on his grave,

my sweet boy. Kisses it, and looks up at the sky—

because that’s where his daddy is. And Solomiya…

She’s like a ghost now. Only that kid keeps her alive.

If it weren’t for him, I’d have buried not just my

son-in-law, but my daughter too.’

DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE 48

I glanced from the photo to the woman. I had no

words. Nothing I could say would be enough. Her

grandson would never know their father—so I

could travel to see mine. So I could write an essay

and forget, sometimes, that the war was still here.

That soldier should’ve nished his education.

Should’ve lived out his youth, travelled the world.

Raised his kids—children who might never have

been born if war hadn’t breathed down their parents’

necks, urging them to live decades in a single year.

I found myself wanting to see another photo of

Tymoy. That child suddenly felt like part of me.

Even the stench of eggs stopped bothering me. She

composed herself and swiped again. I hoped to see

the boy—his knitted pants and his vests. Instead,

a photo appeared: another man, framed in black

ribbon. Older. Rougher features. Thick brows. I held

my breath.

‘That’s their godfather, Mykhailo,’ she explained.

‘He died this year too. He used to run a business. A

missile hit his apartment in Dnipro. His wife and

daughter were home. He’d just stepped out to the

store or somewhere… who knows. Came back—no

home, no family. Who would want to live after that?

So right after the funeral, he signed up. Said: ‘At

least I’ll be useful. I’ll take revenge. I’ll drive that

lth o our land.’

She sighed.

‘Now he’s with his beloved girls… Well, Mykhailo

had lived a little. He was thirty. But my son-in-law…

Just a boy indeed. Imagine, only twenty-one years

old.

A child, really. He didn’t want to live u n d e r t h e

tricolor. And Solomiya… She didn’t stop him. She

said, ‘If not you, then who? This is our land. And

we want to raise our children here.’

I sighed.

Twenty-one. My generation.

And yes. Solomiya was right. This is our land, our

country.

But what a price we pay to call it ours…

I probably should’ve said something. But the

woman didn’t need words—just someone to listen.

My thoughts were interrupted by her phone ringing.

‘Hello! Yes, dear, I’m almost there. I think

we’re close to Koziatyn.I’ll call once I get o.

Yes… okay. Bye!’

She cleared her throat. Then silence spread around.

I stared ahead, seeing nothing. The young female

voice on the phone echoed in my mind.

‘They say heroes never die,’ the woman suddenly

said—not to me, but to the void. ‘Lies. They do

die. They burn out like sparks from a re. And

their children visit cemeteries more often than

playgrounds.’ I nodded slowly—automatically.

‘Heroes die.’ I whispered, teeth clenched. ‘Russia

kills them.’ She looked me in the eye. In her pupils, I

saw rage, pain, and something else. Something vast

and wordless, that lived in my own eyes too.

‘I hope they all rot,’ she said, each word like a nail.

‘Those who kill our people. May Hell be too small for

them all!’ Her fury was cut short by the conductor.

‘Dear passengers, Koziatyn in ten minutes!’

‘Well, here’s my stop.’ She dabbed her

eyes with her handkerchief and stood, lifting her

checkered bag.

‘Take care, child.’

‘Thank you,’ I nodded. ‘You too. Goodbye.’

She smiled kindly and then disappeared into the

vestibule of the train.

I hugged my knees to my chest.

‘May Hell be too small for them all…’

DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE 50

THE

SCARS

ARE

SHOWING

THE

HISTORY

MARYNA SANTALOVA

The scars are showing the history

of the life you had once before.

Time is a mystery;

secrets are left in the walls.

Some things you wish could have stayed,

and some you used to hide from.

Run! Run as fast as you can,

but come back when your legs start to feel sore.

The scars are showing the history,

that you wanted to keep for so long —

a growing re in the chest of a familiar building;

a fantasy stuck in your thoughts.

That little line on the top of your arm?

It shows that the dream used to be real.

So much has been left untouched —

you never nished the story; you never started on the

list.

It’s all coming back to you —

daisies on long-forgotten elds,

and rivers owing so free —

it just can’t be true.

But the scars are showing the history,

and it should not be simply erased.

Embrace the moments you carry over the distance —

a reminder that nothing was simply left there.

DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE 5

512

RESILIENCE IN RIFFS

Telema ad the Rise of Ukraie’s

Wartie Metal Scee

rom the onset of russia’s full-scale invasion

of Ukraine in 2022, the country’s cultural

‘There are no deep meanings or hidden subtexts—

we just wanted to convey the atmosphere of chaos

that engulfs us and the crowd when we play,’ Roman

once explained during an interview about their

single ‘Kolotnecha.’

Since the war began, their environment has dictated

not only the mood of their music, but its production

and distribution logistics as well. ‘We’ve learned to

adapt,’ says Taras. ‘You get used to playing in these

conditions. The main obstacle is the russians—

everything else, we’ve found ways to manage.’

Recording now happens in bursts between power

outages, using guitars laid down during brief

electricity windows, vocals tracked with basic

setups, and mixes passed across Telegram threads.

landscape has undergone seismic shifts. Among the

most vibrant transformations has been the surge

of a ercely resilient metal scene—gritty, deant,

and deeply embedded in wartime reality. At the

heart of this wave stands Telema, a metalcore outt

from Ivano-Frankivsk, whose name has become

increasingly synonymous with the emotional

urgency and sonic intensity of contemporary

Ukrainian heavy music.

FORGED IN CRISIS

Telema emerged in 2019, founded by brothers Taras

and Roman Fihol, with a clear mission: to sonically

replicate the chaotic energy of basement shows and

funnel it into tightly wound, cathartic recordings.

RESILIENCE IN RIFFS

ARTEM PISHEL

The urgency of creation mirrors the urgency of life.

CONCERTS AMID CURFEWS AND SIRENS

Live performances in wartime Ukraine are

unpredictable. ‘Air raid sirens can completely

disrupt a show,’ says Vlad, the band’s bassist. ‘There

are times when everything is exploding with energy,

and suddenly you have to evacuate to a shelter.’

Despite these disruptions, the band remains

committed. ‘We’re used to it now,’ adds Roman.

‘Most of our concerts are for charity. We’re always

contributing to fundraisers.’

Logistical challenges are also formidable. Touring

across Ukraine involves curfews, shifting venues,

travel restrictions, and often hauling gear across the

country via train. ‘Trekking with cymbals, guitars,

merch, and tech is a challenge,’ Roman notes. ‘But

our booking agency now handles most of the hard

parts, which lets us focus on the music.’

Yet even amidst such obstacles, the band continues

to rise. In 2024, Telema graduated from an early

slot to headlining the Dark Stage at Faine Misto,

one of Ukraine’s largest alternative festivals. It

was a milestone that underscored their growing

prominence.

CONNECTING WITH A NEW GENERATION

As foreign acts stopped touring Ukraine, local

audiences turned inward—and upward. ‘We see

new faces at every concert,’ says Taras. ‘And more

importantly, we see younger people, those who are

still forming their musical tastes. It’s rewarding to

RESILIENCE IN RIFFS

DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE5354

know they’re choosing our direction and sticking

with us.’

This surge in local engagement has also led to a

linguistic and emotional pivot. ‘We switched entirely

to Ukrainian lyrics after the full-scale invasion,’

explains Roman. ‘It allows us to be more honest and

expressive. Vlad adds: ‘Oddly enough, the war has

had a positive eect on modern Ukrainian culture.

People have rejected russian inuences, and this has

elevated homegrown music.’

AIMING FOR THE WORLD STAGE

Despite their local focus, the members of Telema

harbour ambitions that extend far beyond Ukraine.

‘Why do it otherwise?’ Roman asks. ‘Reaching a

wider audience is essential for growth.’ Taras agrees,

‘We want to share our music with people abroad

who may have been listening to us online for years

but never had the chance to see us live.’

Asked what message they hope to deliver, the band’s

answer is simple and powerful: sincerity. ‘We want

to convey honest emotions, without melodrama,’

Roman says. ‘What you see onstage in Ukraine is

what we’d bring to any other country.’

THE FUTURE OF UKRAINIAN METAL

AND OF TELEMA

The Ukrainian metal scene continues to evolve

rapidly. ‘It’s growing,’ Roman observes. ‘And those

who aren’t afraid to be themselves, who don’t try to

conform, are the ones who’ll break through.’ Taras is

equally optimistic. ‘There are so many young bands

now—breathing down our necks. That’s a great

sign.’

