Світлана Поваляєва Svitlana Povalayeva

“We started traveling to the frontline cities with cultural initiatives, but getting there wasn’t always permitted. Mentioning anything Ukrainian could be met with resistance from local administrations, I mean in Donetsk and Luhansk Regions. It was nearly impossible for even a group as renowned as VV [Vopli Vidoplyasova is a Ukrainian rock band] to perform in those regions. Countless obstacles were thrown our way, ranging from official refusals to last-minute claims of incidents at the venue. They resisted in every way possible. When people claim that we ‘didn’t hear the Donbas’ and failed to bring culture there, performing exclusively in Kyiv, I can’t help but rub their noses in this and say: ‘listen, dear friends, Ukrainian books were forcibly thrown out from libraries! And bookshops, particularly during the days of Yanukovych, were shuttered.’ We weren’t allowed to travel anywhere in the eastern regions. There was direct and aggressive opposition. So, dear friends, I’d like to clarify that it wasn’t our fault that we couldn’t bring culture to those regions or refused ‘to hear the Donbas.’ If you managed to navigate through these barriers, as in the case of Donetsk, a fervent Ukrainophile [audience] was waiting for you there anyway, in other words, that was a real kicker. These sentiments were not confined to large cities but permeated smaller towns like Kozelshchyna, a little town in Poltava Region, where they organized a unique intellectual space, attracting many of our writers. This cultural movement, distinctly Ukrainian, began to unfold and develop after the war. It marked the dissolution of the artificial divisions deliberately imposed during the Soviet era. Kyiv was also artificially divided into districts, and districts further subdivided, the left and right bank. Yes, Ukraine was marked by divisions — Right Bank, Left Bank, the West, whatever. This regional segregation persisted. Unfortunately, due to the war, this division took a bloody turn. The war forced a massive displacement of people, leading to a gathering of regional peculiarities, traditions, dialects, language, and habits among internally displaced individuals. This involuntary mingling compelled Ukrainians to find beauty in their shared diversity, fostering a newfound sense of pride in their collective identity. What happened then? Yes, of course, whenever invitations came, we seized the opportunity to travel — to Poltava, to Lutsk — but these occasions were rare. It was complicated.”

“I’ve had enough of this; nothing ever comes of it. I’m not going anywhere anymore,” I declared. At that time, my eldest son drew my attention to the protests in Greece, characterized by intense activism, Molotov cocktails, arson, clashes with the police, etc. He said, ‘This is how revolutions should be done, not ‘your thingamajig’ with songs, dancing, lanterns, and carnivals.’ It was obvious that, during that period, non-violent resistance — although we persisted in adopting it for several months — proved unfortunately ineffective. Isolated, without the support of violent resistance, it was unfortunately rather ineffective. Had it not been for the brutal and unmotivated dispersal at the stele [Independence Monument], where people were subjected to savage beatings, this Maidan would likely have been quashed. Those few hundred people standing there would have dispersed without making a significant mark if not for the attention and provocation that pushed them to escalate their actions. Peaceful resistance, although creative and beautiful, wouldn’t have achieved much on its own. My younger son, Roman, and I lived through these times together. The older son was with us too; we all lived together then. Although he had his own gatherings. Roman, the younger one, urged me after Mustafa Nayem’s post (take your thermos, umbrella, good mood, and head for the Maidan), saying, ‘Mum, let’s go, let’s at least see what’s going on. Come on, let’s go. Let’s go.’ I replied, ‘Listen, that’s it. I’ve had enough of this, and nothing will come of it.’ The weather was awful — fog, rain, warm yet damp, really awful. In the end, Roman persuaded me, but we didn’t go at 9:00 p.m. as announced but a bit later, in the night when most activists had already left the Maidan. We felt like solitary pixels, uncertain of the outcome, standing there because there was no alternative. Because there was no other choice… We stood there all night. I can’t remember whether it was Klitschko [Ukrainian boxing champion and politician] that provided us with a van equipped with a speaker and microphone or the people on the barricade itself managed to set it up. Anyone who wished to speak was given the platform. Yuriy Lutsenko arrived [Ukrainian politician and statesman], forewarning us of a potential Berkut assault [police unit of the Ministry of Internal Affairs of Ukraine in 1992–2014] at four in the morning, the usual hour for police assaults. He suggested wrapping it up peacefully and resolving it in a good way, as wise politicians usually advise. That’s the way it was. That whole story didn’t grab me at all initially. It felt like a futile endeavor, all about standing around, singing, jumping — and, as I understood it, seemingly leading nowhere. That’s how it went for a while. I remember our gatherings, with Oleksa Mann and Ivan Semesiuk in the mix; our artists were quite active then. The Bacteria formation was still doing its thing. The most amusing challenge — it was really quite funny — for us at that time, believe it or not, was avoiding the appearance of being a mere “sharovarshchyna” show [usually a negative term to depict Ukrainian culture through pseudo-folk elements of costume and life]. We needed to think up some creative slogans, visuals so that it would look good… Back then, everyone brushed off nationalist slogans as clichéd and ineffectual. They had no impact, especially over the youth. So, we attempted to inject some creative storytelling. It sounds amusing to reflect on it now. Yet, I believe that these creative efforts were the spark and the underlying message that shaped the Maidan into what it eventually became. It blossomed in Maidan universities, the IT tent, the theater, the stage, and more — a vibrant tableau crafted from the strands of collective creativity. During that time, there was a persistent attempt to assimilate Maidan into the Ukrainian House, and I could already foresee the outcome. A camp for Yulia Tymoshenko was set up in the Bessarabka area, complete with tents and crazy elderly ladies wandering around, probably looking to <…> It was evident to me that they aimed to extract some situational political gains, to sideline and confine the resistance to somewhere near the Ukrainian House, an obscure location that few visited, either on foot or by car. However, we kept going. On the night when Andriy Yermolenko [Ukrainian artist and designer] was present, we humorously referred to ourselves as the ‘Iron Sotnia,’ although in reality, we were no more than a hundred strong. We could see through the supposedly heated clashes with Svoboda, involving gas and whatnot — they all appeared staged. We made a collective decision that we wouldn’t abandon Maidan. There was only one Maidan, and it was ours; everything should happen here. All those stories about Ukrdim… well, forget it! They accused us of splitting the Maidans, a claim that made us laugh. Eventually, they realized that we were stubborn and that we weren’t budging, even in the rain with knee-deep puddles, that the so-called ‘Iron Sotnia’ would remain standing on the Maidan. Come morning, Ruslana joined our ranks. She began talking and singing, and while my feelings towards her role in both the Orange Revolution and Euromaidan are somewhat ambivalent, there, in that moment, she came to be with us and she stayed. I can’t shake the feeling that she was sent to unite us somehow. Regardless, we remained on the Maidan, stationed beneath the stele, where we began organizing a variety of concerts. Everything took a drastic turn after the brutal beating on the night of November 30 to December 1. It was a watershed moment, a point of no return. I still don’t understand why they orchestrated such a provocation. It undoubtedly triggered the Million Man March, leading to the storming of Bankova [Presidential Administration on Bankova Street] and the subsequent cascade of events. Yet, in the midst of it all, there was a spark of inspiration, a belief that it would lead to something significant.”

