EASTERN BRIEF: Society

Governing Professors: How Public Office Became a Side Hustle

eastern brief — Fri, 10 Apr 2026 12:03:19 GMT

In Ukraine, holding office increasingly comes with a side classroom — and a fatter paycheck. Ministers, deputies, and even the prime minister earn millions teaching at private universities, often surpassing their official salaries. At the Kyiv School of Economics, lectures mix with policy influence, turning public authority into private profit and exposing a growing tension between governance, prestige, and personal gain.

In Ukraine, the line between academia and high office has grown so thin it is almost invisible. Ministers, deputies, and even the prime minister moonlight as university lecturers, often at private institutions, earning sums that dwarf their official salaries. The phenomenon is neither entirely new nor entirely legalistic, but it has raised eyebrows in Kyiv, where the public watches as politicians collect fees for a few hours of lectures that, in some cases, exceed a year’s pay in office.

Take Prime Minister Yuliya Svyrydenko, who embodies the intersection of state power and private academia. In 2025, her declared salary as head of government amounted to roughly UAH 1.37 million (USD 33,000), yet the same year she received UAH 3.24 million (USD 79,000) in fees from the Kyiv School of Economics (KSE), a private university led by Tymofiy Mylovanov, economist, ex-minister and academic power broker. Over three years, 2023–2025, Svyrydenko earned a total of UAH 7.1 million from KSE — more than double what she made as a minister or prime minister. In 2024, already serving as the first deputy prime minister, she described lecturing as “a small thrill and absolute happiness,” even amid a packed schedule.

Svyrydenko is not alone. Oleksiy Sobolev, the economy minister, has been teaching at KSE since 2021, first as head of Prozorro.Sales, the state-run online auction system, and later as minister. His cumulative KSE income reached UAH 4.52 million, including UAH 1.81 million in 2025 alone — again exceeding his official government salary. Sobolev teaches macroeconomic workshops on weekends, reportedly attracting executives and students alike who are eager to learn directly from those shaping Ukraine’s economic policy.

The phenomenon extends further. Kateryna Rozhkova, former first deputy governor of the central bank (dismissed in August 2025), declared UAH 389,200 from KSE after leaving office. Other prominent officials linked to KSE include Serhiy Marchenko, the finance minister, and Serhiy Nikolaiyuk, deputy head of the central bank, though they reportedly receive no declared income from the university. Even judges and former ministers, such as Serhiy Holovaty, a retired Constitutional Court judge and ex-minister of justice, appear on KSE’s roster; in 2025, Holovaty earned UAH 279,500 teaching constitutional law.

Several members of parliament have also joined the academic ranks. Inna Sovsun (the Holos party) earned UAH 642,600 from KSE in 2025, while Marina Bardina and Roman Hryshchuk (both Servant of the People party) received modest UAH 16,900 each. These figures stand in stark contrast to average academic salaries in Ukraine. Professor Mykola Tomenko, former deputy prime minister, notes that a doctor of political sciences with a full teaching load in a government-funded university earns UAH 25–30,000 per month, while a KSE professor like Svyrydenko can earn 10 times more for a fraction of the workload.

The trend has historical roots. Ukraine’s political class has long blurred the lines between governance and scholarship. Former parliamentarian Serhiy Kivalov, elected six times, simultaneously led a law academy in Odessa, now partly owned by his daughter. In the ninth convocation, the pattern continues: parliament speaker Ruslan Stefanchuk chairs the supervisory board of Taras Shevchenko National University, Ukraine’s top higher education institution, and multiple committee heads sit on boards of state universities, preserving influence over both policy and education. Even sanctioned politicians like Yuriy Boyko remain affiliated with Kivalov-linked institutions.

But the current administration shows a distinct preference for one private institution: KSE. Its founder and president, Tymofiy Mylovanov, has served as deputy governor of the central bank, economic development minister and presidential advisor. Under his watch, KSE has become a magnet for policymakers and central-bank executives. The university boasts a budget of roughly $50 million annually and enrolls 1,700 students, with plans to expand to 5,000.

Officials’ involvement at KSE is flexible but lucrative. Svyrydenko’s lectures and practical sessions are adapted to her schedule, while Sobolev teaches weekend macro workshops. As Mylovanov explained, “Such lecturers are very popular. Everyone attends — from bachelor’s students to master’s candidates.” But the compensation raises questions about conflicts of interest. State officials earning millions from a private university while shaping national economic policy could create incentives for policy decisions that favor certain private actors.

Beyond teaching, KSE’s charitable arm, the KSE Foundation, pays significant sums to officials for “research activities.” Vladyslav Vlasyuk, presidential commissioner for sanctions policy, reported UAH 2.84 million from the foundation in 2025 alone, with total earnings from 2022–2025 reaching UAH 5.05 million. Oleh Borysenko, head of the Bureau of Economic Security, the serious economic crime agency, in the Chernivtsi region, declared UAH 1.14 million received via the foundation. These figures show that engagement with KSE is as much about income and networking as pedagogy.

Not all observers approve. Tomenko calls the system a form of “educational cronyism,” where future applicants are signaled which institutions to favor to advance their careers, while state universities are downsized or closed. By contrast, former education minister Stanislav Nikolayenko argues that active politicians engaging with universities is not inherently problematic, noting that similar practices occur in Europe and the US — but usually after officials leave office.

The disparity between KSE payouts and state-university salaries is stark. Average professors earn UAH 17,700 per month, while rectors can make UAH 1.2–1.5 million annually. Even when adding lecture fees, full-year earnings of state academics rarely approach what senior officials pocket for a few hours of teaching at KSE.

Monetization of authority

KSE’s expansion of influence coincides with political and economic stakes. Mylovanov simultaneously sits on supervisory boards of Energoatom and Ukroboronprom, strategic enterprises that together paid him UAH 6.27 million in 2025. Energoatom later became the center of a corruption scandal, with about $100 million allegedly siphoned via an insider scheme, highlighting the risky proximity of public office and private enrichment.

In sum, Ukraine’s governing professors exemplify a modern phenomenon: the monetization of public authority through academic prestige. Whether this represents corruption, savvy networking, or simply a new career model depends on perspective. But for students, academics, and global observers, the message is unmistakable: in Kyiv, holding office and holding a lecture hall are increasingly the same thing — just with very different paychecks.

Mobilizing a War-Weary Nation

eastern brief — Mon, 23 Feb 2026 13:03:12 GMT

“Busi-fication” turns city streets into stages of conscription and resistance. Citizens dodge, block, and sometimes fight recruiters, while officers juggle quotas, corruption, and public anger. War fatigue and scarce volunteers leave Kyiv trapped: escalate mobilization, and unrest grows; ease up, and army ranks shrink. A delicate, combustible balancing act.

In most wars, conscription stays behind closed doors. Ukraine, by contrast, has made it a very public affair. Across cities from Lviv to Vinnytsia, territorial recruitment centers stop men on the streets — often using pepper spray, paintball grenades, or other coercive measures — to enforce compliance with the country’s comprehensive military duty registration system.

The effect has been in many respects theatrical. Citizens are resisting, bystanders are interfering, and women are, somewhat improbably, taking up arms in defence of strangers. Some might call it ‘urban guerrilla theatre.’ Ukrainians call it ‘busi-fication’: the bureaucratic euphemism for rounding men off the streets into minibuses bound for recruitment offices. It’s a word now blessed by President Volodymyr Zelensky and his defence minister Mykhailo Fedorov, who presumably hope it sounds more like a policy initiative than a public shoving match.

Consider official police statistics: five street-level incidents in 2022; 38 in 2023; 118 in 2024; 341 in 2025; and already 24 in early February 2026. At this rate, by midsummer, Ukrainian pedestrians may be facing a higher risk from recruiters than from stray artillery.

The incidents themselves read like a litany of escalating absurdity. A man in Solonka, a village in the Lviv oblast, threw a plastic grenade at recruiters and drove off; a woman in Lviv fired at a moving minibus; in Vinnytsia, someone took potshots at a mobilization squad and disappeared into the winter gloom. Not all actors are male, not all weapons are conventional, and not all narratives make sense. Yet the pattern is unmistakable: coercion begets resistance, resistance begets chaos, and social media begets outrage.

Authorities insist abuses are rare and prosecuted, blaming most viral footage on Russian psychological operations — or AI-generated fakery. In practice, every scuffle on a Kyiv street can become a “busi-fication” scandal online, leaving conscription officers caught between enforcing the law and surviving the public’s outrage. After all, Ukraine is fighting a brutal war, and many citizens volunteer willingly. Media coverage, however, often magnifies the exceptions: most apprehensions involve men who have failed to register as required under the country’s comprehensive military system, rather than random street “sweeps.”

Two main forces drive this theatre of coercion. First, the recruiters have become increasingly aggressive. Videos of beatings, pepper spray, and blunt intimidation circulate almost daily. Citizens, predictably, do not applaud. Second, there is war fatigue. After more than three years of conflict, many Ukrainians are looking for a graceful exit, or at least a pause, and the street-level violence only accelerates their desire to duck, dodge, or defy.

Yet the state cannot simply withdraw. As the commander of the Ukrainian armed forces, Oleksandr Syrsky, has explained, conscription still accounts for 90% of new recruits. The dream of a fully contract-based army — like Russia’s — is financially and culturally out of reach. The public’s tolerance for coercion, however, is not infinite. Hence the current predicament: Kyiv must maintain troop levels while fending off a growing civil revolt in miniature.

Inside the recruitment offices, morale is… mixed. Officers speak of pepper spray, body cameras, and daily quotas of six to fifteen men per team. Veterans are rare; most staff arrived via connections or financial incentive. The irony is thick: those who once proudly served on the front lines now man checkpoints and minivans, while outsiders rake in the bribes and perks. Recruits who make it to the units are often unfit for service, leading to a merry-go-round of rejection and transport across the country. It is a Kafkaesque cycle, with a touch of slapstick.

As one officer noted, statements from Zelensky about ending coercive mobilization are “just PR.” The plan to move toward motivational contracts exists mainly on paper, while the daily reality is still one of pursuit, resistance, and occasional street violence.

The comedy turns darker when considering ethnic minorities. Leaked documents from Kharkiv suggest authorities are scrutinizing national communities under the pretext of preventing draft evasion. Hungarians, Belarusians, Armenians, Jews, and Azerbaijanis find themselves under watchful eyes, their loyalty questioned. It is, perhaps, a slightly overzealous attempt to boost enlistment, but one with a curious side effect: worsening interethnic relations.

Meanwhile, society at large is learning quickly how to duck a recruitment officer, and clever citizens have developed improvised countermeasures: blocking vehicles, forming human shields, or simply disappearing. Street theatre has become participatory. The state’s coercive performance is being met by improvisational civil resistance — sometimes armed, sometimes theatrical, always inconvenient.

Kyiv’s leadership is caught between a rock and a hard place: ease mobilization and risk empty ranks, tighten it and risk the streets erupting. Any attempt to balance troop quotas with social consent risks making the situation worse. For Zelensky and Fedorov, the solution is currently rhetorical: acknowledge busi-fication, promise reforms, maintain quotas, and hope the public doesn’t notice the contradiction.

Analyst Andriy Zolotaryov sums up the absurdity: in 2022, Ukrainians queued happily at military offices; today, the sight of a recruitment officer prompts spontaneous cross-street sprints. Citizens have discovered ways to pay, evade, or exit — just as the elite historically avoided service — while the state scrambles to maintain legitimacy.

A Comedy or a Tragedy?

The Ukraine of 2026 offers a curious spectacle: a society trying to sustain a war effort while publicly resisting it. The conflict has migrated from front lines to city streets, where civilians improvise, officers improvise, and government rhetoric dances between acknowledgment and denial.

In the end, busi-fication may prove more corrosive to Ukrainian social cohesion than the artillery that once dominated headlines. The streets are speaking, and they are sarcastic, inventive, and increasingly armed. How Kyiv responds — through reform, tolerance, or escalated coercion—will determine whether this urban theatre remains a dark comedy or slides into full-blown civil tragedy.

For now, the lesson is clear: if you are a Ukrainian male of draft age, keep your eyes peeled, your smartphone ready, and perhaps a pepper spray canister on hand. The front line has moved into the grocery aisle.

A Memorial in the Marsh

eastern brief — Wed, 18 Feb 2026 13:01:43 GMT

A cemetery meant to honor Ukraine’s fallen soldiers has instead exposed the limits of law, planning, and political will. At Markhalivka, graves sit in lakes, pumps run endlessly, and bureaucracy fights nature — and common sense.

In late January 2026 Ukraine’s Supreme Court delivered a ruling that should have been straightforward anywhere else: stop building the National Military Memorial Cemetery near Markhalivka, in Hatne hromada, Kyiv oblast. In Ukraine, simplicity is a luxury. Soldiers of the Third Army Corps and the First Assault Regiment — self-styled Da Vinci Wolves — reacted as if the courts had insulted their fallen comrades. The message was clear: the judiciary had dared to touch matters of honor.

At first glance, it looks like a standoff between the military and the courts. Look closer, and the culprit is mundane: mismanagement, secrecy, and literally, marshland. The site is waterlogged, with groundwater often above grave depth. Engineers used drainage standards meant for fields, not cemeteries. Graves sit in man-made lakes; pumps run constantly, while overflow drains into nearby rivers. Hydrologists call it “predictable flooding.” Any map or satellite image would have flagged the risk. Yet political expedience and bureaucratic opacity ruled.

The Supreme Court relied on more than hydrology. Ukraine is party to the Aarhus Convention, letting citizens enforce environmental law, and the Bern Convention, protecting habitats across Europe through the Emerald Network. Both conventions override domestic shortcuts. Yet officials argued the forest lacked formal Ukrainian status, as if a legal label could replace ecological reality. Courts weren’t convinced. Civil society, through the NGO Support Markhalivka, had already gathered evidence and won lower-court victories. The Supreme Court simply confirmed what common sense already showed.

Memorials are rarely just about sentiment. Phase one of the cemetery cost UAH 1.75 billion (USD 40 million). Planned expansions — tunnels, roads — would have doubled that. Procurement was essentially uncontested, with only one bidder backed by political patrons. Even memory can be profitable. And the soldiers protesting the ruling? Unwitting proxies in a fiscal and political fight they didn’t start.

The military is not the villain. Their outrage is understandable; they defend comrades. The guilty parties are the decision-makers who picked a swamp, ignored warnings, and assumed law and nature were optional. Courts did their job. Citizens exercised their rights. Now the state faces a choice: admit the error, relocate the cemetery, and engage families and military communities — or double down on mismanagement. Anything less risks eroding the rule of law at home while defending it abroad.

The environmental stakes are real. The cemetery sits atop rivers — Siverka, Pritvarka, Petil — feeding densely populated suburbs. Drainage and pumps have created channels for chemical, bacterial, and organic pollutants — the so-called corpse leachate — to spread. Decades of satellite data and Boyarka Forest Research (a local research center) documents made this foreseeable. Alleged attempts to obscure wetlands on maps, replacing continuous swamp lines with dotted approximations, weren’t mistakes — they were deliberate. Inspectors eventually intervened over illegal water diversion.

The Markhalivka affair is a governance cautionary tale. Memorials honor the dead; bureaucrats uphold law. When officials act in secret, ignore expert advice, and substitute shortcuts for deliberation, conflict is inevitable. Transparency, consultation, and compliance with law and treaties aren’t optional — they are the minimum.

History offers no clemency. A country fighting for justice abroad cannot violate it at home. The Supreme Court’s ruling is inconvenient but lawful. Relocating graves, restoring ecological balance, and rebuilding public trust will be costly and awkward — but that is the point. Honor cannot come from expedience; it must be earned through responsibility.

The irony is sharp. A monument meant to commemorate sacrifice exposes misjudgment, mismanagement, and the triumph of bureaucracy over memory and law. Soldiers, citizens, and courts find themselves on different sides of a conflict born of poor planning and political shortcuts. Meanwhile, the bureaucracy scrambles for legal workarounds — new mechanisms, retrospective legislation, procedural reinterpretations — while the man-made lake at Markhalivka swells.

Globally, it’s like an Arlington transplanted to a swamp, or a Normandy cemetery without engineers. Even in matters of memory, human error and political expedience can drown the noblest intentions.

The only real solution

Admit the mistake. Find a site that is legally and ecologically sound. Consult soldiers, families, and the public. Move the graves with dignity. Stop pretending deadlines, budgets, or convenience can substitute for competence. Anything else is not a memorial — it’s a monument to hubris.

In Markhalivka, memory is trapped in wet soil, caught between bureaucracy and law. To honor its dead and itself, Ukraine must lift them from the marsh — and learn that expedience makes very poor company in a cemetery.

When Electrification Outruns Electricity

eastern brief — Mon, 29 Dec 2025 06:43:25 GMT

Electric cars are cheaper than ever in Ukraine — but cheap EVs collide with fragile grids, blackouts and scarce chargers. The country’s electrification experiment is running ahead of its infrastructure.