Within Telema, the focus is on rening their identity.

‘Our goal is to achieve a sound that is unmistakably

ours,’ Roman says. Long-term? ‘A European tour,’ he

adds with a smile. Vlad echoes the sentiment: ‘We

want to leave our mark on the history of Ukrainian

heavy music—and, ideally, reach a global level.’

The group is already working on new material,

planning releases, and hinting at surprises before

the year is out. ‘It’s about growth and connection,’

says Taras. ‘We’re not just writing songs—we’re

trying to build something lasting.’

SHATTERING STEREOTYPES, ONE

BREAKDOWN AT A TIME

Among the band’s quieter missions is destroying

misconceptions about Ukrainian music. ‘There’s this

stereotype that if it’s Ukrainian, it must be of lower

quality than American or European work,’ Vlad

says. ‘We don’t just want to break that stereotype—

we want to obliterate it.’

Despite past lineup changes, Telema’s creative heart

has remained stable. ‘The songwriting team hasn’t

changed,’ Taras conrms. ‘We’ve all been friends

for a long time, so even the newer members t in

naturally.’ As Roman puts it: ‘Now we’re nally all

moving in the same direction.’

DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE 56

SOFT POWER

A Opportunity to Engage Fro Abroad

ANDRII KUZMA

storytelling — to connect with the world, especially

during the war. Instead of tanks and weapons,

soft power is about winning hearts and minds.

From global campaigns like Brave like Ukraine to

something as simple as a bowl of borsch, Ukrainians

are showing the world who they are and what they

stand for. People like First Lady Olena Zelenska and

chef Yevhen Klopotenko remind us that culture can

be a powerful form of resistance. But soft power

doesn’t work on its own — it needs people to keep

it alive. That can be through lms, food festivals,

student projects, or just talking about Ukraine.

Whether you’re Ukrainian or just someone who

cares, there are many ways to be involved. The

message is simple: soft power lives in everyday

actions — and each of us can help keep Ukraine’s

story alive.

In 2023, Ukraine was ranked among the top 20

countries globally in terms of cultural inuence and

soft power, according to research by the Ukrainian

Institute and the Nation Brands Index (Ukrainian

Institute, 2023). At the heart of this visibility is what

we call soft power — and that’s exactly what I want

to explore with you here: what it means, how it

works, and how each of us can be part of it.

What is So Power?

Let’s start simple. The general

denition in political science

says that power is the ability

to get others to do what you

want, through force, money,

or persuasion. Soft power is

when people choose to follow

or support you because they’re

inspired, not because they’re

forced or payed so (Nye, 2004).

The term was coined by American

political scientist Joseph Nye, who

noticed that cultural appeal and values often

shaped international outcomes just as much as

military strength. Back at my university in Bratislava,

we were given a great example of Hollywood lms or

even McDonald’s, as they don’t just export products,

they export a way of seeing the world, attracting

millions of people to the United States of America

through their global culture.

In today’s world, where Ukraine is ghting a full-

scale war, tanks and planes matter, but so does soft

power. It’s harder to measure, but just as crucial. As

Ukraine’s First Lady, Olena Zelenska, put it:

Dialogue and humanity is more

eective than the economic and

nancial coercion used by our enemy.

That is why we call the anniversary of

the Russian attack in Ukraine dierently

– the anniversary of resistance, solidarity,

and fortitude. The anniversary of not only

armed self-defence, but also

of soft power”

(City nation place, 2023).

This article looks at how Ukraine uses soft

power — things like culture, values, food, and

DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE 58

From Soup to Strategy

So how does soft power connect to something

as simple as food? According to Ukrainian

chef Yevhen Klopotenko:

Ukraine and So Power

Joseph Nye also reminds us that while hard power

may win battles, soft power wins narratives. He

commented on war in Ukraine:

“While hard military power will decide the

outcome of russia’s war in Ukraine, the power

of values, persuasion, and attraction are hardly

irrelevant. Though soft power tends to operate

more subtly and over a longer time horizon, it has

nonetheless emerged as a key feature of Ukraine’s

defense.

Likewise, in international politics, the eects of

soft power tend to be slow and indirect. We can

see the eects of bombs and bullets right away,

whereas the attraction of values and culture may

be visible only in the long run. But to ignore or

neglect these eects would be a serious mistake.

