Many Russian-speaking Ukrainians have adopted Ukrainian as their usual language since the Russian invasion. Why?

The war and the atrocities committed by the Russians have led many Ukrainians to speak only Ukrainian. We are in a country where the occupier inflicts a level of destruction unprecedented since the Second World War, where people living under occupation are tortured and murdered for speaking Ukrainian, where in occupied cities children are educated in hatred towards their own culture and the Ukrainian language, and thousands are kidnapped and sent for adoption to Russian families. In this situation, what can one expect? As a Russian-speaking Ukrainian, I would prefer this wasn’t happening, but as a historian, I don’t have any example of a war in which the language of an occupying country has been considered a neutral means of communication in an attacked country.

Has the perception of the Ukrainian language changed drastically in recent years?

Yes, but not drastically—rather progressively. The turning point came with the Russian invasion of 2014 and the wave of aggressive anti-Ukrainian propaganda spread by the Russian state and its media. The response of many Ukrainians was to actively begin switching to the Ukrainian language, which in turn led to an increase in the consumption of Ukrainian cultural products: books, music, media, and others. Before 2014, the entire post-Soviet space was largely dominated by the Russian cultural market, which benefited from substantial state support and acted almost as a monopoly. This left the Ukrainian cultural space with two difficult options: either participate in the Russian language market and gain wider access and economic viability, or continue producing content in Ukrainian with the resulting marginalisation that entailed. The 2014 invasion substantially altered this landscape. Many cultural and economic ties between Russia and Ukraine were cut, creating space for a more independent Ukrainian cultural market to develop and thrive.

In your participation at the Barcelona conference, you explained that, not long ago, speaking Ukrainian in Kyiv was something exceptional.

One must take into account the legacy of Soviet linguistic policy. Since the Stalin era, Russian was systematically imposed as the only legitimate language of modernity and progress throughout the Soviet Union. This policy led many Ukrainians to abandon their mother tongue between the 1950s and 1980s, as Ukrainian became increasingly associated with backwardness, a perception of inferiority that hindered social mobility. All this meant that, even though ethnic Ukrainians constituted the majority of the population, even in regions like the Donbass, Ukrainian was largely absent from urban life and systematically excluded from the public sphere. This linguistic hierarchy persisted even after Ukraine gained independence.

In occupied cities, children are educated in hatred towards their own culture and the Ukrainian language

What was your experience?

Until 2014, speaking Ukrainian in major cities was often seen as a sign of rural origin and carried a social stigma, while Russian remained associated with urban sophistication and social prestige. I can personally attest to this. As a Russian speaker, I had more job opportunities in Kyiv in 2011 than my Ukrainian-speaking friends. Moreover, as I mentioned earlier, Russia invested heavily in maintaining its cultural and linguistic dominance throughout the post-Soviet space, a region that the Russian elite considered its legitimate area of influence, or more precisely, its imperial domain. This cultural integration into the Russian discursive space affected not only language but served to carry out a broader political programme: fostering loyalty to the Russian state and its geopolitical priorities. The ultimate goal was to promote an identity within neighbouring countries that rejected democratic ideals and embraced social conservatism, illiberalism, and economic cynicism. This ideological framework kept these countries economically dependent and politically subordinate to the interests of Putin’s regime. In this context, maintaining the dominance of the Russian language was not an end in itself, but a strategic instrument, an effective channel through which Russian state propaganda could reach and influence as many people as possible beyond its borders.

Is there a correlation between being a Russian speaker and supporting Russia?

This was partly the case before 2014. Between 2004 and 2014, various oligarchic clans competing for power in Ukraine deliberately exacerbated and politicised linguistic differences to mobilise their electorates around identity issues. A clear example of this manipulation occurred in 2012 when pro-Russian political forces passed a law that ostensibly aimed to protect minority languages. In reality, as the popularity of pro-Russian President Viktor Yanukovych declined, the campaign focused exclusively on “defending the Russian language”. The strategy was especially directed at the older generation of Russian speakers living in economically declining industrial centres, who often viewed the collapse of the Soviet Union and Ukraine’s increasing independence as a loss of social stability and symbolic privileges. Local oligarchs were instrumental in promoting the discourse of Donbass exceptionalism and fostering a sense of resentment among residents of the Donbass region towards their compatriots from other parts of Ukraine, even other Russian speakers. Research such as that of Volodymyr Kulyk has shown that the region of residence was a more significant factor in shaping political opinions than language. This helps explain why, in 2014, the majority of Russian speakers in cities like Kharkiv, Dnipro, and other large industrial centres supported Ukrainian sovereignty, while the populations of Donetsk and Luhansk (in the Donbass region) were more permeable to Russian discourse. Nevertheless, it should be noted that even in Donetsk, in the heart of the Donbass region, pro-Russian political activists were a minority, active but minuscule. Their rallies and events rarely gathered more than dozens of participants.