Once, an electric car in Ukraine was a statement. Quiet, clean, morally superior to the neighbour still feeding petrol into an internal-combustion engine. Today it is something else: a device entirely dependent on a functioning socket. Blackouts turn mobility into a survival game. The joke of a Tesla carrying a petrol generator in its boot is no longer a joke. In Odessa, motorists recently saw exactly that — an electric car refuelling its “independent” power source. Welcome to 2025.

EVs have never been cheaper. A Tesla Model 3 from 2018–22 can now be found for around $16,000. For the same money, an almost new Honda M-NV with a 64 kWh battery and just 4,000 km on the clock is available. New Chinese EVs hover just above $20,000. Fierce competition, market dumping, and swelling imports have pushed prices down. According to Ukravtoprom, Ukraine’s main automotive industry association, electric cars accounted for 31% of new sales in October — a share bolstered by tax exemptions set to expire at year’s end.

It sounds like a triumph. In reality, caveats abound. Most bargains are used. In an EV, the battery is not just a component — it is half the car’s value and nearly all of its risk. Buy a $20,000 car today, and a failing battery in a year or two could cost another $10,000.

Charging is another story. Ukraine has chargers, but unevenly. Large cities and main highways are reasonably served. Smaller towns? One lonely charger, if that. Most are slow, delivering 3–7 kW. Without a private garage, a three-phase connection and a night tariff, charging costs can rival a diesel tank. Public stations charge UAH 16–18 ($0.40–$0.45) per kWh . At 15 kWh per 100 km, the economics vanish.

Electricity itself has become a strategic resource. Even before the war, Ukraine’s power system had fragilities. Today, blackouts, planned outages and voltage drops are routine. A vehicle dependent on electrons quickly becomes a very expensive piece of street furniture. If the lights go out while you are in town, options narrow to waiting, towing, or producing a generator — often cheaper than any alternative.

Drivers joke online: turn on the air conditioner in summer and the battery melts faster than ice cream. Drive in winter and range falls 30–40% from cold and cabin heating. Urban trips of 50–100 km remain economical. Beyond that, the charm disappears if reliable charging is not nearby.

The problem is systemic. Fast DC chargers draw 200–300 kW. Three cars at once can demand nearly a megawatt. Kyiv’s hydroelectric power plant on the Dnieper River produces 440 MW — enough in theory to fast-charge 1,400 cars simultaneously. Kyiv has 1.2 million registered vehicles. Imagine 5% of half of them — 30,000 cars — plugging in. Power demand would exceed the city’s total consumption.

Slower charging is more forgiving. Public chargers at 7–22 kW and home sockets at 5 kW strain the grid far less. Slow is boring, but survivable. Still, this assumes surplus generation not just in the day, when solar panels hum, but also at night, when most drivers want to charge. Without deep grid upgrades, mass electrification remains theoretical.

Some point to solar panels. Ten-kilowatt home systems generate about 30 kWh at peak between late morning and early afternoon. Useful only if you are home during those hours. Daytime solar is like Schrödinger’s cat: theoretically present, practically inaccessible. Larger, 30 kW systems fare better. Pop home for lunch, plug in, gain a chunk of range. Night charging requires batteries — roughly 100 kWh — to cover a full car tank plus household needs. That is costly, bulky, and accelerates wear if cycled daily. Solar EVs are backup power, not cheap fuel stations.

Electric dreams, fragile wires

The appeal of electric cars endures. The notion of generating your own fuel is seductive. Petrol drivers can only dream. But few build home power plants. Most rely on the grid—and the grid is under pressure. For now, EV numbers are modest and the system copes. If adoption rises, the state will face hard choices. Transformers and cables must survive, and fuel excise revenue must be replaced. The quiet expiration of EV import tax breaks looks like an early step.

Electrification has arrived before infrastructure. In Ukraine, the electric car is no longer just transport. It is an experiment in energy policy, resilience and realism. Sometimes it even runs on petrol.

Ukraine’s Telegram Moment

eastern brief — Thu, 18 Dec 2025 13:03:38 GMT

What began as a messaging app has become Ukraine’s busiest media bazaar. Telegram now concentrates vast audiences, fast-growing advertising budgets and real consumer spending, drawing in retailers, bankers and politicians alike. Powered by bots, virality and habit formed in crisis, it has hardened into infrastructure—reshaping how Ukrainians consume news, commerce and influence online.

For years Telegram was described as a messaging app with delusions of grandeur: half WhatsApp, half Twitter, lightly governed and stubbornly idiosyncratic. In Ukraine it has quietly become something more consequential — a media system, a commercial platform and, increasingly, a national agora. New data from Telemetrio, a research platform, suggest that what began as an improvised wartime tool has hardened into a durable market with serious money, serious audiences and serious influence.

Start with scale, because the numbers are almost deliberately implausible. Since 2021 the cumulative number of subscribers to Ukrainian Telegram channels has risen from 64m to 433m — a 676% increase. Ukraine, a country of roughly, by official estimates, 40m people, now hosts over 127,000 Telegram channels. This does not mean every Ukrainian has ten phones (though some might), but rather that Telegram’s architecture — public channels, cross-posting, diaspora audiences and bots—rewards accumulation and repetition. In the attention economy, Ukraine has become unusually fluent.

The growth has been relentless rather than episodic. Ukrainian Telegram audiences expanded 7.7 times in just four years, with monthly content output stabilising at 11–14m posts. Peaks arrive predictably — in March, July and October—while Wednesdays and Thursdays do the heaviest lifting. Saturdays, it seems, remain sacred. Kyiv dominates geographically, followed by Dnipro and Odessa, but Telegram’s reach is national and transnational, stretching deep into the Ukrainian diaspora.

Some channels have become institutions. Ukraine NOW, a news outlet, was the first Ukrainian channel to cross one million subscribers, on March 1st 2022 — hardly a coincidence. Others, such as Trukha Ukraine, Times of Ukraine and Zelensky/Official, now command audiences that would make mid-sized European newspapers envious. In 2025 the fastest growth belonged to Times of Ukraine and Insider ZSU, a military site, each adding hundreds of thousands of subscribers in a matter of months. Telegram, unlike legacy media, does not wait for trust to accrue slowly; it compounds it at speed.

The political implications are obvious, but the commercial ones may prove just as important. Ukrainian business has embraced Telegram with enthusiasm that borders on relief. Around 60% of business channels now carry official platform verification — a small badge that signals legitimacy in an ecosystem allergic to hierarchy. Retailers such as Rozetka, Moyo and Allo have built vast followings, while personalities like Oleh Horokhovsky, the co-founder of monobank, a retail bank, have turned personal channels into mass media assets.

Advertising follows attention, and here Telegram is no longer playing at the margins. Rozetka alone has placed over 4,600 native advertising posts across 731 channels, generating roughly 240m views. In Telegram Ads — the platform’s own system — the leaders include Rozetka, Times of Ukraine and Ukraine Online. This is not experimental spending; it is structured, repeated and increasingly measurable.

Money is also flowing directly through the app. According to monobank data, Ukrainian spending within Telegram has surged more than fourfold in little over a year—from about UAH 7m (USD 175,000) a month in mid-2024 to over UAH 30m by October 2025. YouTube still captures more absolute spending, but Telegram’s growth curve is steeper and more convincing. It helps that Telegram collapses distance between content, community and payment. See a post, click a bot, pay instantly. Friction is unfashionable.

Bots, in fact, may be Telegram’s most underappreciated economic weapon. In the “Economy” and “Finance” categories, monobankbot is in a league of its own. A single campaign — cheerfully titled “Hunting for Lemons” — added more than 600,000 active users in a month. The bot now boasts four times as many subscribers as its nearest financial rivals. Meanwhile, Horokhovsky’s personal channel OHo! nearly tripled its audience in a single week, demonstrating the brutal efficiency of short, well-timed campaigns. In Telegram, virality is not an accident; it is a design feature.

Then there is power — measured not in hryvnias but in views. Here the hierarchy is stark. President Volodymyr Zelensky dominates Ukrainian Telegram consumption with over 16.2bn views, accounting for 68.2% of all views among the top 15 public figures. That is more than double the combined total of everyone else on the list. Former boxer champion and Kyiv’s mayor Vitaly Klitschko trails far behind, followed by former president Petro Poroshenko. Telegram has not democratised influence so much as concentrated it, rewarding those who already command attention with near-monopolistic reach.

All this is happening against a global backdrop of Telegram’s own explosive growth. Each year more than 2m new channels appear worldwide. From 1.7m channels in 2020, the platform has swollen to over 11.3m in 2025. Ukraine is not merely participating in this expansion; it is stress-testing the model. War accelerated adoption, but habit has sustained it. Telegram is no longer a temporary substitute for broken institutions. It is becoming one.

Fast empires, faster ruins

There are risks, of course. Saturation looms. With over a million new channels appearing annually, discoverability is harder and attention more brittle. Regulation, both domestic and foreign, may yet intrude. Ukrainian officials have long muttered about banning Telegram, accusing it of being a preferred vehicle for Russian propaganda. And the same speed that allows audiences to form can cause them to vanish. Telegram builds empires quickly; it dismantles them just as fast.

Still, the broader lesson is unmistakable. Ukraine has turned Telegram into a hybrid of newsroom, marketplace and payment rail — an ecosystem where media, money and influence circulate with minimal mediation. It is messy, noisy and occasionally alarming. It is also extraordinarily effective. For a country forced to reinvent itself under pressure, Telegram has become not just a platform, but a habit of mind.

Ukraine’s Long Winter of Darkness

eastern brief — Wed, 17 Dec 2025 13:03:21 GMT

Ukraine endures 12–17-hour blackouts after Russian strikes cripple thermal plants and key transmission lines. Western regions dodge the worst, thanks to imported electricity and lighter demand. Government fixes — reviewing “protected” firms, dimming public lights, boosting gas-fired plants — offer little more than temporary relief. Each fresh missile attack sets recovery back weeks, leaving Kyiv and front-line areas counting kilowatt-hours through a dark winter.

In much of Ukraine, electricity has become a scarce and rationed commodity. After a fresh wave of Russian missile and drone attacks, households across the country are now accustomed to living without power for 12 to 17 hours a day. Candles, power banks and carefully timed kettles have become fixtures of domestic life. Officials promise modest relief in the coming days. Ukrainians, seasoned by nearly four years of war, have learned to treat such assurances with cautious optimism.

The severity of the current blackouts marks a sharp deterioration. Until early December, most regions endured four to eight hours without electricity. Since the 6th of the month, the outages have doubled. At any given moment, two to four of the six consumer groups into which households have been divided are cut off, with outages rotating through the day. The explanation is brutally simple: Russia has again turned its firepower on Ukraine’s energy system, and this time it has done so with scale and persistence.

During the latest assault, Moscow is said to have launched 51 missiles and more than 650 drones. The targets were not random. Thermal power plants, substations and high-voltage transmission lines all took hits. Ukraine’s energy grid, already battered, has been forced into an emergency mode that resembles a permanent state of repair.

Thermal generation has suffered most. Several large thermal power plants and combined heat-and-power plants are operating intermittently or have shut down entirely. That matters because, even after years of gradual decline, thermal generation still accounted for roughly a third of Ukraine’s electricity output as recently as December 2024. Lose that, and the system’s margin for error evaporates.

Russia has avoided directly striking nuclear power stations, an act that would likely invite international outrage. Instead, it has opted for a subtler approach: attacking the high-voltage substations that carry nuclear-generated electricity into the grid. The massive strike on December 6th focused heavily on such facilities. The result is the same for consumers, but the repairs are no easier.

Restoring high-voltage transmission lines can take ten to twelve weeks. Restarting damaged thermal units takes months. These timelines assume no further attacks — an assumption that recent history suggests is optimistic at best. Meanwhile, winter has arrived. Cold weather compounds the problem by pushing up demand just as supply is constrained. If temperatures hover around minus ten degrees Celsius for more than a week, Ukraine’s grid operator warns that emergency shutdowns will become unavoidable.

Even renewable energy, often invoked as a long-term solution, offers little immediate comfort. Solar power, with an installed capacity of around 7.5 gigawatts, contributes next to nothing during long stretches of gloomy winter weather. Wind helps occasionally, but it is hardly a dependable backbone for a system under fire.

Not all Ukrainians suffer equally. In western regions, outages may last only a few hours a day. In Kyiv and its surrounding region, darkness can stretch to 15 or 17 hours. The contrast has bred frustration and, in some cases, suspicion. But the explanation lies less in politics than in geography and physics.

Western Ukraine consumes less electricity and sits closer to the lines that bring in imported power from Europe. When supply is scarce, proximity matters. Kyiv, by contrast, depends heavily on electricity from nuclear plants. With key substations damaged, power cannot be delivered reliably, no matter how much the reactors produce. For the capital and much of central and northern Ukraine, the single most important factor in easing blackouts is better protection for high-voltage infrastructure.

The bleakest picture emerges on the eastern, left bank of the Dnipro River close to the front-lines. Some areas there relied on just one or two major generating facilities. The Zmiyiv thermal power plant in the Kharkiv region was one such linchpin. Russian strikes destroyed it in November. Transmission lines in the area have also been badly damaged. Even if electricity exists elsewhere in the system, there is simply no way to deliver enough of it to lift restrictions.

The government, for its part, insists that it is doing everything possible. Energy workers are operating in what officials describe as a state of permanent repair. Yet there are limits. Replacement equipment must be ordered, manufactured and delivered, often from abroad. Each new Russian attack, happening almost weekly, erases weeks of painstaking progress. Engineers can patch and reroute, but they cannot conjure transformers out of thin air.

If missile strikes continue at the current pace, energy experts warn, outages will not ease any time soon. The most effective countermeasure, the authorities say, is also the most obvious: stronger air and missile defence. Every intercepted missile saves months of repair work. It is a point Ukrainian officials repeat endlessly to their Western partners, with some justification. A more radical solution — making peace — does not, for now, appear to be an option. Ukraine’s so-called deep strikes into Russia seem to have so far made things worse, as the enemy’s capacity to retaliate remains far greater, and the blackout in Moscow promised by President Zelensky a month ago has yet to materialise.

There are, however, steps the government can take at home, experts note. One immediate move has been to revise the list of “protected” enterprises entitled to uninterrupted power. The list contains around 5,000 businesses. According to independent analysts, roughly 3,000 of them have explained their way onto it without performing genuinely critical functions. Regional military administrations have been tasked with conducting a review. Each factory or office struck from the list frees up electricity for households.

Public institutions have also been told to cut their own consumption. Street lighting, illuminated façades and other civic luxuries are being dimmed or switched off altogether. The electricity saved is redirected to residential users. It is a small gesture in quantitative terms, but symbolically potent in a country where public solidarity remains a valuable currency.

Looking beyond the next few weeks, Ukraine’s options narrow. In theory, the country could add up to 2 gigawatts of capacity through gas-fired piston engines and cogeneration plants. To put that in perspective, four simultaneous rounds of consumer restrictions mean a deficit of around 4 gigawatts. Even a partial build-out would help.

President Volodymyr Zelensky had set a target of building 1 gigawatt of such capacity in 2024. It was an ambitious goal, and it was missed. Manufacturing gas engines takes time. More importantly, private companies lacked financial incentives. Producing electricity from gas costs at least UAH 5 (USD 0.12) per kilowatt-hour, while household tariffs are fixed at UAH 4.32. Selling at a loss is not an attractive business model, even in wartime.

The government had planned competitive tenders for 700 megawatts of new capacity, but these never materialised. Only in early December did the cabinet introduce regulatory changes to revive the process. Meanwhile, some cogeneration units donated to municipalities on grant terms have yet to be connected to the grid at all. A review of these idle assets, followed by their integration into critical infrastructure, could at least prevent total collapse during a major blackout.

Losing it

All of this underscores a sobering reality. Ukraine’s energy system is losing resilience faster than it is regaining it. Each Russian strike pushes recovery further into the future. Even if officials succeed in easing blackout schedules temporarily, no one seriously expects a return to stable, round-the-clock electricity before the end of the winter heating season.

For Ukrainians, this has become part of the war’s grim arithmetic. Hours of light are counted and planned for. Washing machines hum at odd times. Laptops charge whenever the grid permits. The irony is hard to miss: a country fighting for its future in the digital age now measures daily life in kilowatt-hours.

Yet there is also defiance in the darkness. The grid still functions, however precariously. Engineers keep repairing, households keep adapting, and the system, bruised but unbroken, keeps delivering just enough power to get through another day. In Ukraine this winter, electricity is not merely energy. It is endurance, rationed but resolute.

The Classroom as Refuge: How Ukraine’s Universities Became an Unexpected Mobilisation Loophole

eastern brief — Fri, 05 Dec 2025 13:02:03 GMT

During the war, Ukraine’s universities became an unexpected refuge for draft-dodgers. Hundreds of thousands of students over 25 enrolled — often without exams, attending no classes, or even paying bribes. Despite expulsions and criminal probes, the numbers remain high. Regulators now aim to reclaim education’s credibility by limiting military deferrals and ensuring that lecture halls serve learning, not loopholes.

