In Zaporizhia (southeast of Ukraine).
In the streets of Zaporizhia, something has changed. It’s not just the gutted buildings, nor the shrill cry of alerts, nor even the dull noise of explosions. Four years after the start of the Russian invasion in Ukraine, it is the language of the inhabitants which marks the change in this city in the south-east of Ukraine. “Da”says a man in the street. “Ah no, we say “tak”, not “da”. We need to break this habit.”one of his friends repeats, contrasting the Ukrainian “yes” with the Russian “yes”.
As in many regions close to the border with Russia, the population, although bilingual, until then mainly used Russian. According to a study by the Razumkov Center, a Ukrainian think tank, only 20% of residents in the south of the country spoke Ukrainian at home in 2015. “Me? I spoke Russian…”confides Dmytro, his throat tight.
Driving his car, this resident of Zaporizhia crosses the town where he grew up, observing its colors with melancholy. “I want to forget this language, let it get out of my head”he squeaks. Since the start of the war in February 2022, many Ukrainians have been waging a cultural and linguistic battle, now refusing to speak Russian and using the language as an act of resistance.
Russian, the “language of the enemy”
In many libraries and cultural centers in the city, “Ukrainian courses have multiplied since the start of the warobserves Darya, an employee of a municipal cultural structure, located on Fanatska Street, in the heart of the capital of the Zaporizhia oblast. Unlike the younger generations, many elders are Russian speakers and have poor command of Ukrainian.”
This reality is even more pronounced in the large industrial cities of eastern Ukraine, such as Zaporizhia, which have welcomed many workers from other regions of the former USSR. The country, a former republic of the Soviet Union, underwent a significant Russification policy.
“National languages existed, but they were devalued. The language of good education, work and modernity was Russian.specifies Anna Colin Lebedev, French sociologist and political scientist of Russian origin, lecturer in political science at Paris-Nanterre University and specialist in post-Soviet societies. But this policy is part of an older history. “Under the Russian Empire, Ukrainian was even more repressed than during the Soviet era. Written usage, for example, was prohibited”continues the researcher.
“When you have spoken Russian for more than forty years and use it every day with your family, it is difficult to forget it. But I realized that it was the language of Russia, that of the bad guys.”
On the other side of the Dnieper, the river that crosses Zaporizhia, students go to school. They sink into the bowels of the earth to reach their classes, located seven meters deep. The Elint establishment is one of eleven underground schools built here to allow children to resume their education safe from danger.
Here too, the “language of the enemy”as many define it, was excluded from the program. “Students used to study Russian authors in foreign literature classes, but they were removedtraces Mariya, an employee at the City. We also have new subjects that address Ukrainian identity and the history of the country.” In a primary school classroom with walls decorated with red hearts, the children sing a Ukrainian song with pride.
Standing in the crack of the door, Mariya remembers a time when the two languages coexisted. In some schools, classes were taught entirely in Russian. In others, the textbooks were in Ukrainian, but the teachers taught in Russian, depending on their dominant language, and the students could respond in Ukrainian. Even in the playground, children alternated between the two languages, depending on the context. Although Russian has not disappeared, its use has declined significantly. “Some have even developed a hatred towards this language”assures Mariya, as the bell announces the end of the morning.
2014, the first tipping point
Stopped at the red light, Dmytro stares at the horizon, his eyes vacant. “You know, when you have spoken Russian for more than forty years, watched television in this language and used it every day with your family, it is difficult to forget it. But I realized that it was the language of Russia, that of the bad guys.” This feeling has been accentuated with the Russo-Ukrainian war since 2022, but had already taken hold in 2014, during the Kremlin’s military intervention leading to the annexation of Crimea.
That year, Ukraine was the scene of the Maidan Revolution, or Revolution of Dignity (February 2014), a protest movement against the ruling power which sought to move closer to Russia. “Moscow took advantage of this instability to intervene and spread false information according to which the demonstrators in kyiv were Ukrainian-speaking ultranationalists who wanted to oppress or even exterminate Russian-speaking people.explains Anna Colin Lebedev. Russia then justified its intervention by linguistic issues.”
This is a first tipping point, which brings language back to the heart of political issues. Cinema, music, television series… The cultural objects which had participated in the Russification of the country are now becoming rarer. Since then, in some families, parents have chosen not to speak a word of Russian to their children.
“Hearing Russian hurts my heart”
On Universytetska (“University”) street, located in a central district of Zaporizhia, Roman, a French humanitarian of Ukrainian origin helps unload a truck from the Partir Offerir association. With a horseshoe mustache, a short hat and a cigarette at the corner of his lips, this retiree is a colorful character.
His parents, from the west of the country, always spoke to him in Ukrainian. And he never wanted to learn Russian: “Of course it’s political. This refusal has always been in me.” Roman still strives to nuance: “The first to go to the front in Donbass were Russian speakers. Speaking the language of the occupier does not prevent you from being a patriot. But hearing it… it hurts my heart.”
It is an intimate struggle for many Ukrainians, including those in the diaspora. A feeling shaped by history, which also marks military protocol. “When a wounded person wakes up after losing consciousness, army rescuers are instructed to address him or her first words in Ukrainian, whether they are Russian or Ukrainian speakers.explains Anna Colin Lebedev. This helps avoid a psychological shock and reassures him by telling him that he is among his own people. Ukrainian then becomes the language of the right place.”
The next day, a Wednesday morning, the humanitarian aid trucks gave way to market stalls along Universytetska Street. Leaning at her stall, Valentina waits, wrapped up in her navy blue down jacket and beige pompom hat. In front of her, around ten bottles of milk await buyers. His round cheeks, reddened by the cold, give him a friendly look. “Maybe language usage is changing, but I don’t think it’s that important”she puts it into perspective gently.
A statement which reminds us that the practice is changing. “These renunciations should not be perceived as definitive”believes Anna Colin Lebedev. In the skies over the industrial city in southeastern Ukraine, bombardments intensify, reminding everyone that the front is closing in. And today, the words quoted by Ivan Ohiyenko (1882-1972), a Ukrainian intellectual figure, resonate more than ever: “The language is the heart of the people: if the language dies, the people die.”
