The Ukrainian Language as a Place of Safety
When the war began in Ukraine in 2014, our neighbor in our occupied town in the Luhansk region had a stroke, after which she lost the ability to speak. One could say that the woman became mute, but this was not the case. She could still speak, but only with selective swearing.
You’d say to her: “Good afternoon, Auntie Nadya,” and she’d respond with, “Oh…hmm, fuck, bitch, This shit! Well!”
That is, nothing went beyond cursing, exclamations and interjections. However, every time she tried to say something coherent, the only sounds that came out were sputters and growls.
This story can be a metaphor for war, which, it is sometimes said, takes away speech or even language itself from people, leaving cursing as the only possible expression of deeply traumatic events. Curse words are an emotional reaction to war, just as they are the only possible words to describe it. However, the use of such metaphors compounds the harm of war itself, because it simplifies, replaces concepts and creates misinformation, that is, it transfers the unfair, unjust war from life to language. So, to be on the safe side, I have to admit that my neighbor developed a speech disorder–aphasia– due to damage to certain areas of her cerebral cortex. The people affected are mute not from war, but from illness, though war can make a person more exhausted. The mechanisms are similar, which means that aphasia and other diseases allow science to understand the nature of these phenomena and thus to describe the changes that have happened to us.
The changes to the Ukrainian language as I will describe them in this essay have been happening since 2014. Still, they intensified in 2022 with Russia's full-scale invasion of Ukraine. These changes are related to the fact that language is a symbolic system that reflects both external and internal (mental) reality. Language contains everything that exists in reality and what we imagine or feel and want to express. However, when reality changes, language can also change at the level of vocabulary or usage, -- take the case of the increased use of swear words. Our relationship with language also changes with the war. I will describe all this based on statistical, linguistic, and historical data, as well as my own observations.
1.
So let’s say you live in Ukraine and speak Ukrainian or Russian. Maybe also some other language, be it Hungarian or Romanian, German or Greek, or even English if you are an expat. You wake up early on February 24 to the sounds of war, artillery or cruise missiles falling near you, and the house walls are shaking from the blast waves. What will be your first word? “Fuck” or “Shit”? What will be your first word if this explosion doesn’t kill you?
This is exactly what happened to us that unforgettable morning. We couldn't stop cursing even in front of the children, something we never did before. Since each language has its own socially acceptable level of swearing, let me underscore that obscene vocabulary is generally taboo in the Ukrainian culture and is unacceptable in formal settings, around women and children, or within certain conservative or religious groups. After February 24, however, the world order and the old balance of language changed, and the use of such language became more common.
On the same day, we learned that the Russian missile cruiser “Moskva” had arrived at Ukraine’s Snake Island, located in the Black Sea, and announced to the Ukrainian garrison: “I am a Russian military ship! I suggest you surrender your arms to avoid bloodshed and victims. Otherwise, you will be hit!” The Ukrainian military consulted, and one of them answered: “Russian warship, go fuck yourself («иди нахуй»).” This conversation got picked up by the media and became part of the official Ukrainian political discourse, contributing to the normalization of obscene language in Ukraine.
Soon after, this trend became even more widespread. On the roads of central and eastern Ukraine, still under the control of the Ukrainian authorities during the siege of Kyiv, road signs appeared with inscriptions such as "Fuck off," "Fuck off again," and "Fuck off to Russia." The function of these road signs was twofold: to hide the real names of settlements and directions because the occupiers often used paper maps to find their way around and to use language to destroy the enemies symbolically, sending them off with a curse.
The famous reply to the “Russian warship” showed up on bank cards, Ukrposhta stamps, road banners, and other merch: it became part of everyday life. Additional proof of the lifting of the taboo on obscene vocabulary was the fact that adults stopped forbidding the use of “bad” words for their children. Children in shelters, subway stations, and underground parking lots, waiting for rocket attacks, began to say “Putin is a dickhead” and no one tried to stop them. The adults understood. When your life is threatened, everyday vocabulary may not adequately convey the intensity of one's feelings as well as using curse words. Obscene language can help relieve tension and even prevent for physical violence. It is an effective way to express oneself without causing harm.
Returning to the story with my neighbor, it is worth emphasizing that the study of aphasia has allowed scientists to understand the functional systems of human speech. One of these, the so-called automatic speech, is responsible for cursing. It mainly includes swear words (the spectrum is quite broad, everything from "fuck" to "oh my God"), but also exclamations and interjections ("oh," "well"). Sometimes it can also include "no." All these words are used exclusively to express emotions, which is why they are part of automatic speech rather than of another functional system.