“Roman, my younger son, was constantly on the Maidan. The older son, however, remained somewhat skeptical until the active phase on Hrushevskoho Street unfolded. Before that, they were engaged in clandestine activities across the city — graffiti, secret missions, a bit of sabotage. In one word, they were doing something, maybe diversions, and his disposition towards artistic actions, non-violent resistance, and everything associated with it was rather skeptical. Purposefully going to the Maidan, especially to listen to the speeches from the stage, was not his style at all. On the other hand, the younger one, Roman, was always on the Maidan. Our paths would cross either there or at home, but each of us had our own crowd. They had their own tasks, their own narrative. I never tried to control my children to the extent of shadowing their every move. Of course, I felt concern, but they were adults, and an unprecedented historic moment was unfolding. It was our collective reality; how could I restrict or dictate their actions? They weren’t toddlers anymore. However, when we all gathered on Hrushevskoho Street, and I saw Roman on that bus that later burned down — the one that Berkut troops used to knock over journalist or cameraman, I can’t recall — everything came to a halt for me. It was a surreal, conspiratorial moment, where I sensed the presence of the SBU, all those dirty police rats recording everyone, and everyone wearing balaclavas… I tried calling him — a decision I’ve never forgiven myself for, as all these stories turned me into a nervous wreck inside. You know, I’ve never been a controlling person. Yet, during those anxious times, I was constantly scared for the children. I found myself noting down taxi numbers out of fear. If they took a taxi for hospital duty, and I left later, I would call… something I never used to do, nagging them, calling several times. And, I called again: ‘Are you already on the Maidan? In Ukrdim? Oh, thank God,’ I would say. You see, just in case… as people were getting kidnapped, beaten, tortured. The resurgence of a year like [19]37 is something I can never forgive. It’s terrifying because there’s no turning back; it’s a stark choice between us and them. So there I was, in a crowd near Sushiia [restaurant], making a call to Roman, urging him to at least put on a balaclava — a somewhat stupid suggestion. As for Vasyl, he came home in the evening and slept briefly. Instead of attempting to shield at least one of them from the events, I called him and said, ‘Vasyl, it seems like what you wanted has begun. The revolution you were talking about is happening. There’s a gathering on Hrusha [Hrushevskoho Street], so get over there!’”