In wartime, institutions often discover aspects of themselves they never intended to develop. Hospitals learn logistics; local governments learn triage; families learn quiet forms of resilience. Ukrainian universities, however, have learned something stranger: how to function, accidentally or otherwise, as shelters for draft-dodgers.

Since Russia’s 2022 invasion, an improbable surge of “mature students” has swept into Ukraine’s higher-education system. Before the war, the number of students over 25 lingered around 30,000. Then the invasion began — and the figure exploded to around 230,000, where it has hovered ever since. A sudden national passion for lifelong learning? Not quite. A student ID, after all, brings with it a powerful privilege: deferral from military service.

Ruslan Gurak, head of Ukraine’s State Service of Education Quality, has spent the past two years peering into the system’s darker corners. “We saw an atypical spike in 25+ (when men become eligible for conscription) enrolment across all levels of education,” he says. That spike prompted a series of ad hoc inspections. What regulators uncovered was not merely opportunistic behaviour by frightened young men, but a network of vulnerabilities — some benign, some corrupt, and some so absurd that they border on satire.

Take the case of the Kyiv university where admissions staff received one hundred identical application essays. Each letter proclaimed, “I am a female athlete passionate about freestyle wrestling,” yet every single one was signed by a man in his mid-twenties. As Gurak puts it, “It would be funny if the implications weren’t so serious.” It was 2022, when emergency rules allowed applicants to skip standard entrance tests and apply solely on the basis of such letters. That temporary rule, introduced to stabilise the system in wartime, quickly became the stuff from which loopholes are built.

Cracking down on abuse has not been simple. Parliament has tightened the rules for universities: those earning a second degree no longer qualify for draft deferral, and entrance exams for master’s programmes are now mandatory again. The effect was immediate: applications by older students to bachelor’s and master’s tracks dipped modestly. But colleges — less glamorous, cheaper, and crucially untouched by the legislative changes — became the new safe harbour. Institutions that once struggled to fill a classroom now host hundreds of “students” whose main academic ambition is to avoid the front line.

In some colleges, the distortions are staggering. One institution of 700 students included 600 aged over 25, almost all admitted in the space of a single academic year. Some had never taken an entrance exam. Others were admitted without the military-registration documents legally required for any male applicant. The trick was simple: get accepted first, visit the military office later, pay a fine for late registration, and present oneself as a student already entitled to deferral.

Ukrainian regulators have tried pulling several levers at once. Around 50 institutions have faced inspections. Eight criminal investigations are under way. Deans and rectors have been detained; two institutions face licence revocation; and roughly 50,000 students have been expelled for irregularities. Yet the 25+ population remains stubbornly high — proof that in wartime, administrative pressure alone rarely changes incentives.

The most troubling findings reveal the complicity, whether active or passive, of educational staff. In one striking case in the Ternopil region, a college director created a special programme exclusively for older students and hired 20 “teachers” who themselves obtained draft deferrals by virtue of their phantom employment. Investigators found no teaching responsibilities, no class schedules, no coursework — just salaries. The director, according to Gurak, “received illegal benefits,” a bureaucratic euphemism for bribes. Charges are now before the courts.

Yet corruption is not the whole story. Some faculty were simply unaware. In one institution under investigation, 170 older students existed on paper in a single “group,” overseen by a lone academic coordinator. Many lecturers had never seen them; their signatures in grade books were later judged likely forged. The system had developed a shadow population, invisible except on documents that pushed everyone one step closer to breach of duty.

If this looks like a story of moral collapse, it also reveals unexpected pockets of integrity. Inspectors found a Kyiv master’s programme in which all five students over 25 attended classes diligently and participated in online coursework with enthusiasm. All five turned out to be demobilised soldiers. Genuine learners do exist — and they put the ghost students to shame.

Policy reform, unsurprisingly, is next on the agenda. Gurak argues that Ukraine must allow adults to study regardless of age but decouple education from indefinite protection from mobilisation. “Everyone should have the right to learn,” he insists, “but the right to deferral cannot be unlimited.” His proposal: set a maximum age — 25, 27, or perhaps 30 — beyond which studying no longer provides an automatic shield from the draft. The message is blunt: if you have a legitimate obligation to serve, you must fulfil it; education can pause and resume, but national defence cannot.

Such changes would not only close loopholes but also restore confidence in a higher-education system that has been tarnished. The problem is not merely bureaucratic. It touches questions of fairness at a time when tens of thousands of Ukrainians are risking their lives. It also exposes how corruption adapts to new circumstances, finding opportunity in every gap the law leaves unattended.

Learning to hide

Universities, for their part, face a reputational reckoning. Many rectors cooperated readily once shown the evidence; some created internal commissions, expelled illegitimate students, and tightened oversight. Others preferred rose-tinted reports — prompting regulators to visit in person. In wartime, the line between autonomy and accountability grows thin.

Ukraine is fighting two battles: one against a foreign aggressor, another against the habits of informal privilege that have long weakened its institutions. Education was never meant to be part of the mobilisation infrastructure, but in wartime everything becomes part of national resilience. As Gurak notes, “This is not only about defending the country. It is also about defending the credibility of higher education itself.”

The lecture halls of Ukraine will continue to fill with students of all ages. The question is whether they will be there to learn — or merely to hide.

Language in Schools: Progress, Potholes, and Perception

eastern brief — Mon, 01 Dec 2025 13:03:03 GMT

Ukrainian dominates classrooms, but hallways and homes tell a different story. Only 18% of Kyiv students speak exclusively Ukrainian at breaks, and online habits often favor other languages. While enthusiasm for learning and cultural content is high, the real challenge is making the language a natural part of daily life — spoken, shared, and reinforced beyond school walls.

In April and May 2025, over 35,000 participants from Ukrainian schools across the country — students, parents, and teachers — took part in a nationwide survey tracking the state of the Ukrainian language in education. On the surface, the numbers look reassuring: Ukrainian is the official language, lessons are overwhelmingly conducted in it, and there are encouraging signs of its growing use outside the classroom. Dig a little deeper, however, and the picture is more nuanced, and arguably more troubling.

Take Kyiv, for instance. It is the country’s cultural and administrative nerve center and, since the start of the war, a magnet for displaced families. One might expect this convergence of Ukrainians from across the country to create a linguistic melting pot strongly favoring the national tongue. Yet only 18% of schoolchildren speak exclusively Ukrainian during breaks. That is not a minor statistic; it is a striking reminder that, for many, Ukrainian remains a school-time language rather than a living vernacular. Outside the classroom, the social fabric — family habits, peer groups, and the digital sphere — continues to exert a powerful gravitational pull toward Russian or a mixed code.

Despite this, official reports have tended to highlight the good news. Kyiv scores highly on measures of increased usage: nearly half of students report speaking Ukrainian more often, along with 63% of parents and 48% of teachers. Across the country, the figures are slightly lower but still positive. These trends are real, yet they risk painting a rosier picture than the everyday experience suggests. For example, informal usage by teachers outside lessons has increased in eastern, central, and southern regions by 16–17%, but in Kyiv itself it has fallen by 7%. Meanwhile, only 29% of parents in the capital speak exclusively Ukrainian at home, and just 33% do so at work. The classroom, it seems, is not enough.

It is worth emphasizing that Ukrainian-language instruction in schools is largely uncompromised. Ninety-four percent of parents believe teachers deliver lessons exclusively in Ukrainian, a view corroborated by teachers themselves at 97%. Here, the state’s language policy is functioning as intended: the formal educational environment is robust. But the informal environment — the hallways, playgrounds, social networks, and living rooms where children spend most of their time — is a different story. Students’ exposure to Ukrainian outside school remains limited, and the influence of family and digital media continues to constrain language adoption.

Social media, in particular, is a double-edged sword. Young people are heavy consumers of digital content, and the share of students primarily using Ukrainian-language online resources has fallen from 71% two years ago to just 54% today. Here, the official optimism of annual reports meets the stubborn reality of habit formation. Language is not just about grammar and vocabulary; it is a social practice embedded in daily routines. If those routines remain anchored in Russian or a mixed code, formal instruction alone cannot drive long-term change.

At the same time, there is a demonstrable appetite for more. Nearly 60% of students and 72% of parents express a desire to improve their Ukrainian proficiency. Around 82–83% of parents and teachers support expanding Ukrainian-language courses, extracurricular clubs, and online resources. In other words, the demand side is present and engaged; the question is whether supply — both formal and informal — can meet it.

Even cultural products appear to influence attitudes. For the first time, the survey asked students about Ukrainian-language dubbing of films. Sixty-three percent responded positively, with many citing it as an important tool for cultural and linguistic immersion. Adults mirrored this view: 70% of teachers and 59% of parents approved. This suggests that language adoption is as much about attractiveness and cultural legitimacy as it is about legality or policy. When Ukrainian feels natural, enjoyable, and socially reinforced, usage rises; when it feels prescriptive, imposed, or peripheral, adoption stalls.

The regional picture adds further complexity. Informal Ukrainian usage is growing faster in eastern, central, and southern regions than in Kyiv, while Kyiv shows some stagnation. This may reflect a combination of demographic shifts, local social norms, and the sheer density of multilingual urban environments. Across the country, students, parents, and teachers increasingly report using Ukrainian more frequently, but the gains are incremental, uneven, and often fragile.

Underlying many of these patterns are structural and cultural factors that no survey can immediately resolve. Family language habits are deeply entrenched: 35% of students report that Russian dominates at home. Insufficient proficiency and peer pressure create additional barriers, as does indifference or outright bias toward the state language in certain social circles. Schools can provide instruction and encouragement, but they cannot substitute for the everyday linguistic environment. Language is lived, not merely taught.

This gap between formal instruction and informal practice is crucial. It highlights the difference between compliance and assimilation. Ukrainian law may require lessons to be delivered in the national language, and schools dutifully comply. But for the language to thrive, it must permeate the spaces where students spend most of their waking hours: with friends, at home, and online. Without these reinforcing environments, gains remain fragile.

There are, however, grounds for cautious optimism. The data show that some students are already shifting their habits, parents are increasingly supportive, and teachers are taking steps to model usage beyond the classroom. Cultural products, courses, and online platforms offer promising avenues for reinforcement. But these successes coexist with worrying trends: falling consumption of Ukrainian digital content, entrenched Russian-language home environments, and urban centers where informal use stagnates.

In interpreting these findings, it is tempting to cheer every statistic that shows improvement. Yet, the real story seems more subtle: policy is necessary but not sufficient, compliance is not the same as adoption, and official optimism can mask persistent societal inertia. For language planners, educators, and policymakers, the challenge is to bridge the gap between the classroom and the wider world. It is one thing to require Ukrainian on the syllabus; it is another to make it the default language of daily life.

This tension also speaks to a broader truth about nation-building: language is both instrument and symbol. In Ukraine’s current context—amid war, displacement, and cultural resilience—the promotion of Ukrainian carries existential weight. It is not just a pedagogical issue but a statement of identity, unity, and self-determination. Yet identity cannot be decreed; it must be lived. Without consistent reinforcement in the family, social, and digital spheres, even the most diligent school system cannot fully instill it.

To be clear, this is not a critique of Ukrainian schools or teachers. On the contrary, the data suggest that formal instruction is impressively robust. The educators are performing their task well, often in challenging circumstances. The challenge lies in creating a supportive social ecosystem that allows language habits to extend naturally from the classroom into everyday life. This requires multi-pronged strategies: expanded extracurricular opportunities, culturally engaging content, family support initiatives, and thoughtful guidance on digital media consumption.

Ultimately, the measure of success will not be a statistic in a report or a headline in Kyiv’s press. It will be the quiet, ordinary moments that signal genuine adoption: a group of friends conversing in Ukrainian at recess, a family choosing the state language at home, a teenager browsing social media primarily in Ukrainian. These everyday choices, aggregated across the population, will define the true trajectory of the language.

A partial success story

In sum, the 2025 monitoring reveals a story of partial success, persistent gaps, and complex dynamics. Ukrainian is entrenched in classrooms, and there is growing interest and positive sentiment toward its wider use. Yet significant barriers — home environments, digital content habits, and peer norms — continue to limit its penetration into daily life. Policymakers, educators, and cultural institutions can take pride in what has been achieved, but the work is far from complete.

Language is never just grammar or vocabulary; it is culture, identity, and habit. For Ukraine, the stakes are high: the state language is a thread that binds people together, a marker of resilience, and a tool for nationhood. Ensuring that it moves beyond policy into practice will require persistence, creativity, and realism. And perhaps a little irony: even in a country that has longed so hard for its independence, the battle for language loyalty often plays out not on the frontlines but in hallways, living rooms, and TikTok feeds.

A Nuclear Power Play: Corruption, Politics, and the Price of Transparency

eastern brief — Tue, 18 Nov 2025 13:02:45 GMT

Even amid war, Ukraine cannot escape graft. The Energoatom scandal — $100 million allegedly siphoned from the state energy giant — tangles politicians, executives, and figures close to the president. Kyiv now faces a delicate test: prosecute the powerful without unraveling political credibility, safeguard energy security, and convince the world that corruption, unlike the story, has no legs.

In the middle of a war that has gripped Europe for nearly two years, Ukraine is contending with a less explosive but potentially no less consequential threat: corruption at the very heart of its energy sector. The country’s anti-corruption authorities have announced what could become one of the most audacious embezzlement cases in its recent history. Some $100 million, they claim, was siphoned from Energoatom, the state-run nuclear energy company that powers roughly half of Ukraine’s electricity. The fallout has been swift: ministers have resigned, executives have been suspended, and sanctions have been deployed against businessmen who fled to Israel.

The scandal, code-named “Midas” by the National Anti-Corruption Bureau of Ukraine (NABU), reads like a political thriller. Seven individuals have been formally charged, while five more have been detained. Among them are high-ranking officials, including the justice minister Herman Halushchenko, who until recently oversaw the energy ministry, and executives at Energoatom itself. On the business side, Timur Mindich, a co-owner of the famed comedy studio Kvartal 95 (which President Volodymyr Zelensky also used to co-own), is among those caught in the net. Mindich, who was able to escape from Ukraine just hours before the raid, has denied wrongdoing, but the very association of a public entertainment figure with the president and a nuclear corruption scandal has provided the story with a surreal, almost Kafkaesque quality.

The Anatomy of the Alleged Scheme

According to NABU, the scheme involved a network of insiders within Energoatom’s administration and their business associates. Cash, allegedly laundered through various channels, reportedly passed through offices associated with the suspects. The bureau even published snippets of audio recordings purportedly showing the flow of funds, including $1.2 million in U.S. dollars and nearly €100,000 in cash handed to a former deputy prime minister identified only by the pseudonym “Che Guevara” (allegedly Olexiy Charnyvshov).

The financial scale of the alleged embezzlement is striking, especially for a nation already under enormous fiscal strain due to war. Yet it is the symbolic dimension that has drawn attention abroad: a state-owned company critical to national infrastructure allegedly exploited while Ukraine simultaneously appeals to Western donors for billions in military and economic aid.

Political Reverberations

The domestic political impact has been immediate. President Volodymyr Zelensky removed Halushchenko and the current energy minister, Svitlana Hrynchuk, from his national security council, effectively sidelining two of the government’s most senior figures. Resignations followed, while the parliament is scheduled to formally approve the ministers’ departures.

And yet, in a country accustomed to political turbulence, the president has sought to frame the scandal as evidence of the integrity of Ukraine’s institutions rather than of governmental failure. Zelensky has insisted that those accused will be held accountable, and he has emphasized that the temporary removal of officials is a prudent, legally appropriate step. His administration’s messaging is clear: the country is serious about cracking down on corruption, even among its most senior officials.

Zelensky has been quick to assert his detachment from the Energoatom scandal, portraying himself as a crusader against corruption rather than a passive observer. Yet the optics are awkward. Several key figures under investigation, most notably Timur Mindich, are former business associates from the president’s comedy studio, Kvartal 95. While there has been no evidence so far that Zelensky personally benefited or played a role, in a country where business, politics, and personal networks often blur, even a faint association can be politically combustible. For a wartime leader trying to reassure both citizens and international partners, it is a reminder that reputation is as fragile as it is vital.

International Reactions

Abroad, reactions have been both supportive and scrutinizing. The European Union and the International Monetary Fund have underscored the importance of a robust, independent anti-corruption infrastructure in Ukraine, linking effective governance to continued financial support and eventual European integration. “It is a signal that independent institutions in Ukraine are functioning and that corruption is not tolerated, even at the highest levels,” noted Katarina Maternova, EU ambassador to Kyiv.

Similarly, the IMF stressed that a credible fight against corruption is essential to protect state resources and improve the business climate. For foreign investors, these developments could be both reassuring and unnerving: reassuring because the mechanisms of accountability appear to be operational; unnerving because they lay bare the depth of the challenges Ukraine faces.