This other functional system includes speech that serves a communicative purpose. This is propositional speech, which, unlike automatic speech, is based in the intention to achieve something. It is meaningful, carries information, and gives us the capacity to enter into a full-fledged interaction with people. Meaning, it is our everyday speech, into which automatic speech can sometimes intrude.[1]
In general, these two types of speech underwent changes after the full-scale invasion. Specifically, there has been more automatic speech, because the spectrum of emotions we experience has expanded. But at the same time, changes have occurred in propositional speech, directly affecting language changes. But before we describe these, it is first necessary to trace what the Ukrainian language was for Ukrainians in the past, and what its meaning or role is now.
2.
Many discussions these days revolve around the historical dominance of the Russian language in the Ukrainian society. For nearly four centuries, this dominance was maintained through political means, including acts of violence. The Ukrainian language was systematically removed from various aspects of society, including government, education, theater, and literature. In the 16th century, to help solidify Russian dominance over Ukraine, the Moscow tsar burned Ukrainian books in Kyiv and the Russian Orthodox Church declared Ukrainian works of science and culture anathema. In the 20th century, under Bolshevik rule, repressions such as the execution of Ukrainian cultural figures and scientists and the Holodomor, Stalin’s man-made famine in rural Ukraine, continued to suppress the language and culture. Even today, Moscow uses violence to control the Ukrainian language and culture: in recent months, Russian soldiers in occupied territories have been known to burn Ukrainian books.
To fully understand the shift in attitude towards the Ukrainian language, it is further important to examine the recent past, specifically the 20th century, and the rise of the Bolsheviks in Ukraine. It was during this period that the language trends persisting until recent times were established.
It might seem that the Bolshevik government, being left-wing, would prioritize improving the condition of marginalized sections of the population. However, in reality, policies were implemented for a rapid and forceful assimilation of all national cultures within the Soviet Union. The theory of a struggle between two cultures in Ukraine – the urban, i.e., Russian, and the peasant, referred to as Ukrainian – gained popularity, disregarding the rich history of urban Ukrainian culture, which predates that of Russian cities. The question of culture was not just a narrowly cultural matter, as it is perceived today. Culture is always intertwined with politics and ideology. The Bolsheviks believed that Russian culture was progressive, and therefore had to prevail in this struggle between the urban and the rural. It was therefore the duty of every communist to support this "natural process." This perception of the Ukrainian language and culture as inferior and rural, not worthy of serious literature still exists today. Twenty years ago, this view could also still be heard in Ukraine, even if just as a marginal opinion; it still persists in various modifications in Russia.
The "struggle" between the Ukrainian and Russian languages and culture was enforced through tactics of terror, implemented throughout the Soviet Union. However, in Ukraine, these measures took on a particularly anti-national character, aimed at the destruction of all things Ukrainian. Stalin was concerned that he might lose Ukraine, as even under the least favorable conditions, Ukrainian culture was thriving and developing, and the self-awareness of Ukrainians as a separate nation from Russia was growing. Ukrainians protested against collectivization and did everything in their power to retain their property. To suppress this rebellion, beyond mass killing of writers, a series of measures was deployed to create the Holodomor, a man-made famine, as a result of which every eighth Ukrainian died (in the parts of Ukraine ruled by the Soviet Union), totaling, according to historian Serhii Plokhiy, around four million people. The famine affected primarily the eastern regions of Ukraine, slightly less the south. At a time when the use of the Ukrainian language was equated with nationalism and a threat to the existence of Soviet power, the Ukrainian language began to be associated with danger to life.
It is noteworthy that the east and south, the regions where brutal battles are currently being fought under the pretense of the Russian army "protecting" the Russian-speaking population, are the same regions that were affected by the Holodomor. This is a renewed attempt to subjugate the Ukrainian people. It is in this context that the Ukrainian language has acquired a new role, that of protection.
This change can be traced back to the time when Ukraine gained independence in 1991. In the late Soviet era, studying the Ukrainian language in Ukrainian schools was optional, while the Russian language was compulsory. However, in independent Ukraine, studying Ukrainian became mandatory, studied alongside Russian.
Russian military actions in Ukraine have accelerated the process of ukrainization. According to an August 2022 survey by the Rating group, in the wake of the full-scale invasion, almost one in five Ukrainians switched to using Ukrainian as their primary language at home (as confirmed by 19% of respondents). This means that 51% of people now speak exclusively Ukrainian, 34% of people are in the process of transitioning and speak both Ukrainian and Russian, and 13% of respondents speak exclusively Russian.