What changes occurred in 2014?

Since the Russian aggression of 2014, the correlation between language and pro-Russian sentiment has weakened considerably. The harsh reality is that the Russian war has primarily been waged against civilians in eastern Ukraine, many of whom are Russian speakers. For most, their attitude towards Russia is no longer conditioned by language, but by lived experience: the loss of homes, families, and loved ones as a direct result of Russian aggression.

Putin justified the invasion, in part, to protect Russian speakers in Ukraine.

Indeed, in 2014, during the annexation of Crimea and the Russian intervention in the Donbass, the Kremlin justified its actions with the argument that it was protecting Russian-speaking populations from so-called “linguistic genocide”. This discourse, however, was a political tool rather than a reflection of genuine concern for this population. This rhetoric was designed with three different audiences in mind. First, it was directed at Russian-speaking residents of Ukraine and other neighbouring countries. The narrative of linguistic oppression was designed to fuel a sense of affective belonging among those who, in the past, may have perceived that they had certain privileges tied to their linguistic identity, privileges they now feared losing. Second, it was directed at Russian citizens themselves. By portraying Russian-speaking communities abroad as oppressed, the Kremlin reinforced a nationalist discourse centred on the idea that the Russian political and national body should be unified. This created the illusion of shared interests between the state and its citizens and fostered support for expansionist policies under the pretext of protecting “compatriots” abroad. Third, and perhaps most cynically, this justification was addressed to the international community. Even when attempting to violate international law, aggressors often try to conceal their actions under a veneer of legitimacy. Invoking the protection of linguistic minorities provided the Kremlin with a seemingly plausible reason for its aggression. After all, few would openly deny that linguistic minorities deserve protection. The brutal irony is that this so-called “protection” was carried out through the bombing of their cities. In reality, the linguistic issue has been cynically used by the Putin regime to serve imperialist ambitions. Unfortunately, many external observers have too quickly accepted this propaganda at face value, without recognising the manipulative strategy behind it.

What degree of prestige has the Ukrainian language had throughout history?

In the 19^th century, the Russian state portrayed the Ukrainian language as an inferior dialect of Russian. From the 1860s until 1917, any public use of Ukrainian (in education, publishing, press, or theatre) was strictly prohibited by law. This form of linguistic repression was applied exclusively to Ukrainian, unlike other languages within the Russian Empire, because Russian elites perceived the recognition of a distinct Ukrainian language as a direct threat to the unity of what they imagined as a pan-Russian nation, a nation that would unite and assimilate Russians, Ukrainians, and Belarusians. In this context, the use of Ukrainian was not simply seen as a sign of backwardness, but as an act of betrayal against the Russian nation. This obsession with supposed Ukrainian “betrayal” continues to be a central feature of Russian nationalist ideology. Russian nationalists are convinced that one of the main reasons why Russia has not yet achieved world domination is because of Ukrainian “traitors” who resist integration into the Russian national body. This same discourse persisted, albeit with slight modifications, during the Soviet era. The idea of the three Slavic “sisters” (Russia, Belarus, and Ukraine) was central to the ideological framework of the Soviet Union, where the unity of these nations was presented as essential to maintaining the integrity of the USSR. In the eyes of Russian nationalists and state elites, the Ukrainian language has historically been associated with both backwardness and betrayal, which has provoked feelings of disgust, aversion, fear, and hatred towards the language and those who spoke it. For Ukrainian speakers, this perception translated into tangible discrimination. A poor Ukrainian speaker was often seen as an uncultivated peasant, unsuitable for respectable work. In contrast, an educated Ukrainian intellectual was seen as a potential political dissident, someone who could not be allowed to hold positions of influence or authority. In both cases, the use of the Ukrainian language consigned individuals to marginalisation.