Legal Maneuvers and the Machinery of Justice

The judicial response has been rapid. The country’s anti-corruption court has already imposed preventive measures on several of the accused, ranging from multi-million-hryvnia bail to pre-trial detention. Smaller figures, such as Lyudmyla Zorina, who allegedly worked in Energoatom’s so-called “back office” to legalize funds, face custody or bail of up to UAH 12 million (USD $330,000). For others, including former advisors and executives, the sums involved in bail reflect the extraordinary scale of the alleged embezzlement.

Meanwhile, audits have been launched across Ukraine’s state-owned enterprises. Officials have indicated that these audits could lead to further resignations and restructuring, signaling a potential overhaul of governance at Energoatom and other critical entities. In a subtle but pointed reminder of the stakes, Zelensky has linked these reforms to both the country’s economic stability and the credibility of its anti-corruption regime.

The Odd Intersection of Entertainment and Energy

One of the more eyebrow-raising elements of the case is Timur Mindich’s involvement. Best known as a co-owner of Kvartal 95, the comedy studio that catapulted Zelensky from comedian to president, Mindich now finds himself entwined in a scandal involving nuclear power and state finances. While his studio’s content and operations remain untouched, the association underscores a broader reality: in Ukraine, business, politics, and culture are often inextricably linked, for better or worse.

This intersection also offers a cautionary tale for international observers. Corruption is rarely confined to the shadowy corridors of government ministries; it often spans sectors, personal networks, and even the public sphere. Ukraine’s willingness to pursue high-profile figures — regardless of fame or political connections — sends a signal that no one is above scrutiny.

Strategic Implications

Energoatom is not just any utility; it is the linchpin of Ukraine’s electricity supply and a symbol of national resilience. Any compromise in its management, whether real or perceived, has immediate consequences for energy security, investor confidence, and public trust. The timing of the scandal — during a period of war and international scrutiny — magnifies its significance. Western partners, already weighing massive financial and military aid packages, are closely watching whether Ukraine can maintain transparency and the rule of law even under extraordinary pressures.

A Test of Institutions

The unfolding events offer a test of Ukraine’s institutional resilience. Its anti-corruption agencies, sponsored by the West, have acted decisively, signaling that enforcement is possible even amid crises. At the same time, the political management of the scandal — resignations, public statements, and parliamentary approvals — reflects the tightrope the government must walk between transparency and stability.

For Ukraine, the stakes are not merely legal or financial. They are deeply symbolic: in a country striving for European integration and international credibility, the ability to police high-level corruption is a measure of legitimacy, both domestically and abroad. The Energoatom case, for all its sordid details, may ultimately be judged less for the misappropriated funds than for how the nation responds.

Adaptable Corruption

The rapidly developing Energoatom scandal is a reminder that even in wartime, corruption does not vanish — it merely adapts. Ukraine now faces a test: can its institutions root out wrongdoing when it creeps close to the politically powerful — or even into the president’s own orbit?

The legal and political drama offers the world a rare glimpse of Kyiv fighting an unconventional front: the struggle to safeguard governance integrity. How the crisis is handled — balancing accountability with the awkward optics of Zelensky’s personal and professional networks — will say as much about the country’s institutional resilience as it does about its commitment to energy security and public trust.

Judging by the pace of developments and the high-profile names involved, it seems this story has legs.

Dragons and Bears: Ukraine’s Cultural Battlefields

eastern brief — Mon, 17 Nov 2025 13:03:32 GMT

Winter may be coming in Westeros, but in Ukraine, the real ice wall is a streaming ban. Entire seasons vanish because of one actor’s past choices, while Russian cartoons continue to entertain — and enrich — the very country Ukraine is defending itself against.

In Ukraine, dragons can get you banned — but bears can still enrich a foreign treasury. The country recently removed the fourth season of Game of Thrones from local streaming platforms, not because of any plotline, but because a Russian actor appeared in a minor role. Meanwhile, the Russian cartoon Masha and the Bear, still much popular among Ukrainian children, continues to generate advertising revenue for Moscow. The inconsistency highlights a paradox at the heart of cultural policy in wartime: symbolic gestures often outweigh practical impact.

From Westeros to Kyiv

Yury Kolokolnikov, a Russian actor with dual Russian-Canadian citizenship, played Styr, the brutish leader of the Thenns in Game of Thrones. It was a small but memorable role, confined to the fourth season released over a decade ago. Fast-forward to 2025: SBU, the security service, flagged Kolokolnikov for ongoing collaboration with Russia’s state-backed film industry after the full-scale invasion of Ukraine in 2022. The culture ministry promptly added him to the national security blacklist. Ukrainian streaming services complied, removing the season entirely.

Critics and fans lament the loss. The fourth season of Game of Thrones is widely regarded as the series’ high-water mark, boasting meticulous adaptation of George R.R. Martin’s A Storm of Swords, unforgettable performances, and battle sequences that have yet to be topped. Yet in Ukraine, even peak entertainment must bow to national security concerns.

The Bear That Won’t Freeze

Meanwhile, Masha and the Bear remains easily accessible on YouTube and other platforms, despite having clear ties to Russia. The series has drawn over 800 million views from Ukraine in 2025 alone, generating substantial revenue for Animaccord, its Russian studio. Some episodes even feature overtly Soviet imagery — Masha in a tanker’s uniform, a nod to militarized nostalgia.

This raises an uncomfortable question: if the aim of cultural policy is to limit financial and symbolic support to an aggressor, why does a long-running, heavily monetized children’s show remain untouched while a brief cameo in a decade-old fantasy series triggers a ban? The answer is partly technical. Ukrainian authorities can enforce rules on domestic streaming platforms but cannot fully control global platforms like YouTube. VPNs, offshore ownership, and international licensing deals further dilute the reach of local regulations.

Symbols vs. Strategy

The Kolokolnikov case underscores a broader tension in wartime cultural policy. On one hand, banning the actor sends a clear signal: participation in Russian state-backed projects post-invasion is unacceptable. On the other, it risks turning policy into what some critics call “cultural inquisition,” where formal rules outweigh context.

Experts suggest a more nuanced approach might serve Ukraine’s goals better. Instead of imposing blanket bans simply because a Russian actor appears — even briefly — authorities could adopt a more nuanced approach, weighing several key factors. They might consider the size and significance of the actor’s role, whether the project was produced before or after the 2022 invasion, the performer’s public stance on the war, and crucially, whether the financial proceeds from the content ultimately benefit the Russian state. Such a framework would allow cultural policy to target real harm rather than symbolic presence.

Under such a system, a minor role in a decade-old fantasy series might pose minimal risk, whereas a highly monetized children’s cartoon directly funding Russian interests could be targeted more aggressively.

The Practical Limits of Cultural Control

Ukraine’s struggles mirror the challenges faced by any country attempting to decouple from a major cultural producer. After 2017, when bans on Russian social media and streaming services began, many Ukrainians turned to VPNs to bypass restrictions. Industry experts estimate roughly 10% of users routinely circumvent blockades, but for most, simple DNS-level blocking is sufficient to reduce consumption of targeted content.

Yet even rigorous enforcement within domestic platforms cannot touch global giants. The contrast between Game of Thrones and Masha and the Bear illustrates the selective—and sometimes symbolic—nature of these bans. While HBO Max, an American company, complies easily, YouTube’s global infrastructure, monetization mechanisms, and policy framework make consistent enforcement more difficult.

International Echoes

Ukraine is not alone in wrestling with cultural soft power during conflict. Baltic states, for example, have combined legal bans, audience education, and selective censorship to reduce Russian influence without hampering access to Western media. Global studios continue to profit from Russian markets, creating a structural tension between national security concerns and commercial incentives.

In 2023, when HBO announced that Serbian-Russian actor Miloš Biković would appear in The White Lotus, the Ukrainian foreign ministry intervened. Facing public outcry, HBO terminated the contract. The incident showed that international pressure, amplified by domestic audiences, can influence major studios—but enforcement remains inconsistent.

Pragmatism vs. Principle

The underlying question is one of balance. Should cultural policy prioritize symbolic gestures or pragmatic impact? Blanket bans may satisfy nationalistic impulses, but they can also penalize content that has no financial or ideological connection to Russia while leaving high-risk content untouched.

A more refined approach would target the flow of money rather than the presence of a Russian face. In this scenario, Ukrainian authorities could allow historical performances by Russian actors while blocking content whose revenue directly funds the Russian state. Such a strategy aligns with the broader goal of cutting financial support for aggression without collateral damage to Ukraine’s cultural consumption.

Building Better Walls

Ukraine’s experience suggests that cultural “walls” are only as strong as their design. Legal frameworks, international cooperation, and careful monitoring of financial flows are more effective than symbolic bans alone. Streamlined procedures for identifying end beneficiaries, transparency in licensing deals, and audience engagement can all enhance impact.

At the same time, Ukraine faces a structural challenge: domestic production cannot yet meet audience demand, meaning foreign content—some of it Russian—continues to fill the gap. Without robust alternatives, selective bans risk frustration, legal loopholes, and the perception that cultural policy is inconsistent or capricious.

Beyond Dragons and Bears

The disappearance of Game of Thrones from Ukrainian streaming platforms is more than a quirky footnote in the cultural war against Russia. It is a lens through which to examine the complexity of balancing principle, pragmatism, and enforcement in a globalized media environment. Symbols matter, but they must be weighed against effectiveness. Otherwise, the very walls meant to protect national culture may end up looking more like fragile ice than iron.

Winter is coming, indeed—but in Kyiv, the challenge is not merely holding back fantasy invaders. It is building real walls that block money, influence, and propaganda, while still letting citizens enjoy culture. And that, perhaps, is a fight even Jon Snow would envy.

Lingua Franca Wars: When Grammar Becomes Geopolitics

eastern brief — Sat, 15 Nov 2025 13:02:05 GMT

Ukraine’s latest “language war” erupted over a government plan to drop Russian from a Council of Europe charter protecting minority tongues. Officials called it a mere translation fix; critics saw political erasure. After EU pushback, Kyiv froze the bill—revealing how language, identity, and geopolitics remain inseparably tangled in Ukraine’s struggle between nationalism and European integration.

In Ukraine, few things ignite passions like the question of language. Over the past decade, the debate over whether Ukrainian or Russian should dominate public life has evolved from a cultural argument into a proxy for sovereignty, identity, and loyalty. The latest chapter — a seemingly technical dispute over the translation of a Council of Europe charter — has again revealed just how combustible the issue remains.

At the centre of the storm lies the European Charter for Regional or Minority Languages, a well-meaning Council of Europe instrument designed to protect linguistic diversity across the continent. Kyiv ratified the Charter in 2003, extending its protections to 13 languages spoken in Ukraine — among them, Russian. That inclusion has always irritated advocates of total Ukrainization — the push to make Ukrainian not only the state language, but the dominant one in every sphere of public life.

Now, the government of Prime Minister Yuliya Svyrydenko has tried to “correct” what it calls a mistranslation of the Charter’s title and scope. The proposal would subtly change the Ukrainian version from “regional languages or languages of national minorities” to “regional or minoritarian languages” — a linguistic sleight of hand that, not coincidentally, would remove Russian from the list of protected tongues. The official explanation? The previous translation, allegedly made from Russian rather than English or French, distorted the original meaning.

In normal times, such semantic tinkering would barely register beyond the philological community. But Ukraine, after nearly a decade of war and a relentless campaign of cultural self-definition, is not living in normal times. The proposed amendment set off a political chain reaction — only for the Cabinet itself to abruptly pull the bill from parliament’s agenda in mid-October, citing “procedural reasons.”

For the hawks of language policy, this looked like betrayal. Mykyta Poturayev, a lawmaker from President Volodymyr Zelensky’s Servant of the People party and head of the parliamentary committee on humanitarian policy, fumed publicly that “Moscow has found unexpected allies in Brussels and Strasbourg.” According to Poturayev, anonymous “experts” from the Council of Europe had pressured Ukrainian officials to shelve the reform, warning that limiting the list of protected languages could stall Kyiv’s EU accession process.

That, he said, was nothing short of blackmail.

The semantics of sovereignty

The European Charter is, in principle, a harmless piece of multicultural boilerplate: it commits signatories to safeguard the languages of small communities that “traditionally inhabit a specific territory.” But in Ukraine, every comma of the Charter has acquired geopolitical weight.

The current law applies its provisions to a dozen minority languages, including Polish, Hungarian, Romanian, Crimean Tatar — and Russian. The latter, while far from endangered, remains the mother tongue of millions. Yet its official recognition has long been anathema to more nationally-minded figures who view linguistic diversity not as cultural wealth, but as a vulnerability — a crack through which Moscow might pry.

Under former President Petro Poroshenko, laws on education and media restricted the use of Russian in public life, sparking protests from minority groups and diplomatic notes from Hungary and Romania. The Charter offered, at least on paper, a legal shield for Russian speakers, though Kyiv’s courts and ministries often chose to ignore it. Removing Russian from that framework would formalise what has already been policy in practice: linguistic hierarchy by design.

Still, the government’s retreat from the amendment suggests a certain nervousness. For one thing, Brussels has made clear that language rights fall under the broader European acquis on minority protection — and any backsliding could complicate accession talks. For another, some within the ruling party worry that provoking a new “language war” while the country remains under bombardment would be a gift to populists.

Translating politics

The government’s justification for the change rests on what might be called lexical patriotism. Officials argue that the Ukrainian text of the Charter was mistranslated from Russian back in the 1990s, introducing the phrase “national minorities” where the original English says “minorities” or “minoritarian.” This, they claim, shifted the Charter’s intent from protecting languages to protecting ethnic groups. The correction, they insist, is merely a return to linguistic purity — nothing political about it.

That explanation has not convinced many linguists. As several Ukrainian scholars have pointed out, the word “minority” in English can indeed denote ethnic or cultural groups. More awkwardly for the government, the 1992 translation bears the stamp of the Ukrainian foreign ministry’s own legal department, which certified that it was made directly from the English version.

In short, the “mistranslation” argument looks less like philology and more like politics by other means. Changing one adjective would allow Kyiv to rewrite not only the Charter’s Ukrainian title but also the domestic laws that reference it — neatly excising Russian from official recognition.

Brussels whispers, Kyiv hesitates

Poturayev’s claim that “anonymous European bureaucrats” intervened may sound conspiratorial, but there is likely a grain of truth. For the European Union, linguistic repression is an awkward look — especially when courting the moral high ground against Russia. EU officials have quietly urged Kyiv to keep minority protections intact, reminding Ukrainian negotiators that enlargement is contingent on adherence to Council of Europe standards.

Whether this amounts to “blackmail” is debatable. But the timing is revealing. Reports have circulated in Kyiv that a draft EU–Ukraine “peace framework,” still unpublished, contains language about “mutual respect for linguistic, cultural, and religious diversity.” That phrasing has already triggered alarm among hardline Ukrainian language activists, who suspect it might foreshadow Western pressure to soften the country’s cultural policies as part of a future settlement with Moscow.

Zelensky himself has denied seeing any such document. Still, the rumour has been enough to set off another round of recriminations among politicians who see any mention of the Russian language as a slippery slope to capitulation.

Between Europe and eternity

The irony, of course, is that Zelensky — a native Russian speaker who switched to Ukrainian only as a public figure — appears personally indifferent to linguistic orthodoxy. His political instincts are pragmatic: he values national unity and international support above ideological purity. For him, language is an instrument, not a creed.

Yet he governs a country where symbols matter, and where “language” functions as shorthand for a host of anxieties about history, identity, and geopolitical orientation. To his nationalist critics, any concession to Russian, however symbolic, risks undermining the very essence of post-Maidan Ukraine. To his Western backers, rigid monolingualism looks parochial and illiberal. To the average citizen, it is often just tiresome.

Recent surveys by Ukraine’s State Service for Education Quality hint at a quieter reality beneath the polemics: the campaign for total Ukrainization is faltering. Even in Kyiv’s schools, teachers and pupils alike revert to Russian outside formal settings. According to the study, 24% of teachers speak Russian during lessons, 40% during breaks; among pupils, the figures rise to 66% and 82% respectively. Across the country, barely one in five students claims to use Ukrainian exclusively.

The implication is awkward for both sides. For the nationalists, it undermines the notion that Ukrainians have spontaneously embraced linguistic purity. For the Kremlin, it complicates the narrative of a persecuted Russian-speaking majority. In reality, bilingualism persists as the default mode of life, especially in urban centres — not out of ideology, but habit, even if legally repressed.

War of words, and worlds

Still, symbols have power. Removing Russian from the Charter might please some domestic constituencies, but it risks alienating others — and would provide Moscow with fresh talking points about Ukraine’s “oppression of the Russian language.” Conversely, retaining Russian in the Charter enrages nationalists who see every clause of accommodation as a betrayal of the fallen.