There are now many real-life stories that exemplify this trend. For example, my Russian-speaking neighbors were awakened on February 24, 2022, by the sound of Russian cruise missiles flying towards Kyiv and asked themselves "Why do we speak Russian?". Since then, they have been speaking Ukrainian, spanning across three generations of different age groups. Another example is a woman who lived near a house where a Russian cruise missile fell on December 31, 2022, she then switched to speaking Russian. The threat to life is causing Ukrainians to defend themselves from Russian in their own language.
Often, the reason for switching to Ukrainian is a traumatic experience, which leads to a shift in perspective on life. However, , if we talk about language in the terms used by Martin Heidegger, it is also connected with the fact that now the Ukrainian language has come to mean feeling safe and at home. The Ukrainian language, which once represented a dangerous place where one could be destroyed, has now become a sanctuary of protection: it now has an army that can protect it from destruction.
Furthermore, many speakers state that they did not switch to Ukrainian, but rather, returned to their mother tongue, even though they haven’t spoken it since childhood, and they may not be the ones in their family who lost the Ukrainian language. Rather, they are the first generation to begin using it. According to the aforementioned study, 76% of respondents named Ukrainian as their mother tongue, and only 19% considered Russian as such. This means that a preponderance of the population now considers the language of their homeland as their native language, not a second language.
An example of this phenomenon is the case of the President of Ukraine, who, as is well known, spoke primarily Russian before taking office. In December 2022, during his first trip to the United States since the full-scale invasion, President Volodymyr Zelenskyy corrected himself when answering a question from the press in Ukrainian, noting that he began his response in his "native language".
The Ukrainian language as a house of Being (to use Martin Heidegger’s term) has a distinct strategy of protection, which is its phonetics, not easily accessible to Russian speakers. A common example used for verification is the word palyanytsya, the Ukrainian word for round, hearth-baked bread; the point is not in its meaning but in the fact that Russians usually can't pronounce it without making a mistake, while Ukrainians, whether they are native speakers or not, can pronounce this word in a phonetically correct manner. The trick lies in the fact that Russian speakers don’t know how to combine soft and hard syllables, and the biggest obstacle for them is the last soft " ~tsya," a sound combination not available in Russian. This knowledge was once purely linguistic, but with the beginning of hostilities throughout Ukraine, this word began to be used by the military at checkpoints as a quick test to identify people from Russia who might be saboteurs and spies. In other words, apart from everything else, the Ukrainian language is a language that cannot be invaded by the Russians, making it a safe haven inside Ukraine, more important than ever before.
3.
For Ukrainians, the safety of their language is constantly evolving in response to changes in military reality. These changes can be quite varied, such as the shifting meanings of familiar words. An example is "electricity" and "light" (“електрика,” “світло”), previously used more or less interchangeably.
Before the full-scale invasion, electricity was something we took for granted, like air or water from a tap. But starting 2/24/22, the Ukrainian authorities began asking us to block out the light in our homes to darken cities and help deter Russian night-time attacks. As a result, "electricity" became something dangerous that could expose and potentially help the enemy kill us. Since October 2022, the Russians have launched missile attacks on Ukraine’s critical civilian infrastructure, particularly its energy networks, resulting in damaged power plants and lines, leading to power outages and regular blackouts. This means that we often spend more time without electricity than with it, sometimes only having power for an hour or two a day. My mother recently told me, “Today we have a lot of light.” It sounded like “We have a lot of gold” or “We’ve been given so much money.” We see a shift in the connotation of the word "electricity." It is something precious, scarce, and desirable. It represents heat and water in pipes, which also depend on electricity. We only noticed we had electricity once it became scarcer.
This is not the only word that has shifted in connotation during this war. There are dozens of them. For instance, the word "corridor" is no longer just a transit area connecting the home and public space, and a bathtub is no longer simply for bathing. Now, they are referred to as a “safe place” because, thanks to the presence of two load-bearing walls and the absence of windows, it is here one can survive rocket attacks in the absence of nearby shelters. Of course, one won't be protected against a direct missile hit, but it is effective protection against the blast wave or the following fragments of glass.