“We were on Mykhailivska Street, manning a checkpoint through the night. Periodically, we patrolled the area, and at times, the children ventured off to the stele to join the fighting that had suddenly erupted. By February 18 [2014] in the afternoon, the violence had escalated. They were killing people. There was a massive fight in the government quarter. They had cleared Hrushevsky Street, Yevropeiska Square, the Ukrainian House, and were positioned everywhere. The night wore on, and the situation appeared grim. I vividly remember watching live streams later, the aerial shots taken from a quadcopter, and you could see our numbers juxtaposed against theirs, revealing their movements. It was really frightening, a moment that felt like doomsday. I still can’t understand how we emerged victorious. Evidently, there was a strategic calculation that a direct confrontation with the police would provoke a bloodbath, potentially escalating into a civil war and prompting military intervention. I believe they anticipated the seizure of the Verkhovna Rada, the parliament. They even disseminated the news, but later retracted it, stored it away — presumably because they had their own scenario, how things would develop. Well, it didn’t go that way, and by 8 p.m. plus we were already on Mykhailivska Street. We went up the street to our campfire spot to take a break and eventually decided to head home. We all lived together, at our home — Zhenia Zakrevska, Mykhailo, our children, another girl, my husband, and myself. They opted for the car route downhill, while we chose to descend on foot. I vaguely recall hearing the initial gunfire, but I can’t be certain. I don’t want to make up details, you know, or paint us as heroes. At that moment, many people, including us, either returned home or avoided the Maidan, not necessarily out of fear. The situation was genuinely confusing. If you weren’t stationed there on duty or actively involved in the fighting right then and there, when you approached the Maidan, it gave off a typical vibe… like usual. I mean, you could see smoke hanging in the air from the burnt Trade Unions, people strolling around casually. Some were running somewhere hurriedly, and then others seemingly dispersed, something was happening elsewhere… and those dirty cops. In essence, it was an odd and puzzling story. We’d had little to no sleep for a few days. The day was strikingly beautiful, bathed in a spring-like sunshine. The sun, you know, well it made the city look really beautiful. We noticed some figures on the rooftops along the Khreshchatyk; we suspected snipers. Yet, I can’t say for sure if they were indeed snipers. The narratives circulating about Georgian, Russian, or any other snipers are false — a fabrication. The shots didn’t originate from rooftops; it was the Kyiv Berkut, Sadovnyk’s unit, the infamous ‘black company’ firing from the hilltops. <…> All along Instytutska Street, so all these sniper stories — they’re all lies. All these years, my close friend Yevheniia Zakrevska has meticulously researched this, heading the Maidan trials and compiling extensive testimonies, videos, and more. Many myths surround that day and the shooting. Picture this: perhaps those were the first casualties, while we were heading in the opposite direction, unaware. We witnessed the chaos as patrol police — it used to have the Russian name (GAI), but now it’s the DAI (State Automobile Inspectorate) — stood lost and in complete disarray. Columns streamed from the station along Pushkinska Street [Chykalenko Street since October 2022] towards the Maidan. It felt like a victory was already in the air. We returned home and grabbed an hour of sleep, when suddenly we were awakened by shouts. ‘Come on! Get up!’ the boys cried loudly. ‘Look what’s happening!’ We turned on the TV and watched the live stream, saw the ‘tortoise formation’ [type of shield wall formation commonly used by Berkut] moving and shooting on Instytutska Street.”

“First and foremost, the events of February 24, 2022 didn’t catch me off guard or shock me. In this respect, I have my own opinion, my way of thinking. It’s challenging for me to assess these psychological shifts in various segments of the Ukrainian population. As I mentioned earlier, it seems that at first, we were strongly forced to spread the illusion and then recognize that many of the so-called differences among us as Ukrainians were artificially imposed. This intentional division and segregation were implemented strategically and artificially for the purpose of divide and rule, making it harder for us to unite into a cohesive entity that could finally function in a normal way. Although we have evolved and are capable of functioning as a normal society, I can’t help but observe that we’re bearing a deep collective trauma. I mean, everyone’s sanity is hanging by a thread, and this is evident in social media and in our daily lives. In fact, we’re unable to take a break and rest. I mean, the level of this ongoing trauma continues to escalate, leaving us with no respite, making it impossible to find peace. It’s evident that until there’s a decisive victory… in other words, it’s either them or us. We won’t experience any relief until we have victory. Until we win, we have no chance of doing anything, which is why it’s so difficult to formalize any changes in a global sense. It’s too difficult to finalize any such processes at all. You know, living under this perpetual stress, enduring constant pain, some people go crazy, become extremely nervous, while others become frozen in their actions. It’s really a very challenging situation. Among my fellow writers and colleagues, we’ve extensively discussed the formidable difficulty of writing prose, essays, or any form of fiction, be it reportage or testimony, anything like that at all. I won’t presume to pass judgment on how and why these changes manifest. What’s clear, however, is that we’ve changed, matured, and grown stronger. We’ve gritted our teeth and are pushing forward. We have no other option, no way out — it’s a stark reality of either winning or being killed. That’s the crux of it.”