Hence the government’s tactical retreat. By shelving the bill, Kyiv buys time — to reassure Brussels, to placate the cultural right, and perhaps to wait for a more convenient political moment. Yet the broader dilemma remains: how to reconcile a wartime drive for national consolidation with the postwar imperative of European integration.

If and when peace negotiations resume, language will inevitably reappear on the agenda. Moscow’s vague demand for “denazification” has always included, in its own warped lexicon, the restoration of Russian linguistic rights. Western mediators, desperate for any formula that might end the fighting, may well press Kyiv to compromise — at least symbolically.

In that context, today’s translation quarrel could become tomorrow’s diplomatic bargaining chip.

The last word

For all its passion, Ukraine’s language debate is ultimately less about words than about the political order they signify. Languages are not endangered species to be placed under glass; they are living instruments of power, memory, and belonging. Kyiv’s attempt to legislate its way into linguistic uniformity may be emotionally satisfying, but it risks substituting coercion for confidence.

In the long run, nations that feel secure in their identity rarely need to police their tongues. Ukraine, embattled yet determined, is still learning that lesson. Whether it chooses to spell “minority” with or without the “national” prefix may matter less than whether it can make peace — with its neighbours, and with its own polyglot self.

The Cultural Tug-of-War Over Animated Legacy: How Russia Co-Opted Ukraine’s Iconic Cartoons

eastern brief — Thu, 30 Oct 2025 13:02:47 GMT

Soviet-era animated films, originally produced by Ukrainian studio Kyivnaukfilm, are increasingly being claimed as Russian cultural heritage. Works like Captain Vrungel and Treasure Island, despite their clear Ukrainian origins, are often presented as Russian, erasing Ukraine’s cultural contributions. Legal complexities, lack of official Ukrainian versions, and geopolitical tensions complicate efforts to reclaim these iconic animations as part of Ukraine’s national identity.

In today’s digital age, where content can spread faster than a viral tweet, it’s no surprise that cultural battles are now waged in pixels, bytes, and screen grabs. But the tug-of-war over cultural ownership isn’t always straightforward. One particularly strange and growing front in this battle centers on Soviet-era animated classics — originally created in Ukraine — that are now being presented as Russian heritage.

Consider a recent social media scenario: After a long day, you pull out your phone and scroll through your feed. You stumble across a widely shared clip of a cheerful doctor from an animated Treasure Island, grinning as he advises a bedridden pirate to quit drinking, declaring that “rum and death are one and the same.” You then read through the comments and see phrases like “Russian cartoon,” “Made in Russia.” But wait — this particular animation, like many others from the Soviet era, was actually produced by Ukrainian animators.

This is far from an isolated incident, some Ukrainians worry. In fact, it highlights a broader issue: how Russia has steadily appropriated iconic Ukrainian animation classics, rebranding them as part of its own cultural legacy. But how did this happen, and why should it matter? Let’s delve into the history of Kyivnaukfilm, the studio behind these films, and explore how these cultural works became entangled in the geopolitical conflicts of the post-Soviet world.

Kyivnaukfilm: The Birth of Ukrainian Animation

Kyivnaukfilm was established in January 1941, taking over from the Ukrainian State Film Studio, which had been the Soviet Union’s answer to Hollywood. Although the studio was thrust into the chaotic years of Nazi occupation, it eventually resumed production, specializing in documentary films in the post-war period.

But by the late 1950s, Kyivnaukfilm had also created a thriving animation department, Ukranimafilm, which would go on to produce some of the most beloved animated works of the Soviet era. Films like How Cossacks… (Volodymyr Dakhno), Capitochka (Natalka Guzyieva), Doctor Aybolit (David Cherkasky), and Treasure Island (also Cherkasky) became ingrained in Soviet childhoods, offering an unmistakable flavor of Ukrainian artistic ingenuity.

Yet, with the fall of the Soviet Union, these animated gems, products of Ukrainian creativity, began to fade into the background. Today, many of them are labeled merely as “Soviet” or, more controversially, “Russian.” And this is where the problem arises — what was originally created as part of a shared Soviet cultural legacy is now being recontextualized, with some claiming it as a hallmark of Russian cultural identity.

The Case of David Cherkasky

David Cherkasky, perhaps Kyivnaukfilm’s most notable director, is emblematic of this phenomenon. Trained as an architect before turning to animation, Cherkasky brought a distinctive vision to his films, combining Western cinematic genres with Soviet animation styles. His 1976 series Adventures of Captain Vrungel, the first animated series in the Soviet Union, infused slapstick humor with elements of action, Westerns, and even thriller genres — an unconventional mix for a children’s cartoon.

Despite the series’ clear Ukrainian origin, Captain Vrungel is often touted by Russian sources as a purely Soviet, and by extension, Russian, creation. The same is true for Treasure Island (1988), another of Cherkasky’s masterpieces. Though it was based on Robert Louis Stevenson’s novel, the film’s distinctive Ukrainian animation style and its quirky, irreverent characters set it apart. It was, and remains, a cultural milestone in the history of Soviet-era animation. Yet, today it is increasingly being labeled as Russian — simply because it was created under Soviet auspices and broadcast throughout the USSR.

On platforms like YouTube, for instance, segments from Captain Vrungel and Treasure Island are uploaded by Russian state-run channels, often with little mention of their Ukrainian origins. In the comments, Russian users continue to perpetuate the idea that these animated works belong to Russia, erasing the contributions of Ukrainian animators and placing these cultural products squarely within the Russian narrative.

The Legal Gray Area

The roots of this appropriation are tangled in the legal complexities of Soviet-era copyright law. When the USSR collapsed, much of the intellectual property — including films produced in the republics — was left in limbo. The Soviet Union had centralized ownership of all film and animation, meaning the state owned the rights to everything produced under its aegis. After the collapse, the Russian Federation assumed control over much of the legacy of Soviet cinema and animation, including key works produced by Ukrainian studios.

This left Ukraine in a difficult position. While Kyivnaukfilm had been the producer of these iconic works, the rights to them were still held by Soviet institutions, which were absorbed into Russian entities like Gosfilmofond (the State Film Fund of Russia). So, when Russian media claims these films as their own, they operate within a legal framework that complicates Ukraine’s ability to assert ownership, despite the films’ true origin.

It doesn’t help that many of the films were originally created in Russian — Treasure Island and Captain Vrungel included. While some works, like How Cossacks… or Capitochka, were produced in both Russian and Ukrainian versions, many others were made exclusively in Russian, leaving Ukraine without an official dubbed version. This linguistic divide has further enabled Russian state media to claim these works as part of their own cultural heritage, especially when they are broadcast or distributed internationally.

The Fight for Cultural Recognition

For Ukraine, this issue is about more than just ownership of animated films. It goes to the heart of the country’s cultural identity and its ongoing struggle to distinguish itself from Russia. These animated works are more than just childhood memories; they represent a time when Ukrainian artists were making significant contributions to Soviet and global culture. The fact that these films are now being co-opted by Russia underscores the larger geopolitical conflict between the two nations.

As film historian Alyona Penzii points out, the lack of official Ukrainian versions of these films has made it easier for Russian state-backed media to rebrand them as Russian. The absence of Ukrainian-dubbed versions means that new generations in Ukraine aren’t able to engage with these works in their native language, and international audiences are left with a skewed understanding of their origins.

Penzii’s suggestion is simple: if Ukraine wants to reclaim its animated heritage, it needs to create official Ukrainian-dubbed versions of these films. While some fan-made versions have emerged online, they are quickly taken down due to copyright violations from Russian authorities. This stifles efforts to ensure these films are seen and appreciated as part of Ukrainian cultural heritage.

There’s also a deeper issue at play: the films, while undeniably creative and influential, were products of a very different era — one in which Soviet institutions controlled much of the cultural production. Therefore, the question of who owns these works isn’t just about legal ownership. It’s about how the cultural narrative is shaped, how history is remembered, and who gets to tell the story.

But, as others point out, the question isn’t just about Russia’s appropriation of these works, but why Ukraine hasn’t more aggressively claimed them. For much of the Soviet era, cultural contributions were framed as “Soviet” rather than distinctly Ukrainian or Russian. After independence, Ukraine’s failure to prioritize reclaiming its cultural legacy allowed Russia to step in and reshape these works as part of its own identity.

Had Ukraine moved faster to celebrate and preserve these films — through better archiving, recognition, or even re-dubbing — it might have prevented Russia from seizing them as its own. The irony is that Russia, despite its political motives, has inadvertently highlighted Ukraine’s artistic contributions. It begs the question: should Ukraine now view this as a missed opportunity to reclaim its cultural heritage, while also accepting that these works are part of a shared, albeit complex, history?

Reclaiming the Narrative

The challenge for Ukraine lies in not just asserting legal ownership over these animated works but in actively rebuilding its cultural narrative. If Ukraine wants these films to be recognized as part of its heritage, it must begin the process of reclaiming them in every sense: legally, linguistically, and culturally.

One clear step would be to create new Ukrainian-language versions of these films, allowing a new generation to experience them in their original context. Beyond that, Ukraine needs to ensure that its contributions to Soviet-era culture are not erased, whether by Russia or by the passage of time.

Ultimately, the struggle over animated films like Captain Vrungel and Treasure Island is just one small part of a much larger battle. It’s a battle over cultural memory, identity, and the power to define the past. For Ukraine, it’s an ongoing fight to preserve and celebrate its rich artistic legacy, one that can no longer be dismissed or co-opted by others.

As the debate rages on, one thing is clear: the legacy of Ukrainian animation is far from forgotten, and the effort to reclaim it will continue. If anything, this cultural tug-of-war will ensure that these classic works — and their true origins — will remain firmly in the public eye for generations to come.

Silent Consent, Loud Consequences: Cultural Heritage in the Crosshairs?

eastern brief — Mon, 20 Oct 2025 12:02:15 GMT

The government has slashed permit approval times from 30 to just 10 days under martial law, fast-tracking restoration projects in its historic districts through a controversial “silent consent” rule — where silence means approval. This bold move aims to smash bureaucratic gridlock and fight corruption, but heritage defenders warn it could unleash unchecked development, threatening priceless cultural landmarks. The real test: can Ukraine speed up progress without sacrificing its rich history?

In the bustling corridors of Ukraine’s culture ministry, quiet moves have been underway — ones whose consequences are anything but quiet.

In September, the Cabinet of Ministers amended the 2022 regulation that introduced the “silent consent” principle governing permits for restoration and construction in the country’s treasured historic districts. The essence of the principle is simple but profound: if the state does not respond within a set deadline permission is granted automatically.

Under the amendment, for the duration of martial law and for one year thereafter, the state’s response time has been cut from thirty days to just ten. The seemingly technical tweak has reignited old controversies about the very propriety of the silent consent principle itself — raising fresh questions about whether accelerated automatic approvals risk sacrificing heritage preservation at the altar of bureaucratic speed.

The principle promised to cut through the notorious bureaucratic thickets that have long bedevilled developers and property owners alike. Yet, for heritage advocates and legal purists, it sounds like a siren song for neglect and abuse.

The Efficiency Argument: Cutting Through the Gordian Knot

To understand the appeal of this new regulation, one must appreciate the scale of the problem it aims to solve. Ukraine’s permit system has long been infamous for its Kafkaesque delays and labyrinthine requirements. Developers seeking to restore or rebuild in historic districts often found themselves at the mercy of unresponsive or corrupt officials, stuck in a limbo where months — or even years — passed without decision.

“The old system was a slow-motion hostage crisis,” says Anton Shevchenko, a Kyiv-based architect who frequently works on heritage projects. “You could never be sure when — or if — you’d get the necessary approvals. Sometimes, the delays felt engineered to extract informal payments.”

The new “silent consent” rule is an attempt to turn this on its head. By making inaction tantamount to approval, it aims to inject certainty and speed into the process. For property owners and developers, this is not just a bureaucratic tweak — it is a game-changer. They can move forward with their plans without being held hostage by official inertia.

In a market economy, where time literally equates to money, delays can kill projects and deter investment.

“Automatic permits reduce friction and can help revive neglected buildings faster,” argues Olena Bondarenko, a real estate lawyer in Lviv. “This isn’t about loosening heritage protections; it’s about making the system workable.”

The Preservationists’ Alarm: A Pandora’s Box

But not everyone shares this sanguine view. To heritage experts and cultural advocates, the new regulation is a ticking time bomb threatening Ukraine’s fragile historical legacy. The principle of “silent consent” may sound like a bureaucratic convenience, but it risks turning restoration projects into free-for-alls where buildings could be altered or demolished without proper oversight.

Ukraine boasts thousands of architectural gems — from golden-domed churches to elegant 19th-century townhouses. Many of these structures require careful, expert attention to preserve their character. The old permit system, cumbersome though it was, included layers of expert review and public accountability designed to prevent irreversible damage.

Mariya Kovalenko, an activist concerned with cultural heritage preservation, is blunt:

“Heritage protection is not a speed race. It is a delicate balance requiring scrutiny, transparency, and above all, expertise. If officials fail to respond, it should not mean a carte blanche for developers.”

Legal contradictions compound the problem. Existing Ukrainian laws explicitly require detailed permits and expert approvals before restoration or construction in protected areas. By bypassing these checks through silent consent, the new regulation effectively undermines established legal safeguards. Critics argue this legal vacuum will encourage a new wave of “legalized destruction,” where developers exploit bureaucratic silence to push through inappropriate or damaging projects.

The Corruption Conundrum

One of the ironies of the debate is that both supporters and opponents of the regulation agree corruption has been a major problem. The old system’s complexity and discretionary power created fertile ground for bribery and favoritism. Developers often paid for expedited reviews or favorable decisions; delays were not always accidental but sometimes engineered.

“Delays and non-responses were frequently tools of corruption,” confirms Bondarenko. “The silent consent mechanism can remove incentives for officials to drag their feet for personal gain.”

However, opponents warn that silent consent introduces a different set of corruption risks. If officials know that their inaction grants automatic approval, they might simply ignore applications or delay responses to allow unscrupulous actors to proceed unchecked. Worse, it opens the door to informal “fast-track” payments to prompt quicker official replies within the deadline, thus institutionalizing corruption in a new guise.

Kovalenko cautions:

“You cannot solve corruption by forcing officials to act — or not act — within arbitrary deadlines without strengthening oversight and accountability. Silent consent without transparency is a recipe for chaos.”

The EU Angle: Reform or Ruse?

The Ukrainian government frames the regulation as part of broader deregulatory reforms aligned with European Union requirements, particularly tied to receiving macro-financial assistance. This connection provides political cover and a veneer of international legitimacy. Yet, EU officials have reportedly expressed concern that the reform was presented as a technical compliance issue, while its cultural and legal implications were overlooked.

“The European Union supports administrative simplification,” says a Brussels-based policy analyst familiar with the issue. “But reforms must preserve the rule of law and cultural heritage. Speed without scrutiny can backfire.”

Indeed, the regulation’s rapid, opaque adoption — bypassing standard public consultations by invoking “international commitments” — has fueled suspicions that it was rushed through without due democratic process. Critics argue it exemplifies a worrying trend where international aid and reform agendas are used as cover for domestic policy experiments with questionable consequences.

A Middle Path: Balancing Efficiency and Protection

What then is to be done? Neither side offers a perfect solution. The problem is not whether reform is needed — everyone agrees that the old system was flawed — but how to balance the competing imperatives of efficiency, transparency, and cultural preservation.

One promising avenue is a compromise combining firm deadlines with mandatory expert review and public transparency. Digital platforms could automatically flag incomplete applications and ensure heritage experts have meaningful input within the timeframe. Penalties for official inaction or improper approvals would discourage bad faith delays and corruption alike.

“As a society, we need to build a permit system that is fast, fair, and foolproof,” says Shevchenko. “Silent consent without safeguards is a blunt instrument. The goal should be a scalpel, not a hammer.”

Ukraine’s cultural patrimony deserves no less than a well-calibrated approach. In an era of rapid urban development and globalized markets, heritage is both an asset and a responsibility. The current regulation, whether well-intended or not, risks turning silent consent into silent surrender.

A Universal Dilemma

Ukraine’s bold experiment with “silent consent” on restoration and construction permits reflects a universal dilemma: how to streamline governance without sacrificing accountability and cultural values. The regulation is a corrective against bureaucratic paralysis but walks a legal and ethical tightrope. In a country where history is palpably etched into city streets and monuments, any misstep risks erasing not just buildings, but collective memory itself.

As Bondarenko puts it,

“Efficiency is vital, but heritage is priceless. We must ensure that neither is sacrificed at the altar of the other.”

Whether Ukraine will find that balance remains to be seen. But the debate itself — between speed and scrutiny, development and preservation — is one that resonates far beyond Kyiv’s ancient walls.

We Sleep in Different Cities Now

Wed, 08 Oct 2025 12:02:45 GMT

As drone strikes loom overhead, strangers gather nightly in a Kyiv metro station, bound by fear, routine, and fragile hope. In this quiet underground world, love flickers beside anxiety, and silence is never safe. We Sleep in Different Cities Now is a meditation on war’s quiet gravity — and the lives that refuse to disappear beneath it.