Smart political leaders have long understood that

values can create power” (Nye, 2022).

Even though each of us may have dierent

opinions about Volodymyr Zelenskyy as president

in 2025, considering him and his team as ineective

or raising valid concerns, it’s hard to deny what he

represented in 2022. That year, he became a global

symbol. He was applauded in parliaments and

senates around the world, and Ukraine launched

a powerful international message: Brave

like Ukraine.

This campaign is a striking

example of soft power. We all

want to be brave — so why

not like Ukraine? A country

that, when faced with a

full-scale invasion, stood

its ground and fought back

against a larger army and

state. Millions of Ukrainians

abroad, along with the viral

reach of social media, helped

spread this narrative. And

in 2022, they succeeded in

putting Ukraine at the heart

of the global conversation.

British journalist Jez Fielder captured this perfectly:

“To understand the role Ukrainian cuisine plays

in this cultural war with russia... I’ll need to eat it.

And that means borsch.” (Fielder, 2025). The main

goal of soft power is to show the attractiveness of a

culture to others, and thereby win people over in

general. Borsch is a good t because it is associated

with Ukrainian culture due to the eorts of many

Ukrainians around the world.

Borsch is always noticeable, it is quite unconventional,

as it can be described as “beetroot soup,” which

sounds very strange at rst glance. However, it is

delicious (an objective opinion as a Ukrainian,

haha!), and this is what makes it a pleasant memory

for many people who have tried it, thus associating

this experience with Ukraine. When borsch reaches

foreign restaurants and homes, it carries stories with

it, stories of identity, resilience, and pride. That’s soft

power in action.

That’s why even borsch can be part of

cultural resistance. In 2022, UNESCO

oicially recognised Ukrainian borsch

as part of the country’s intangible cultural

heritage — and noted that it was “in need of urgent

safeguarding” due to the war.

“Because food is always a reection

of how and what people live by.

What they take pride in and what

they want to share with the world.

We fall in love through food. We

always remember the avours that

accompanied our experience in a new

country. Food is the story of people. It

is the culture of families. It is part of a

national identity” (Fielder, 2025).

DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE 60

Soft power lives in values and convictions. That’s

why Ukrainians who stand for light and justice

must keep sharing their stories, culture, and truth,

because that’s how peace gets closer.So Power In The Hands

Interestingly, soft power is already in your hands,

literally, if you’re holding a physical copy of this

magazine! This journal brings together diaspora

voices and students from across Scotland who share

stories about Ukraine, making it more relatable

and appealing through personal experiences and

knowledge. It may seem like a small gesture, but it’s

part of a much bigger picture, one shaped by the

eorts of tens of thousands of Ukrainians around

the world.

As a Ukrainian media Suspilne showed in their

documentary “Soft Power: Moving Europe”,

Ukrainians across the world are building bridges

through art, music, workshops, and activism. Their

inuence may be quiet, but it travels far (Suspilne,

2023).

Metaphorically, soft power is also in your hands,

especially if you’re Ukrainian. You can start your own

initiative or join projects already happening around

you. If you’re a student, you have the chance to

connect and collaborate with Ukrainian university

societies, local organisations, attend cultural

workshops, explore creative projects or volunteer.

There’s truly no shortage of ways to get involved.

If you’re not Ukrainian - take an interest in

Ukraine. This country is layered, diverse, and full

of unexpected connections. Talk about Ukraine,

because without voices like yours, it risks being

forgotten. The fact that you’ve read this far already

means a lot. So, thank you. Thank you for caring

At the same time, Ukrainian cultural diplomacy

has already shown it can work. Programs like

Books Without Borders and Ukrainian Institute

London’s lm and lecture series have sparked

real conversations. They’ve brought Ukraine into

schools, cinemas, libraries, and public squares—

not as a warzone, but as a living culture.

Fading Aention, Rising Urgency

Despite the visibility Ukraine gained in 2022–2023,

recent trends show a slow decline in global attention

(Ukrainian Institute, 2024). Festivals that once

hosted Ukrainian programs now shift their focus.

Media coverage drops. Cultural partnerships dry up.

Soft power only works when it’s sustained. If global

audiences stop hearing Ukrainian voices, other

louder voices take their place.