Are Russian and Ukrainian mutually intelligible?

For the most part, yes. They are two languages that share part of their vocabulary and structural similarities due to their common Slavic roots, but this intelligibility is asymmetrical. Ukrainians generally understand Russian quite well, largely because they have historically been forced to do so for generations. Ukrainians, regardless of their mother tongue, have grown up exposed to Russian through school, media, and official communication. Russian speakers have more difficulty understanding Ukrainian. This asymmetry is a consequence of the dynamics of imperial dominance: as the language of the majority and the dominant power, Russian speakers had little practical need or motivation to learn the languages of minority groups. This linguistic privilege has meant that many Russian speakers are unfamiliar with Ukrainian.

Is the majority of the population capable of speaking both languages?

Capable, yes. Willing to do so, probably not anymore. But it should be added that there are millions of people who speak the mixture of two languages called surzhyk.

Is there a feeling of rejection towards the Russian language in Ukraine?

The rejection is directed towards Russia itself, not just its language. Over the past three years, Russia has waged a war of total destruction against Ukraine, committed atrocities in occupied territories, and bombed Ukrainian cities every day. In this context, it is natural for many Ukrainians to experience an almost visceral sense of rejection. That said, language is not always chosen. Not all Russian speakers in Ukraine are able or willing to change. Changing one’s language of communication requires a certain level of cultural capital, education, and, above all, time and stability. For those focused on survival in the face of war, linguistic identity is not a priority.

The Putin regime has cynically used the linguistic issue to serve imperialist ambitions

How do Russian speakers feel?

In 2014, when Putin justified military aggression by citing the supposed oppression of Russian speakers, rejection of the Russian language in Ukraine was marginal, but the invasion has helped turn this discourse into a self-fulfilling prophecy. After years of war, atrocities, and destruction, millions of Ukrainians now have a deep hatred for anything Russian, including the language. Unfortunately, this hostility sometimes extends to Russian-speaking refugees from Ukraine itself, who are actually the most vulnerable population. It is not uncommon for Ukrainian-speaking residents of cities far from the front line to accuse Russian-speaking survivors of bombings of a lack of patriotism. Currently, Russian speakers in Ukraine lack public figures who can articulate their experiences without exploiting them for political gain.

And Russia is supposed to protect them.

The tragic irony is that, while Russia claims to “protect” Russian speakers, it simultaneously uses their language as a weapon to undermine Ukraine’s right to exist as an independent state and society. This leaves Russian speakers in Ukraine caught in a painful position: the aggressor uses their language to justify violence against the nation of which they are a part. At the same time, there is a very bad tendency among many members of the self-proclaimed Ukrainian intellectual elite, who promote the simplistic and exclusionary idea that “a true Ukrainian is one who speaks Ukrainian”. This thesis is based on outdated ethno-nationalist ideas from the 19^th century that are undermining the true basis of Ukrainian unity today, the shared resistance against the occupier. Trying to build national solidarity only around language does not reflect the complex realities of Ukrainian society, where people of different linguistic backgrounds have confronted aggression. By prioritising emotion over strategy, this view angers those who have fought just as firmly for Ukraine but speak Russian. In the current context, this is not only short-sighted but highly irresponsible.

Would the end of the war change the linguistic situation in Ukraine?

It depends on what end we’re talking about. If the war ends with an unjust “peace agreement” imposed on Ukraine by imperialist powers that forces a nation that has made so many sacrifices in defence of its freedom to accept terms dictated by the aggressor, it will fuel hatred. The sense of enormous injustice will provide fertile ground for radical movements to thrive at the expense of moderate and progressive forces. History offers numerous examples of how imposed peace agreements, born of coercion of victims and impunity of aggressors, have led to the rise of extremist groups, organisations driven by desperation. No force is more radicalising than the combination of military occupation and systematic oppression. On the other hand, if the war ends with a just and lasting peace, a peace that guarantees the preservation of Ukrainian sovereignty and holds those responsible for aggression and war crimes accountable, then healing is possible. But it won’t happen overnight. Even under the best circumstances, it will likely take generations to alleviate the trauma of this war. In this scenario, over time, Russian could simply become one of many languages spoken in Ukraine. But until there is justice for Ukraine and accountability for Russia, the language of the occupying force will not be a neutral means of communication.

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Hanna Perekhoda

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