By the time the last train hissed out of Lukyanivska Station,1 the platform had started to feel like a waiting room for the end of the world.

I unrolled my foam mat in the corner I’d claimed weeks ago — just under the emergency exit sign, between the vending machine and the granite pillar. The floor was cool, as always, and my breath echoed strangely off the tunnel walls. Somewhere beyond the escalators, the city above pretended it still knew peace.

Around me, the usual faces emerged from the shadows — the “residents,” we called ourselves. We weren’t homeless. We weren’t poor. We were just afraid. And fear has its own gravity.

Serhiy sat a few meters away, hunched over his phone, hoodie pulled up despite the late-August heat. His fingers flicked with anxious precision across the screen.

“They launched twelve Shaheds2 from Voronezh3,” he muttered without looking up. “ETA over Sumy 4 in twenty.”

I nodded. I didn’t ask how he knew. Serhiy was the kind of man who tracked air raid alerts like stock prices. In another life, I imagined he was the sort of guy who followed fantasy football with spreadsheets. Now, his fantasy league was missile telemetry.

We had met two months ago, sometime in the early hours of a quiet night. He was soft-spoken, almost polite in his paranoia. “This spot’s best,” he’d told me then, tapping the granite. “Least draft, lowest vibration from the tunnels. Close enough to an exit, but not too close to catch a blast wave.”

It wasn’t the sort of advice you forgot.

Across the platform, the family-of-four started setting up. They always arrived early — father, mother, and two teenage boys — unfolding their army-green cots in synchronized silence. No one spoke. No one had to. Their ritual had become as predictable as the chime before train arrivals.

Further down, an elderly woman wrapped in a blue headscarf sat rigid on a camp chair, plastic bags tucked at her feet like obedient dogs. Next to her, two twenty-something girls giggled softly, scrolling through something on a cracked phone. I tried not to stare, but it was always strange seeing humor here. Stranger still to hear it.

It was past midnight when the last of us trickled in. Thirty-one people, give or take. A silent, accidental community of sleepless souls.

I found myself watching the couple — the youngest among us. They couldn’t have been more than sixteen. They lay side-by-side on a shared blanket, her head on his chest, hands intertwined. They whispered too quietly to hear, but their smiles glowed in the underground half-light.

Serhiy followed my gaze. “First-timers,” he said, with a trace of a smirk. “Love, or fear. Hard to tell what drives people down here anymore.”

I leaned back against the wall and exhaled. The air tasted like damp concrete and disinfectant. A cleaning woman pushed her wide mop across the floor, humming off-key. Somewhere in the tunnels, a maintenance train groaned like an injured animal.

“I used to sleep just fine,” I said, to no one in particular.

Serhiy looked at me sideways. “Before the war?”

I shook my head. “No. Even during it. At the beginning. We’d go to the shelter during alarms, sure. But I’d still go home. Back to my bed. My books. My balcony.”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t need to.

“There was a night,” I continued, “when a missile hit an apartment building four blocks from mine. The siren hadn’t even gone off. I stood on the balcony like a fool, watching the sky flash orange, the air rippling with heat. After that… I stopped trusting silence.”

“That’s when people start coming early,” he said. “Before the alarm. Just in case the silence lies.”

We sat that way for a while, not speaking. Around us, the station settled into its nighttime rhythm — people curling into sleeping bags, dogs yawning, children being sung to in soft Ukrainian lullabies.

I thought about my husband. About how he stayed at home now, even as I left every night with my backpack and flashlight. “You’re being paranoid,” he had said. “The odds are one in a million.”

But it didn’t matter. Odds meant nothing when your body had learned to flinch at quiet.

Somewhere near 2 a.m., a woman approached our corner. She looked around forty, hair in a tight bun, backpack slung over one shoulder. Her eyes were clear, voice steady.

“Is this your first time here?” she asked me.

I blinked. “No. Third month.”

She hesitated. “You just don’t look like it.”

I almost laughed. “What does a metro resident look like?”

She didn’t answer. Just gave a faint, apologetic smile and sat down nearby, not unpacking anything.

“I used to be like you,” she said after a while. “Now I sleep here every night. My flat’s on the 18th floor. Too much sky between me and safety.”

“Your husband?”

“He sleeps at home. We’ve made our peace with the fact that we sleep in different cities now, even if they share an address.”

There was a pause. The air buzzed faintly — a neon flicker from the overheads. The woman pulled her knees to her chest.

“You know what scares me most?” she asked. “Not the noise. Not even the sirens. It’s when nothing happens. For too long. That’s when I feel the tightness in my chest. Like the war is just… holding its breath.”

I understood that too well. Peace had become a performance — something fragile, easily shattered. You never applauded it. You just watched, waiting for the curtain to fall.

At 3:20, we heard it — a far-off thud that might have been thunder, but wasn’t. Serhiy’s phone vibrated before the echo had faded.

“Ballistics. Launched from the south. Possibly Iskanders.5 No trajectory confirmed yet.”

Everyone stirred slightly. No panic. Just a low ripple of awareness — the communal sense that danger was now in motion, somewhere out there, looking for a rooftop to land on.

No one left. There was nowhere else to go.

Instead, we returned to our sleep rituals. Adjusted bags, checked phones, zipped up jackets. A few people whispered prayers. The young couple beside the vending machine kissed, their hands still tightly linked.

Time passed. No more explosions. No alarms. Maybe the missile flew elsewhere. Maybe it was intercepted. Or maybe it would land in the morning, when we were all out in the open again.

I closed my eyes and listened — not for bombs, but for the breathing around me. For the steady rhythm of life underground. Of people refusing, quietly and insistently, to disappear.

By morning, the lights came on gradually — soft at first, then harsh, like the return of reality after a long dream. The hum of escalators resumed. The first train of the day squealed into motion somewhere in the distance.

Serhiy stood and stretched, rubbing his eyes.

“362 drones launched last night,” he said. “From Voronezh, Crimea, and Luhansk.6 Two intercepted near Poltava.7 No hits here.”

“No alarms either,” I said.

He nodded. “Lucky us.”

As we packed our things, the platform buzzed with quiet movement. Sleepers turned commuters. Refugees turned neighbors. Strangers turned survivors.

We filed toward the escalators, the night behind us, the day uncertain.

At the top of the stairs, I turned around once, just for a second. The platform below looked almost normal. Almost peaceful.

And then I stepped into the city — into the sunlight, into the silence — and tried to believe, just for one breath, that the war had missed me again.

RELATED ARTICLES:

Lukyanivska Station - A Kyiv metro station in a relatively central area of the city. Its surrounding neighborhoods have been struck multiple times by Russian missiles and drone fragments, often due to the presence of industrial sites nearby. As a result, local residents tend to feel more vulnerable than in other parts of Kyiv, and the area carries a reputation — half-joking, half-serious — for being “cursed.”

Shaheds – A catch-all term commonly used in Ukraine for suicide drones, frequently deployed by Russia in attacks on infrastructure targets. The name originates from Iranian-designed Shahed drones, which serve as the basis for many of these systems.

Voronezh – A city in western Russia.

Sumy – A city in northeastern Ukraine, near the Russian border. Its location places it frequently along the flight paths of incoming drones and missiles.

Iskanders – Russian short-range ballistic missiles, known for their speed, precision, maneuverability, and destructive power. Primarily used against military targets, they generally tend to evoke less fear among civilians than drones, which are slower, noisier, and often used in prolonged attacks.

Luhansk – A city in far eastern Ukraine, currently occupied by Russian forces and used as a staging area for military operations.

Poltava – A historic city and regional center in central Ukraine. Frequently mentioned in air raid reports due to intercepted drones or missiles in the area. The region is often targeted because of its concentration of Ukraine’s oil and gas infrastructure.

A New Class War: Oligarchs, Patriots, and the Battle for the Post-War Economy

Tue, 07 Oct 2025 12:01:26 GMT

Ukraine’s post-war economy faces a fierce clash between entrenched oligarchs and a rising patriotic elite demanding change. As old business powers resist losing control, Western corporations eye key assets. This struggle isn’t just economic—it’s a battle for Ukraine’s future identity, ownership, and sovereignty amid reconstruction and shifting political tides.

In a country undergoing profound transformation, it’s easy to miss the quieter battles. Not the ones over territory or treaties, but those waged in op-eds, courtrooms, and the occasional social media dogpile. Case in point: a recent storm over an otherwise standard business interview with Serhiy Tihipko, a Ukrainian financier, ex-politician, and, some say, relic of the Yanukovych era, triggered a small earthquake in the country’s chattering classes.

To hear him speak, Tihipko, the low-profile oligarch behind the sprawling TAS Group, has a simple post-war strategy: buy cheap, modernize hard, and sell high — eventually. Speaking to Forbes Ukraine, he outlined a vision built not on flashy exits or foreign partners, but on long-term bets and disciplined capital deployment. “Are we in the game or on the bench? I’m in the game,” he said.
In 2024, TAS is investing around $140 million, with plans to raise that to $180 million next year — into everything from a railcar plant in Kovel, a strategic rail junction in northwest Ukraine, to an apple concentrate facility in Bukovina, a fertile agricultural region in the country’s southwest. His agriculture arm is expanding its land holdings to 100,000 hectares, and he’s eyeing port infrastructure to close the logistics loop for TAS’s growing agritrading business.
Banking remains core: TAS recently received approval to acquire Idea Bank, small retail bank with Polish roots, and continues to back Monobank’s (Ukraine’s flagship neobank that he co-owns) rapid growth — but he’s not looking to sell. A European investor made an offer mid-war; Tihipko walked away. “We know what Mono is worth.”
He’s allergic to government procurement and state-heavy sectors — “Don’t work with the state,” he advises flatly — and has little time for startups. Instead, he buys functioning businesses with cashflow and rebuilds them for scale.
Tihipko says patience is the entrepreneur’s most underrated skill. “We’ll wait for our time. When investors are ready to pay crazy prices — that’s when we’ll sell.” Until then, he’s staying exactly where he wants to be: in the game.

The backlash didn’t erupt because of anything Tihipko said — at least not exactly. Rather, it was because he said anything at all, and more importantly, because Forbes Ukraine dared to give him a platform. The editor-in-chief, Borys Davidenko, found himself under fire for, as critics saw it, offering PR space to a dinosaur from Ukraine’s pre-2014 past, when protesters ousted president Viktor Yanukovych.

“It’s immoral,” read one typical comment on social media. “Figures like Tihipko shouldn’t even exist in the public space.” One could be forgiven for assuming the man had called for surrender — or worse, tax reform.

Old Money, New Rules

Tihipko’s actual crime? Giving an interview about post-war investment prospects. But that, it seems, was enough to stir the pot in a Ukraine that is not only fighting off Russia, but also reimagining itself from the inside out.

For the better part of 25 years, Ukraine’s largest economic players — oligarchs, tycoons, “businessmen” in the broadest sense — managed to retain their grip on key assets despite revolutions, elections, and the occasional prison term. They were survivors, shape-shifters, pragmatists. They understood how to play the long game, cutting deals with whoever held power.

But now, for the first time since independence, that unwritten deal is fraying.

The war has elevated a new class of players: NGO activists, nationalist veterans, Western-funded media figures, and politicians with roots in civil society, not Soviet-era industry. These groups — ideologically driven and often better networked abroad than at home — view themselves as the architects of a new Ukraine. Their patience for the old elite, with its yachts, mansions, and dodgy offshore accounts, is wearing thin.

“This war is a reset,” said one prominent Ukrainian activist, speaking anonymously. “The country won’t be rebuilt by the same people who helped break it in the first place.”

Tihipko, a former deputy prime minister and campaign chief for Yanukovych’s Party of Regions, is for this crowd a symbol of everything the war should sweep away. That he has kept largely quiet for the past decade and focused on banking only makes him a quiet villain — no less dangerous, just better dressed.

Corporate Knights on the Horizon

Adding fuel to this fire is a second, less ideological but equally potent threat to Ukraine’s old business class: Western corporations.

As the reconstruction of Ukraine becomes less a policy concept and more a business strategy, U.S. and European firms are eyeing key sectors: energy, critical minerals, logistics, agribusiness. Much of that is currently in the hands of Ukrainian magnates like Rinat Akhmetov, Dmytro Firtash, Petro Poroshenko, or, yes, Serhiy Tihipko.

In this context, the vilification of oligarchs isn’t just a matter of national purification. It could also serve as ideological cover for economic transfer — from local hands to Western ones.

One especially provocative claim circulating in business circles is that the minerals deal with the U.S. could echo medieval droit du seigneur: granting American firms first dibs on key Ukrainian assets in exchange for war-time support. U.S. President Donald Trump has been directly involved in shaping such proposals.

Of course, European companies are unlikely to sit out the bonanza either.

The Patriot’s Dilemma

At the heart of this slow-boiling drama is a simple but explosive question: Who gets to own post-war Ukraine?

The Tihipko saga reveals a growing consensus among Ukraine’s emerging elite that those who profited under past regimes — especially those aligned with Yanukovych or the now-defunct Party of Regions — should not have a seat at the new table. Their assets, political influence, and media platforms are increasingly viewed as illegitimate holdovers from a bygone era.

But here lies the dilemma: Much of Ukraine’s private sector still depends on them. Their businesses produce a significant share of GDP. Their companies employ millions. In many cases, they are among the few entities still paying taxes, supplying logistics to the front, or funding National Guard units.

“These are not perfect people,” Davidenko, the Forbes editor, wrote in his own defense. “But they are people whose businesses keep this country functioning.”

Whether that will be enough to save them in the long term is unclear. The post-war balance of power may be determined not in Kyiv, but in Brussels, Washington, or at the IMF.

Courtrooms and Crosshairs

If ideology and geopolitics weren’t enough, Ukrainian oligarchs face a new legal landscape. The state has started flexing its muscles — and not just against Russia’s allies. Ihor Kolomoisky, formerly a powerful oligarch and political kingmaker once seen as untouchable, now sits in jail. Asset seizures and sanctions via the National Security and Defense Council, the president’s top security advisory body, have become more common, creating what one Kyiv lawyer described as a “legalized expropriation mechanism.”

The concern among business elites is that this same mechanism, justified by patriotism or national security, could be used to forcibly transfer assets to more ideologically acceptable (or foreign-backed) entities.

Should the rising patriotic class gain influence over the judiciary or security services — a not unrealistic scenario — then this pressure could move from political to existential.

The Real Fight Is Just Beginning

Tihipko may be a footnote. A has-been. A safe target for public outrage. But the real story is larger. Ukraine is not just rebuilding its cities or military — it is attempting to rebuild its elite. And in that process, even quiet interviews can become acts of war.

There’s an old joke in post-Soviet politics:

“You can lose a ministry and survive. But lose control of the narrative, and you’re finished.”

Right now, Ukraine’s oligarchs are struggling with both.

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Pushing Down the Past: Home-Front Activists Battle for a Truly Post-Soviet Kyiv

Sat, 04 Oct 2025 12:02:47 GMT

As Ukraine defends itself militarily, activists on the home front are waging a parallel battle to remove Soviet and Russian symbols from Kyiv’s public spaces. Despite legal mandates, over 120 relics — statues, plaques, insignias — still remain. The grassroots movement, led by projects like Decolonization.Ukraine, urges officials to act, arguing that cultural sovereignty is inseparable from national survival.

On a quiet afternoon in Kyiv, a group of activists stood beneath the archways of the City Council building, gazing up at a pair of stuccoed sickles and hammers that still cling — somewhat defiantly — to the brickwork. Their mission was clear, if not exactly glamorous: to remind a weary bureaucracy that these relics of a bygone empire are still up there, and still very much not dismantled.

Welcome to the frontlines of Ukraine’s cultural decolonization, where battles are fought not with tanks, but with petitions, legal memos, press briefings, and the occasional well-aimed Facebook post. In a war whose physical violence is taking place in trenches and skies, this is the domestic theatre of cultural politics — and for some, just as critical. If the soldiers on the front are fighting for the nation’s survival, these volunteers are fighting for its soul.

Statues, Symbols, and Stubborn Bureaucracy

The numbers, at first glance, tell a story of progress. Over the past three years, Kyiv has renamed hundreds of streets and removed many of the more offensive symbols of Soviet domination: Lenin is largely gone, Dzerzhinsky too, and several Pushkin busts have been quietly retired from public life. On paper, it might appear the job is nearly done.

But a quick walk around central Kyiv reveals just how misleading paper can be.

In Reitarska Street, nested in the capital’s historical area, hammers and sickles remain etched into ornate facades. Near Khreshchatyk, the central avenue, a red star still decorates the spire of a residential building like an ironic Christmas ornament no one has taken down since 1952. The pedestal that once held Lenin still stands, bearing a carved quote extolling the unity of the Russian and Ukrainian peoples — a message whose irony is now less subtle and more galling.