In addition, some words have acquired a completely new meaning. Bavovna (the Ukrainian word for cotton) now refers to explosions in occupied territories or Russia, causing destruction of military warehouses or fighter planes. This word has evolved from the Russian khlopok, an "explosion," although it actually means "clap," used by the propagandists to downplay the strikes’ severity. However, the homonym of the khlopok also translates to "cotton," but with a stress on the first "o." This term arose not because cotton is used in smokeless gunpowder, commonly used for ammunition but through translation. It appeared almost spontaneously, and the content that followed seemed to be waiting for it (even if most do not realize the direct connection of cotton with explosions on a linguistic level). Now the word itself, like its image, has entered mass culture and appears on everything possible, from jewelry to t-shirts or mugs.
The word “moped” now refers to the Iranian “Shahed” kamikaze drones used to attack the Ukrainian energy system. This is because of the sound their motor, which rattles like a moped.
Some words that were previously considered vulgar have entered mainstream usage and lost their taboo value. For example, the word bledina is used to refer a Russian flying missile: the Urban Dictionary defines it quite correctly as “a noun that is used by Ukrainians to identify an incoming Russian missile. This term was specifically used during air rides to warn civilians about the flying missiles across the country. Roughly speaking, it can be translated into English as “deadly ugly fucking bitch.”
Other words have entered general usage from the specialized vocabulary of the military: it is said that up to a million new words have so been added. For example, "200" refers to a dead soldier and "300" to a wounded soldier. Instead of saying "everything is calm," the military uses "4.5.0" and instead of saying "agreed," they use "plus."
There is always the risk that a new word will fall out of use as soon as Russian troops retreat. Using them in journalistic texts that reflect current reality makes sense, convey as they do the atmosphere and provide additional details. However, they are not ideal for fiction, where they may soon become outdated. Another significant change in language is the inflation of meaning, in case of words used frequently, such as "war," which have become commonplace and no longer hold the same level of sharpness and tragedy as they once did.
4.
Language includes not only vocabulary but is also a way of thinking. Speaking a different language can change how one feels and perceives things. You may have noticed this when speaking a foreign language. For instance, I sound confident when speaking English and feel comfortable when speaking Ukrainian. I can't recall the feelings associated with Russian, as I finally gave up on that language 15 years ago.
Language also guides our thoughts in certain directions. For instance, the Russian idiom "without a tsar in one's head" means "to be crazy." This implies that in Russian culture, it is considered normal to have a "tsar" in one's head and to be under his control, or, as their propagandists like to call their current president, “the boss” (начальник). You need your tsar or your dictator to be a constant presence in your consciousness, with all actions being under their control. If one resists, they are deemed mentally ill. This way of thinking reflects a vertical societal structure, which is ingrained in native speakers through language and reinforced by social interactions from childhood. That said, not all Russian speakers think alike, of course. Likewise, not all Ukrainian speakers have the same political views. Language reflects the trends of society's architecture, but it does not reflect the life experience of each speaker.
The Ukrainian language, too, has an idiom also references institutions of power: "Where there are two Ukrainians, there are three hetmans." A “hetman” is a political and military title of an elected official of the Zaporozhian Host, a historical military force. Anyone can be a hetman: hetmans were elected by voting on the Maidan during the general meeting of delegates. In Ukraine, citizens perceive themselves as active participants in political processes, with the ability to make decisions and exert influence, and as equals to others in terms of importance and influence. But at the same time, this democratic approach sometimes prevents Ukrainians from reaching an agreement, because everyone behaves like a hetman, a leader. Be that as it may, this idiom still describes the horizontal structure of Ukrainian society and a different type of political culture from that of Russia.
Another notable aspect of a culture is its inclusiveness, which can be gaged in the attitude towards dialects or languages of national minorities in literature. In this regard, Ukrainian culture is inclusive: the voices of "others" are viewed as valuable. Even before the war, books in Ukrainian, Russian, and other languages of national minorities were published in Ukraine, written by ethnic Ukrainians, Russians, Crimean Tatars, and even Roma. In Ukraine, there is fiction written exclusively in dialects, by authors such as Petro Midianka or Petro Shekeryk-Donyk. Notably, Petro Midianka received the Taras Shevchenko National Prize, the country’s most prestigious literary award, demonstrating their non-marginality and significant public interest. And there is literature written in Surzhyk, a mixture of Ukrainian and Russian languages, formally not a dialect, as there is no consistent use of words from one language or the other. Fiction books in Surzhyk were published by successful authors such as Bohdan Zholdak and Serhii Leshchenko (known as "Saigon") and there was even Surzhyk non-fiction (itself an unusual phenomenon), for instance the essayist Mykhailo Brynikh who was awarded the LitAkcent of the Year prize. Both dialects and Surzhyk appear in plays and cinematography.