Researcher Anna-Maria Mandziy argues that we

need long-term strategy, not one-time actions. That

means strengthening institutions like the Ukrainian

Institute, supporting Ukrainian Studies abroad,

and investing in platforms that promote Ukrainian

culture on equal terms. (Mandziy, 2023).

Mandziy, A.-M. (2023). Recommendations for the use

of ukraine’s so power in certain countries (G7, Austria,

Switzerland, Greece). Analytical center ADASTRA.

hps://analytics.intsecurity.org/so-power-of-ukraine-

in-europe/

Nye, J. (2004). So Power: The Means to Success in

World Politics. PublicAﬀairs.

Nye, J. (2022). So Power Aer Ukraine. Project syndicate.

https://www.project-syndicate.org/commentary/

soft-power-after-russia-war-in-ukraine-by-joseph-s-

nye-2022-05

Suspilne. (2023). М’яка сила. Зрушити Європу [So

Power. Moving Europe]. hps://corp.suspilne.media/

newsdetails/6138/#

Ukrainian Institute. (2023). Ukraine in the global

so power ranking. hps://ui.org.ua/en/sectors-en/en-

projects/ukraine-in-the-global-so-power-ranking/

UNESCO. (2022). Inscription of Ukrainian borscht

cooking culture. hps://ich.unesco.org/en/USL/

ukrainian-borscht-culture-01852

In conclusion, soft power is a powerful tool in the

struggle for support. It works by attracting people

through culture and national values. It grows through

the work of individuals and the strategies of states

that create an image that inspires connection and

solidarity. In Ukraine’s case, this means everything

from local activism to global conversations about

borsch. No matter where you’re from, you can be

part of this. Soft power is in our hands - yours and

ours.

Works Cited

City nation place (2023). Ukraine, sustainability, and the

impact of so power. hps://www.citynationplace.com/

ukraine-sustainability-and-the-impact-of-so-power

Fielder, J. (2025). Gastro-diplomacy: Ukraine’s so power

gambit for stomachs, hearts, and minds. Euronews.

hps://www.euronews.com/culture/2025/03/02/gastro-

diplomacy-ukraines-soft-power-gambit-for-stomachs-

hearts-and-minds

DIAS’PORA MAGAZINE6162

This issue of Dїaspora is made possible by the kind and generous support of The University of Edinburgh

Ukranian Society, which issued the magazine and oversees its distribution, and the Association of

Ukrainians in Great Britain, Edinburgh Branch, which has generously funded the entire project.

“There are over 30 Ukrainian societies across the UK, and the University of Edinburgh’s Ukrainian

Society stands out. What began with small fundraising events has grown into large-scale gatherings of up

to 200 people, successful grant applications for major events, and even the launch of this journal, Dїaspora,

dedicated to tell about Ukrainian community abroad.

Our core mission is to unite, represent, and encourage. The strength of our community drives everything

we do. We are proactive, collaborative, and always open to new ideas and support from our members.

The Ukrainian Society is built on the passion and enthusiasm of individuals connected by a shared love

for Ukrainian culture. It’s this community that motivates and accelerates our eorts—enabling us to dream

bigger and achieve more.”

- Taras Harasym, President

“The Association of Ukrainians in Great Britain (AUGB) is the largest representative body for

Ukrainians and those of Ukrainian descent in the UK. We exist to develop, promote and support the

interests of the Ukrainian community in Great Britain & beyond!”

- Hannah Beaton-Hawryluk, Chair of

AUGB Edinburgh

The University of Edinburgh Ukrainian Society

Association of Ukrainians in Great Britain

Cover

1-2

17-18

19-22

23-24

25-26

27-28

29-30

-4

9-41

Narodowe Archiwum Cyfrowe

Benya Pyatski

Oleg Dubyna

Sergei Supinsky

43-44

Sergei Supinsky

Yuriy Tsvirkun

49-50

-54

Associated Press/Tass

(L) Militarnyi

Collective Awareness to Unexploded

Ordnance (CAT-UXO)

(R) Wikimedia Commons: Illuminatedbay

Annika Haas

Donald Tong, Rasbak

Wikimedia Commons: Misha Reme

Min An, Taras Gren , Frankie Fouganthin, 37-38

Oleksandr Ratushniak

Danzeisen, Peter

Peter Collins

Alisa Bystrytska

Ira Smirnova

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