Activists complain that there are, according to city records, about 120 such objects still awaiting removal. Kyiv City Council has passed not one, but four separate resolutions since 2023 to address the issue. Yet more than half of the items designated for removal remain untouched. Some blame legal loopholes, others point to funding gaps. The more cynical suspect good old-fashioned administrative apathy, also known — locally and universally—as “it’s someone else’s problem.”

To be fair, the law doesn’t specify exact deadlines for the removals, and Kyiv officials are adept at playing for time. In their defense, managing a wartime capital is no small feat. But for Ukraine’s decolonization activists, that’s exactly the point. They argue that cultural cleanup is not a luxury reserved for peacetime — it’s an essential act of national self-definition while the war is still being fought.

The Bulgakov Question

Of all the contested monuments, one stands out: Mikhail Bulgakov, the Kyiv-born Russian writer, whose museum, statue, and memorial plaque still stand in the historic Andriyivskyy Uzviz, a steep, winding street in Kyiv’s venerable Podil district. To some, he is a literary genius with a complex identity, both Ukrainian and Russian. To others, he is an unrepentant imperial nostalgist who saw Kyiv not as a Ukrainian capital, but a provincial cousin of Moscow. In wartime Ukraine, nuance has a hard time making friends.

Supporters of the decolonization campaign compare the cult of Bulgakov in Kyiv to the lingering Pushkin statues in Odessa — a strange sort of reverence, they argue, for men who romanticized an empire that is now bombing their cities.

Still, defenders of Bulgakov resist fiercely. Some quote The Master and Margarita, others invoke artistic freedom. One can understand the impulse — removing the statue of a literary figure can feel like cultural vandalism, especially in a city that prides itself on its intellectual tradition. But activists argue that national trauma reshapes national narratives. They’re not asking Kyiv to forget Bulgakov; they’re asking it to stop memorializing him in stone and bronze.

Tanks on Display, Stars on the Roof

Then there’s the tank. It sits stubbornly on Beresteiskyi Avenue, the capital’s main artery heading west, a Soviet-era monument to martial pride, looking increasingly like an accidental parody of the very war Russia is now losing. That it remains while actual tanks are being destroyed at the front has not escaped the attention of activists.

Nearby, the Central Officers’ House of the Armed Forces is still decorated with 37 reliefs of Red Army soldiers in conical Budyonovka caps, their rigid postures frozen in ideological clarity. One might assume this is a deliberate historical exhibit — until one realizes that no such plaque exists to explain them, and no renovation has been planned.

Across the city, the picture repeats: a bust of poet Pushkin here, a bas-relief of composer Glinka there, Soviet insignia embellishing the National Medical University, and the music academy still named after Tchaikovsky, as though Ukrainian culture had simply taken a long sabbatical in the 19th century.

The city insists that some of these artifacts lie outside its jurisdiction. The Tchaikovsky Academy, for instance, falls under the culture ministry — “as if,” one activist quips, “it were located in a different Kyiv, perhaps one with better Wi-Fi and fewer bombs.”

A Map of Ghosts

What Ukraine’s decolonization movement has laid bare is how deeply the Russian imperial narrative had been woven into the public space — not only in monuments and names, but in architectural muscle memory. There are still major streets named after generals Suvorov and Rokossovsky, and smaller ones commemorating Soviet poets, mathematicians, and scientists whose biographies include little connection to Ukraine beyond the empire’s borders.

At the same time, entirely absent from Kyiv’s landscape are statues of Ukrainian historical figures like Ivan Mazepa, Simon Petliura, or Valerian Pidmohylny. For a nation remaking itself in the image of its own past, the silence is deafening.

Activists point out that this absence isn’t just symbolic — it’s pedagogical. Public monuments are how a nation teaches its story to its people. If the characters remain imported, the story does too.

A National Rewriting Project

The decolonization movement, spearheaded by the project Decolonization.Ukraine, has evolved into something of a parallel state — tracking unremoved monuments, pressuring officials, proposing alternatives. They maintain interactive maps, organize public awareness campaigns, and crowdsource reports of stubborn plaques still clinging to buildings like particularly tenacious barnacles.

They’re not alone. Cities across Ukraine — from Kharkiv to Lviv to Zaporizhzhia — are undertaking their own efforts. But Kyiv, as the capital, remains the symbolic battleground. And if Kyiv can’t clean its own house, activists warn, it sends the wrong message—not only to Ukrainians, but to the world.

Their demands are relatively modest: enforce laws on the books, finish what’s been started, rename the remaining streets, and create a public advisory body to oversee the process. A little transparency, a few cranes and chisels, and perhaps fewer reminders of totalitarian nostalgia during your morning coffee run. Says Vadym Pozdnyakov, co-founder of Decolonization.Ukraine:

“I’m confident that within a year, all of these issues can finally be resolved,”

In other words, where there is a will, there is a way.

Not Normal Times

In normal times, this might all sound pedantic. Fussing over statues and street names while a war rages could feel like rearranging the furniture during a hurricane. But in Ukraine, where identity has become the frontline, symbolic space matters.

Every Pushkin bust that stands is a metaphorical trench yet to be filled. Every hammer and sickle that clings to a building façade suggests that something of the past still clings too.

“The capital still has no monuments to many of the key figures who shaped specifically Ukrainian history,” says Pozdnyakov, listing names like Petliura, Mazepa, and Konovalets as glaring absences.

And when Russia bombs your cities while insisting you’re part of its “historical unity,” the decision to remove a Soviet emblem becomes more than cosmetic. It becomes existential. For a nation reinventing itself through resistance, who gets remembered — and who doesn’t — is hardly a neutral question.

Still, some quietly question whether the line between decolonization and erasing history is always clear. Even troubling chapters, they argue, can offer context — if presented, not praised — and warn that removing symbols is simpler than reckoning with the stories they tell.

Of course, change is slow. Bureaucracy is slower. And sometimes, progress looks like someone standing in front of a crumbling wall, trying to get a municipal official to notice the chipped sickle and say, “Yes, we’ll take that down.”

But in Kyiv, such is the work of decolonization. It’s painstaking. It’s local. It’s grassroots. And, occasionally, it’s interrupted by air raids.

Still, the activists persist. For them, the past isn’t just a foreign country. It’s a country that invaded theirs.

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Ukraine 2045: A Long Pause on Peace and Politics

Fri, 03 Oct 2025 11:03:22 GMT

By 2045, Ukraine stands resilient but trapped in a never-ending war with Russia. Democracy is on pause as martial law rules, and a military council runs the country. Life is defined by drone strikes, strict controls, and a society hardened by conflict. The nation survives — but the return of free elections and true peace feels like a distant, fragile hope.

It is the year 2045. The border is quiet now. Not peaceful — just quiet. A silence measured in drone buzzes and the distant pop of artillery, like a grim national metronome. Twenty three years into its war with Russia, Ukraine still stands, but whether it still governs itself — or merely administers the emergency — is less clear.

Since 2026, Russia has made no significant territorial gains in Ukraine. Instead, it adopted a strategy of permanent bombardment — a grinding campaign of drone strikes, missile salvos, and cross-border shelling designed not to conquer, but to cripple and paralyze. Civilian infrastructure, energy grids, and transportation hubs remain in Moscow’s crosshairs. The fighting may have slowed, but the threat has never receded. As a result, Ukraine has been unable to lift martial law, citing the persistent danger of aerial attack and the impossibility of holding safe, fair elections under fire.

To visit Kyiv today is to step into a paradox: a functioning state run by a government that no longer derives its legitimacy from ballots, but from continuity, uniforms, and existential necessity. The war, which no longer shocks anyone, continues in the form of regular missile raids, infrastructure sabotage, and the occasional “unidentified object” in the Dnipro sky. The front line, more or less static since 2031, is now a kind of national border, unofficial but understood. The real conflict has moved inward.

The Long Emergency

Elections have not been held in Ukraine since 2019. The war, declared a “temporary deviation from constitutional order,” has now outlived two Popes, sixteen British prime ministers, and an entire generation of Ukrainian youth who have never known civilian rule. Martial law, renewed every three months with ritualistic solemnity, is now as ordinary as potholes.

Volodymyr Zelensky, the former actor-president-turned-wartime-icon, stepped down in 2032, citing exhaustion and a desire to “let others carry the torch.” The torch was duly picked up by the National Security Transitional Council, an all-purpose wartime junta consisting of top generals, intelligence directors, and what remains of the pre-war technocratic elite. The Council rotates leadership every two years, though observers note that real decisions tend to come from General Kovaliuk, a taciturn man known for his passion for military history and his allergy to journalists.

The Council does not call itself a junta. It prefers “wartime coordination body.” Semantics aside, it rules.

Democracy Deferred

Theoretically, the Ukrainian constitution remains in effect. So do all 28 million laminated copies of it, dutifully printed in the early 2000s and now collecting dust in schools that no longer operate. But articles concerning elections, term limits, and civil oversight have been “paused” — a legal status somewhere between hibernation and irrelevance.

In private, Western diplomats express discomfort. In public, they express solidarity. “Democracy can wait; freedom cannot,” one EU official said in Brussels last year, apparently unaware that the phrase now adorns Kyiv bus stops as a semi-ironic meme.

The General’s Last Briefing

Retired General Mykola Petrenko, age 72

“I’ve spent half my life at war, and let me tell you — war is a bad tenant. It overstays, wrecks the place, and never cleans up after itself. After 2026, when the Russians stopped advancing and settled for shelling everything in sight, we realized this wasn’t about lines on a map anymore. It’s attrition, slow and bitter.
Martial law? Necessary evil. Would I want to go back to elections under missiles raining down? No. The country would collapse faster than you could say ‘democracy.’ But I worry about the long haul. Power concentrated in generals and security services — fine for defense, but poison for politics.
Still, our people are stubborn, like the steppe grass after a wildfire. Maybe one day we’ll find the will to breathe again. Until then, we hold the line — not just the front.”

The Security Society

The SBU, Ukraine’s internal security service, now issues more press statements than the Ministry of Culture. It also runs border checkpoints, oversees digital communication compliance, and — according to one leaked memo — has veto power over certain television scripts. The line between national defense and national life has long since blurred.

All young adults undergo compulsory national service, though a “non-combat track” is available for software engineers and drone designers. The military is the single largest employer, and being an officer is considered the most stable profession — followed closely by AI safety auditor and water infrastructure guard.

To the surprise of no one, the Rada, Ukraine’s parliament, still technically exists. It meets once a month for “advisory sessions” and votes by show of hands on pre-approved defense measures. The last significant policy debate occurred in 2037, over whether to rename the Ministry of Reintegration to the “Ministry of Unfinished Business.” The proposal failed.

Travel Plans? Better Luck Next Decade

Since 2027, the Ukrainian government has imposed even stricter controls on the movement of citizens. Officially framed as a “necessary security measure” to prevent infiltration and preserve manpower for the war effort, the restrictions have effectively sealed the country’s borders. Passports are issued sparingly, exit permits require months of bureaucratic review, and families are often forced to choose between staying together or staying safe.

The free flow of people, once a hallmark of Ukrainian society, has become a relic of the past — replaced by checkpoints, digital surveillance, and the tacit understanding that leaving is a privilege few can afford. For many, this enforced immobility feels like an invisible cage, a sacrifice made in the name of survival but one that deepens the nation’s isolation and weariness.

Stability Without Legitimacy

Still, things work — after a fashion. Trains run. Drones fly. Power outages are scheduled and relatively punctual. Ukrainian identity has never been stronger, though it is increasingly militarized, stoic, and deeply suspicious of ambiguity. Politicians speak in the clipped syntax of soldiers; civilians queue with the discipline of conscripts. A nation born in revolution and reborn in war has matured into a kind of martial republic, one where stability has replaced idealism as the national virtue.

There is no serious resistance — only murmurings. A handful of anonymous podcasts, some graffiti in Lviv (“Democracy is not a luxury”), and an unverified samizdat tract titled The Ballot Will Return. The security services treat it all with practiced indifference. After all, morale is high, public order is strong, and the external enemy is still obligingly monstrous.

Born into the Emergency

Olena, age 24, Kyiv

“I was born the same year the war started. I don’t remember anything else. Everyone I know has never voted, never debated politics in any serious way. We grew up hearing sirens and jokes about missile strikes on TikTok.
Martial law feels like the air we breathe — unavoidable, heavy, but normal. Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if we could just... choose. But who would even run? All the grown-ups talk about security and survival. Elections sound like a luxury from an old book.
I want to believe democracy can come back. But right now, it feels like a story from before the silence — before the drones.”

The Question No One Asks

And yet, beneath the surface, the unspoken question festers: What happens when the war stops — or simply no longer justifies the suspension of civic life? What mechanism exists to restore elections, rebuild pluralism, or invite dissent without destabilizing the very structure that has held the country together?

“Elections will return when it is safe,” one official told us over encrypted video. When asked who decides when it’s safe, he declined to elaborate.

For now, Ukraine survives. Its people endure. Its borders hold. But its republic — the one founded in 1991 — has entered a strange limbo: not dead, but not quite alive. Democracy sleeps behind a blast door, dreaming of ballots.

One can only hope the key wasn’t lost in the rubble.

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Who Owns the Soul of a Ukrainian Child Abroad?

Sun, 28 Sep 2025 19:00:42 GMT

Millions of Ukrainian refugee children face a new battle abroad: preserving their national identity. Kyiv now verifies diaspora schools to ensure they teach in Ukrainian and follow the national curriculum, countering pro-Russian influences. This ideological struggle over language and culture aims to keep Ukraine’s youth connected to their homeland amid war and displacement, shaping the future of Ukrainian identity worldwide.

When millions of Ukrainian families fled the war, they crossed borders with little more than a suitcase, a smartphone, and their children. But they also carried something invisible yet vital: identity. Now, over three years into Russia’s invasion, the battle for territory has been joined by another, quieter conflict — one fought not with tanks or missiles, but in classrooms and community halls across Europe.

It is the ideological struggle for the souls of Ukrainian refugee children — and Kyiv, even from a distance, is determined not to lose them.

Diaspora Schools Under New Scrutiny

Since September 2025, Ukraine’s foreign affairs ministry and ministry of education have begun verifying diaspora-run Saturday and Sunday schools — educational hubs long operated by émigré communities to maintain language and culture. For the first time in Ukraine’s modern history, these institutions can have their diplomas officially recognized by the Ukrainian state.

Verified schools are officially approved for teaching in Ukrainian and adhering to Ukraine’s national curriculum. Students at these schools can transfer their credits seamlessly back to Ukraine. Meanwhile, unverified schools — especially those teaching in Russian or promoting unclear messages — face marginalization. This verification is Kyiv’s soft-power effort to keep Ukrainian youth culturally connected, even abroad.

But to be verified, these schools must use Ukrainian as the language of instruction, include Ukrainian cultural content, and employ qualified teachers. Those that fail — especially those with Russian-language curricula or ambiguous ideological content — risk being excluded.

The policy may sound administrative, but it carries unmistakable ideological weight. It’s a declaration from Kyiv: Ukrainian identity is not a matter of personal preference — it is a national concern.

The Battle Over “So-Called” Ukrainian Schools

Among the most sensitive issues are schools that, according to Ukrainian researchers, masquerade as Ukrainian while subtly or overtly promoting pro-Russian narratives.

A 2025 study by the International Institute of Education, Culture and Diaspora Relations at Lviv Polytechnic uncovered troubling trends. Some schools across Germany, France, and the UK opened “Ukrainian classes” that taught in Russian, omitted Ukrainian historical context, or presented Russia and Ukraine as “brother nations” — a phrase that, post-invasion, has become ideologically radioactive.

In Hamburg, one parent reported that a Russian group falsely claimed affiliation with a legitimate Ukrainian school. In Nuremberg, children were allegedly asked to make crafts featuring both Ukrainian and Russian flags — a gesture framed as “peaceful,” but which many now view as morally tone-deaf, given the ongoing war.

“Some of these schools are wolves in sheep’s clothing,” said Nazar Danchyshyn, a researcher involved in the study. “They use Ukrainian labels to build trust, but inside, they teach something else entirely.”

Language as a Front Line

Perhaps no aspect of this ideological battle is more emotionally charged than language. Many Ukrainian families, especially from the east and south, speak Russian at home. Their children may be more fluent in Russian than Ukrainian. Abroad, some naturally gravitate toward Russian-speaking schools — especially when these offer logistical convenience, community familiarity, or continuity.

But Kyiv sees this as a dangerous drift. For a state fighting not just to survive, but to assert a distinct national identity, language is existential.

“The Russian language has become a trigger for many children who suffered trauma,” said one school director in Germany. “We try to create a space where they can reconnect with Ukrainian language and culture, not relive the language of the aggressor.”

And yet, the real problem may not be the children — but their parents. As one report notes, some parents insist on speaking Russian with their children even in Ukrainian schools, justifying it as “more comfortable.” It’s a small choice — but one packed with symbolic meaning. And in wartime, symbols matter.