By contrast, the situation in Russia is vastly different. Despite the presence of numerous ethnic groups within the Russian Federation (i.e. Buryats, Tatars, Kalmyks, Chuvash, Yakuts, and dozens of others) each with their own distinct languages and culture, modern Russian literature utilizes primarily the Russian literary language. This is because the primary function of the state, as well as that of literature, is to maintain control over these diverse groups and prevent the collapse of the empire. In Russia, it is unlikely for a book written in a regional dialect or in Surzhyk to receive national recognition or a prestigious award. Such books are not typically published or promoted in Russia. The country does not encourage diversity and its culture is by no means inclusive.
In the internal structure of Russian culture, literature mirrors the hierarchical model of its society. This is why the spread of Russian culture on Ukrainian territory through the use of soldiers and weapons poses an existential threat to us. For centuries, Russians have attempted to suppress our political culture and love of freedom by attempting to assimilate us through both military and cultural means.
That is also the reason for modern Russian politicians and propagandists describing Ukrainians as corrupt and inferior Russians whom they must "cure" with weapons or even "de-satanize." Russian anthropologists refer to this last term as a manifestation of an "archaic syndrome," characterized by the archaization of public consciousness, meaning, increase in belief in occult forces and general reliance on the irrational—itself a response to poor performance of state institutions. For that is precisely when a person seeks support in the irrational.
The Russians displayed this aspect of Russian culture in cities such as Bucha, Irpin, Izyum, and Kherson, as well as other cities that were later liberated. The toilets and refrigerators tied to tanks, the looting of door handles, electric kettles without stands or of women's underwear--all indicate the level of domestic culture of the invading soldiers. The brutal murders, rape of children and adults and torture (including in a cell for torturing children found in Kherson) all speak to the normalization of violence in Russian society at an everyday level. This behavior is not exclusive to Ukraine: intercepted conversations of Russian soldiers reveal instances of rape by soldiers in the Belgorod region of Russia. This domestic culture and culture of social relations are all part of a more general set of values, the "great Russian culture." This phrase is frequently used by modern Russian cultural figures who refer to it as "special" and assert that Russia has its own unique path. This so-called "great Russian culture" is often contrasted with other "smaller" cultures, including that of Ukraine. This distinction may be the root of Russian neo-nazism, which Ukrainians refer to as rashism.
However, if we strip away the shiny exterior of the "great" Russian culture, we will find Ukrainian culture at its core. For example, Kazimir Malevich was an artist from Kyiv, Arkhip Kuindzhi was an artist of Greek heritage from Mariupol; the writer Mykola Gogol was from Myrhorod; Anton Chekhov identified as Ukrainian, born as he was in the Katerynoslav province, part of the Ukrainian People's Republic at the time of the Brest Peace Treaty of 1918—a province that is now a part of Russia, with an assimilated and Russified Ukrainian population. Even the baroque philosopher Hryhoriy Skovoroda, who studied in Kyiv and spent his entire life in Ukraine, is claimed by Russian culture, as they didn't have figures of such caliber at the time. There are hundreds of Ukrainians who have been claimed by Russia,with the world recognizing them as part of this "great Russian culture" – or at least did so until 2022.
With the full-scale invasion, Russia has set in motion the process of decolonization of Ukraine and also the process of understanding, in the wider world, the relation between Russia and Ukraine. This war is not only about Ukrainian identity, culture, and language; it is also about defending the values of the western world, and of democracy. The outcome of this war will determine not only the future of Ukrainian culture but also the future model of world order, that is, whether it will be Russian or Western. The war will decide whether dozens of other languages and cultures will become a perilous place to flee from or whether we will all be able to stay in our cultures and languages and feel safe in our homes.
Translated from the Ukrainian by Kate Tsurkan
[1] D. Van Lancker, J.L. Cummings. “Expletives: Neurolinguistic and Neurobehavioral Perspectives on Swearing // Brain Research Reviews,” Volume 31, Issue 1, December 1999, Pages 83-104
Lyuba YAKIMCHUK is an award-winning poet, playwright, and screenwriter from Pervomaisk, a small coal mining town in the Luhansk region of Ukraine. She is the author of several poetry collections, most notably Абрикоси Донбасу, published in 2021 as The Apricots of Donbas by Lost Horse Press. Yakimchuk also penned the script for Будинок «Слово» [The Slovo House], a documentary film about the Ukrainian artists imprisoned and killed during the Stalinist purges, known collectively today as The Executed Renaissance.