Ideology vs. Choice: Who Decides?

Critics of Ukraine’s verification push argue that this is less about education and more about ideological policing. After all, most of these diaspora schools are funded and staffed by volunteers. Many have served their communities for decades — long before Kyiv took interest.

Is it fair, critics ask, for the state to now dictate what is “truly Ukrainian” from thousands of miles away? Supporters of the policy say yes — because in a hybrid war where identity itself is a target, passive neutrality becomes complicity.

“Education is national security,” said Lyubov Lyubchyk of the World Coordination Educational Council, an NGO coordinating Ukrainian cultural centers abroad. “If we allow the Russian worldview to be taught under the guise of multiculturalism, we risk losing a generation.”

But others counter: not every Russian-speaking school is a front for the Kremlin. Not every parent choosing Russian-language instruction is betraying Ukraine. And not every child learning in two languages is being “erased.”

Exiles or Ambassadors?

The deeper question here is: what does it mean to be Ukrainian — abroad, in exile, and in flux? For some, it means anchoring oneself in language, embroidered shirts, and patriotic poems. For others, it means surviving, adapting, and allowing identity to evolve — often in hybrid, bilingual, or multicultural ways.

In Hamburg, where one Ukrainian school has grown from 72 students before the invasion to over 400 now, principal Olga Sukenyk sees her work as nation-building from afar.

“We’re not just teaching kids,” she says. “We’re raising future advocates, translators, diplomats — Ukrainians who, even if they stay in Europe, will carry their identity proudly.”

But for others, the future might look different — less patriotic, less pure, more plural. And perhaps that’s the real tension: not between Ukraine and Russia, but between two visions of Ukrainian-ness — one forged in war, the other shaped in exile.

The Struggle Isn’t Over

Almost four years into the war, Ukraine has proven it can defend its land. Now it must decide how to protect its people — not just in body, but in spirit. Who gets to define what it means to be Ukrainian — especially for children who fled bombs and borders? Their parents? Their teachers abroad? The Ukrainian state? Or maybe, in time, they themselves?

The war for territory is being fought on the map. But the war for identity — that’s being fought in the classroom.

When Citizenship Becomes a Weapon: Legal Gray Zones and Identity Crises in Occupied Ukraine

Tue, 09 Sep 2025 19:00:33 GMT

In Russian-occupied Ukrainian territories, residents face pressure to accept Russian citizenship, affecting their legal status and rights. This change complicates identity, access to services, and reintegration efforts. Russia’s policies include demographic shifts and conscription, while Ukraine navigates legal and social challenges in addressing citizenship issues, collaboration, and future recovery of occupied areas.

Citizenship is supposed to confer rights, recognition and a sense of belonging. In theory, it is a passport to legal protection and national identity. But under military occupation, it can morph into something far more coercive: a tool of control, used to erase identity and rewire loyalties. That is the grim reality facing many Ukrainians in Russian-occupied territory.

In March 2025, Russia declared that Ukrainians living in occupied regions must either accept Russian citizenship or leave by September. Many had taken up Russian passports — some out of choice, others for practical reasons. But for those who resist, the consequences are severe. Refusal means losing access to basic services, facing fines, or being deported. For them, what is presented as a legal formality becomes a tool of coercion.

A Legal No-Man’s-Land

International law offers protections for civilians under occupation. The Geneva Conventions forbid forced naturalisation and guarantee basic rights. As long as a person remains a citizen of their original country, they are entitled to those protections — including diplomatic support.

But once someone is deemed a citizen of the occupying power, the legal calculus shifts. By accepting Russian passports — often under duress — Ukrainians risk being reclassified as Russian nationals. That makes them subject to Russian law, but also removes the shield of foreign citizenship. Their home country, Ukraine, may find itself legally sidelined, unable to intervene on their behalf.

Estimating the number of Ukrainians living in Russian-occupied territories remains difficult, with figures varying widely depending on the source. As of March 2025, Ukrainian officials reported that around 460 communities remained under occupation, with population estimates ranging from 5 to 7 million. In contrast, Russian data from early 2025 cites approximately 3.7 million registered voters in the so-called ‘new regions,’ highlighting the significant discrepancy in available data.

Migration patterns further complicate the picture. Since mid-2024, Russian sources have reported a population decline of about 700,000 in occupied areas. Meanwhile, some displaced Ukrainians — unable to secure resettlement elsewhere in Ukraine or abroad — have begun returning to frontline or occupied zones. Estimates of returnees also vary: Ukraine’s social policy ministry puts the number as low as 1,000, while unofficial Ukrainian reports suggest figures as high as 150,000, though the latter remains disputed.

In Mariupol alone, local Russian officials reported that at least 350,000 Ukrainians attempted to enter the city in late 2024, but only 100,000 to 130,000 were allowed in. Many reportedly used the opportunity to register property under new Russian regulations before leaving again. By some estimates, at least 30% of Mariupol’s population may now be returning to occupation — some permanently.

Further reflecting this trend, Russian border control data from Sheremetyevo Airport — a key entry point — shows that over 107,000 Ukrainians arrived since October 2023, though only 83,000 were admitted.

Under Ukrainian law, Ukrainians living in occupied areas do not automatically lose their Ukrainian citizenship if they are granted Russian citizenship without their consent. This provision was originally introduced following Russia’s annexation of Crimea and Sevastopol.

In other occupied regions, however, Russia has actively encouraged residents to apply for Russian passports voluntarily. According to the Ukrainian Helsinki Human Rights Group, this process may involve pressure or coercion, raising serious human rights concerns.

Adding further complexity, a new Ukrainian law passed in June 2025 bars Russian citizens from obtaining Ukrainian citizenship. It also states that Ukrainians who voluntarily acquire Russian citizenship may risk losing their Ukrainian passports.

Together, these legal developments highlight the growing challenges around citizenship and identity for people living in Russian-occupied parts of Ukraine.

This creates a legal limbo. Those who resist are treated with suspicion by Russian authorities. Those who accept are viewed warily by Ukraine. Neither side offers full protection. Property claims become tangled. Legal identities blur. The result is confusion, vulnerability and, in many cases, the erosion of fundamental rights.

Identity Under Siege

The issue is not just legal. Citizenship also signals who you are. For many Ukrainians in occupied areas, taking a Russian passport means more than crossing a bureaucratic threshold. It means accepting a new national identity — one they often reject.

The Russian state is not subtle in its intentions. Ukrainian language, culture and history are being pushed to the margins. Street signs change. Textbooks are rewritten. Schools and media are remade in Russia’s image. This is not just governance; it is cultural erasure.

The consequences ripple through families and communities. Some see passport-holders as collaborators, even when the choice was made under pressure. Others resent those who fled, viewing them as abandoning their neighbours. Social cohesion fractures. Suspicion festers.

The psychological toll is immense. People must navigate between personal identity and the one imposed on them. Children are especially vulnerable. They grow up in schools that teach a Russian narrative while hearing another at home. The result is often confusion, alienation—and a fractured sense of belonging that may endure long after the occupation ends.

The Military Angle

There is a darker side still. Citizenship brings obligations — including military service. With a Russian passport, Ukrainian men in occupied areas become eligible for conscription. Some are already being drafted into the Russian army. In effect, Moscow is using coerced citizenship not only to redraw maps, but to refill its ranks.

This turns identity into a weapon. It pits communities — and sometimes families — against themselves. It sows fear and mistrust, deepens divisions, and complicates any hope of future reconciliation.

Demographic Engineering

Russia’s strategy does not stop at passports. It is also changing the population itself. Ukrainian observers complain that incentives have been offered to Russian citizens — especially from poorer regions — to move into the occupied territories. Cheap housing, subsidies and jobs sweeten the deal.

The aim is clear: to dilute Ukrainian presence and build a more loyal, or at least dependent, local base. On the ground, it means new neighbours, new officials, and new rules. Over time, this reshapes not just politics, but identity. Even if Ukraine retakes the land, restoring its character may prove harder.

Kyiv’s Dilemma

Ukraine faces an excruciating policy challenge. It does not recognise the validity of forced Russian citizenship. Legally, those living under occupation remain Ukrainian. But what should happen when they return?

Should passport-holders be treated as victims — or collaborators? Many accepted Russian citizenship to survive. Others may have done so more willingly. Drawing a line between coercion and complicity is no simple task. But some form of distinction must be made. Without it, the rule of law risks collapsing into collective punishment — or moral paralysis.

In 2022, Kyiv acted quickly to impose criminal liability for collaboration with Russia. This swift response has resulted in numerous prosecutions. Often, these have occurred without considering lessons learned from the Crimea and initial Donbas occupations. International standards that protect humanitarian workers, medical personnel, and emergency responders have also been overlooked. Human rights groups have raised concerns about these legal gaps, warning that overly harsh measures risk penalizing people for basic survival activities under occupation.

Under Ukrainian law, even performing seemingly low-level roles — such as working as a janitor in an administrative building within occupied territories — can be considered a crime. Unlike international law, Ukraine’s legislation does not distinguish between humanitarian and military collaboration. This leaves defining who are collaborators up to investigators, prosecutors, and judges, which, as rights groups point out, creates room for potential abuse.

Kyiv will also need a system to resolve the tangle of legal claims over property, inheritance, and documentation. Many returning citizens will hold papers issued under Russian law. Others will have lost theirs altogether. They will need help — legal, logistical, and psychological.

Rebuilding the Nation

Reintegration will not happen by decree. It will require careful policy and human empathy. Ukraine must prepare now for the moment when it regains control — not only of land, but of people.

That begins with clear, accessible communication. Many Ukrainians in occupied areas are unsure of their rights, their status, or the consequences of choices they never freely made. Blanket condemnation will only drive them further away. Legal clarity, coupled with compassion, is essential.

Support structures — legal aid, psychosocial services, civil society engagement — must be built up now. They will be vital not only for restoring trust in the state, but for repairing the fabric of society.

Above all, Ukraine must find a way to speak to those who stayed. Not as traitors. Not as symbols. But as citizens who endured. A nation is more than territory. It is people — and the stories they carry.

Lines in the Sand

The use of citizenship as a tool of coercion is not new. Colonial powers did it. So did Soviet ones. But Russia’s campaign in Ukraine marks a particularly modern twist: using legal identity as a weapon of hybrid war.

For the individuals caught in the middle, the stakes are personal and profound. For Ukraine, the task ahead is daunting. But if it succeeds — in reclaiming both its territory and its people — it will not only restore sovereignty. It will reaffirm what citizenship should mean: not a badge of submission, but a bond of belonging.

Faith on Trial: Ukraine Moves to Ban the Church Tied to Moscow

Sun, 07 Sep 2025 19:00:51 GMT

The government has officially declared the Ukrainian Orthodox Church “affiliated” with the Russian Orthodox Church, enabling a legal ban under a 2024 law targeting religious groups linked to aggressor nations. Despite the local church’s efforts to distance itself from Moscow, Kyiv views it as a security risk amid war. The move intensifies a national identity struggle as Ukraine seeks to assert independence while managing religious loyalty and preparing for potential peace talks.

Last August the government took a decisive — and divisive — step: it officially declared the Ukrainian Orthodox Church (UOC) to be “affiliated” with the Russian Orthodox Church (ROC), clearing the way for a legal ban on its activities. With that move, Ukraine’s battle against Russian influence entered a new arena — one lined with icons, candle smoke, and centuries of devotion.

For many Ukrainians, the UOC isn’t just a religious institution — it’s the church where they were baptized, married, buried. It’s part of their family history. But for the government in Kyiv, especially after more than three years of all-out war with Russia, it’s also a potential threat. The charge? Being too close to Moscow — spiritually, organizationally, and politically.

Now, the country faces a crucial dilemma: can it fight a war for independence without triggering a crisis of identity at home?

A Church in the Crosshairs

The body behind the decision is the State Service for Ethnopolitics and Freedom of Conscience, charged with the oversight of religious activities in the country (the Service). In a statement released at the end of August, the agency said it had found “signs of affiliation” between the UOC and the ROC, based on a government-ordered religious review that lasted nearly two months. The UOC, it concluded, was not truly independent — and therefore fell under a law banning religious organizations linked to “aggressor nations.”

That law, passed by Ukraine’s parliament last year, was blunt in its intent. If a religious group has ties to a foreign religious center located in a country currently waging war against Ukraine — namely, Russia — it can be shut down. No trial needed to start seizing its churches, monasteries, and land.

The UOC, predictably, was furious. Its head, Metropolitan Onufriy of Kyiv, called the decision “manipulative” and “divorced from reality,” accusing the state of “crude interference” in church affairs. Another senior UOC bishop, Metropolitan Klyment of Nizhyn, told local media that the “so-called” expert report was based on “Russian documents, not Ukrainian law,” and dismissed the entire process as political theater.

Cutting Moscow Loose — Or Not Quite?

The core of the dispute lies in the UOC’s claimed independence. After Russia’s 2022 invasion the Church moved quickly to distance itself from its parent in Moscow. It stopped mentioning Patriarch Kirill (the ROC’s leader) — a vocal supporter of the war — during services. It rewrote its charter. It condemned the invasion. In short, it tried to shed its image as “Moscow’s church.”

But the government says that’s not enough. The ROC still lists Metropolitan Onufriy (head of the UOC) as part of its synod. The Russian Church still includes the UOC as part of its global structure. And no matter what the UOC says, it hasn’t received official recognition as independent (or “autocephalous”) from the Eastern Orthodox hierarchy.

To critics, that means the split is cosmetic. A public relations move — not a real break.

“The affiliation is structural, not just symbolic,” said one official at the Service, speaking on condition of anonymity. “You can’t rewrite a charter and pretend the past never existed.”

The Bigger Picture: War, Peace, and Identity

But why now? The answer may lie not in the churches, but at the negotiating table.

Rumors are swirling that peace talks between Ukraine and Russia may be on the horizon. And according to multiple sources, one of Moscow’s key demands is simple: stop persecuting the UOC.

“The UOC is one of Russia’s few remaining levers inside Ukraine,” says political analyst Andriy Zolotaryov. “So the Kremlin will push hard to keep it alive.”

That, in turn, has created a sense of urgency among Ukrainian officials who want the Church banned. If negotiations start and Kyiv hasn’t yet acted, the thinking goes, international pressure might force Ukraine to walk back its plans.

So the goal now is speed: ban the Church, seize the buildings, lock in the change — before anyone can stop it.

“We’re seeing a rush to create facts on the ground,” Zolotaryov says. “It’s the same playbook as with language laws and historical memory policies — lock it in before the ceasefire.”

But This Won’t Be Easy

Banning the UOC may be legally possible. Enforcing that ban is another matter.

The Church still has thousands of parishes across Ukraine. In many villages, it’s the only church in town. Priests are often the most trusted figures in their communities. And despite years of state pressure, the UOC hasn’t splintered — it has held together, quietly resisting.

Attempts to seize churches in the past have led to standoffs between worshippers and police. In some cases, parishes have switched allegiance from the UOC to the government-backed Orthodox Church of Ukraine (OCU). In others, the faithful have dug in their heels — sometimes literally forming human chains to keep state officials out.

A recent example: in July, pilgrims from Kamianets-Podilskyi marched to the historic Pochaiv Lavra (a major monastery), in western Ukraine, one of the most sacred sites in Ukrainian Orthodoxy, in defiance of state orders.

“We are peaceful people,” one marcher told reporters, “but we will not let them take our faith away.”

A Church Problem

Meanwhile, President Zelensky finds himself in an awkward spot.

He is no religious nationalist. He has no personal history of involvement in Orthodox politics. And insiders say his position on the UOC has changed multiple times under pressure from different factions — some urging caution, others demanding a hard line.

Washington has also weighed in, quietly urging Kyiv to respect religious freedom — especially with U.S. aid now closely tied to perceptions of democratic integrity.

But Zelensky is also deeply invested in Ukraine’s cultural break with Russia. Language, history, memory — and yes, religion — are all part of that project. He may not lead the charge against the UOC, but he’s not standing in its way either.

A Plan

The government has laid out a plan. First, notify local UOC branches of their “affiliation.” Next, inform landlords and municipalities to cancel lease agreements whereby church properties are held. Then, head to court to begin the process of legal liquidation.

Officials admit it could take months. Maybe longer. But they are betting that enough momentum, enough court rulings, and enough property seizures will make the ban stick — even if it ends up being challenged in international courts.

The UOC, for its part, promises to fight.

“We are not going underground,” said one bishop. “We will use every legal tool we have.”

A Battle for Ukraine’s Soul

This fight is not just about buildings. It’s about who gets to define Ukrainian identity in the 21st century. Is it those who see the UOC as a fifth column? Or those who see it as a victim of political hysteria? For now, both sides are digging in. And the outcome may shape Ukraine long after the war ends.

As one Kyiv-based theologian put it:

“In war, you fight to defend your land. In peace, you have to decide what your country stands for. That’s what this is really about.”

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