Ukrainian author Oksana Zabuzhko on why Ukrainians ‘don’t have to respect Pushkin’

Over the past three years of full-scale war, Ukraine’s cultural figures have shifted from focusing solely on their craft to becoming diplomats, advocating for their culture abroad as the Russian army continues its relentless attempt to destroy it.

At the same time, within Ukraine itself, a resurgence of national identity that began in 2014 has been accelerated by the full-scale war. Ukrainians en masse are reclaiming and reconnecting with their heritage, immersing themselves in a culture that Russia has spent centuries trying to suppress.

Oksana Zabuzhko, one of Ukraine’s most prominent authors, has been at the forefront of the country’s cultural revival since its independence in 1991. Her novel “Fieldwork in Ukrainian Sex” is regarded as one of the most significant works of independent Ukraine and her books have been translated into multiple foreign languages.

In an interview with the Kyiv Independent, Zabuzhko discussed why Ukrainians should not feel obligated to respect Russian literature, the rightful place of classic Ukrainian female authors in the global literary canon, the challenge of self-censorship during wartime, and why it’s wrong to share a stage with Russian authors while the war continues.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

There are still many things about Ukraine that Ukrainians themselves have yet to fully understand. We’re still in the process of self-discovery — learning about our own history, and identity. Right now is a particularly interesting time, with this major tectonic shift happening. For the first time since 1945, Europe is being forced to confront its security system on its own. In a way, (U.S. President Donald) Trump and his administration served as a wake-up call for Europe, and suddenly, we’re seeing all these fascinating discussions — both Ukrainian and international — taking place in Kyiv.

For years, Ukraine was seen as an axis between East and West — between Poland and Russia — interpreted through frameworks like Samuel Huntington’s “clash of civilizations” or other similar narratives, which, frankly, I consider nonsense. But now, we’re witnessing a shift: Ukraine is becoming an axis that runs North-South. I call this project “Mazepa’s Europe,” after (Ukrainian) Hetman (Ivan) Mazepa, who once envisioned it. His vision ultimately failed in the early 18th century, but it was rooted in an older, historically significant route — the path from the Varangians to the Greeks, which has long played a vital role in both Ukrainian and European history.

This idea of an "Intermarium" — linking the Baltic and Black Seas — is not a hierarchical model where great powers dictate terms to smaller nations. Instead, it’s a democratic Intermarium, where states and nations collaborate as equals, forming temporary alliances and working together on their own terms. It stands in stark contrast to the old model of power, where decisions about smaller nations’ fates were made over their heads by the so-called great powers — like in Yalta (in 1945).

It’s a different approach — very European, I would say. It’s deeply anti-superpower, anti-imperial, and at the same time, unmistakably Ukrainian. After all, we have always existed along this historic route from the Varangians to the Greeks.

Mazepa’s project is something generations of Ukrainians were never taught in school. Our heavily Russified, colonial education system conditioned people to believe that Mazepa was a villain simply because he defied Peter I. (Russian poet Alexander) Pushkin wrote that he was a traitor, and so we were taught to respect Pushkin. But we don’t have to.

This is part of the broader decolonization process — learning about ourselves from a long-term perspective, whether across three centuries or even a millennium. There’s still so much we have yet to share with the world, and many new textbooks are still waiting to be written. It’s an exciting subject.

Oksana Zabuzhko, author and poet, attends the 30th Lviv BookForum on Oct. 7, 2023, in Lviv, Ukraine. (Les Kasyanov/Global Images Ukraine via Getty Images)

The Kyiv Independent: Building on this idea, I have to say that I recently read Olha Kobylianska’s short story “Valse mélancolique” (1898) for the first time, and as a foreigner, I was struck by the strong tradition of feminist thought in Ukrainian literature. The line, “We shall live not as mothers or wives, but as women,” has stayed with me ever since. It seems to me that if the world were more familiar with Ukraine’s classic female writers, they would rightfully earn their place in the global literary canon.

Oksana Zabuzhko: Thank you so much — I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you just said. It’s something I’ve been emphasizing for years: we still need to “sell” this idea to the West, to convince Western audiences — however loosely we define them — that without Olha Kobylianska, and even more so Lesia Ukrainka, the landscape of European literature is incomplete.

(Ukrainian writer) Lesia Ukrainka was, in many ways, half a century ahead of her time compared to her Western European female contemporaries. That’s an undeniable truth. What makes Ukrainian culture particularly unique in gender terms? Perhaps it has to do with Ukraine’s long history as a frontier. Here’s a simple way to put it: we never burned our witches. Of course, there were practices like trial by water — drowning women to determine if their souls were pure — but the ancient pagan tradition of strong, wise women endured in Ukraine far longer than in most of Europe. Even in the 20th century, every village still had a healer or “witch” who cured people.

But it’s not just about the survival of pagan traditions. Ukrainian folk culture has always had a powerful female voice. Early 19th-century ethnographers were surprised to discover that two-thirds of Ukrainian folk songs were told from a female perspective — something highly unusual at the time. These songs weren’t just lyrics; they chronicled the entire arc of a woman’s life.

More importantly, Ukrainian women historically had legal rights that were rare in Europe. They could own property and pass it down through the female line — a practice known as “materyzna.” This inheritance, whether money, land, or real estate, was untouchable by husbands and meant to be passed from mother to daughter. Compare that to the impact of the Reformation on women’s rights in Western Europe, and it’s easy to see why Ukraine has such strong female and even feminist voices.

Lesia Ukrainka and other Ukrainian feminists of the time didn’t just advocate for women’s rights; they saw the legal and social restrictions placed on women in European culture as entirely artificial and absurd. Just read her letters — they should be translated into every European language. She was, in a way, the blogger of her time, writing five or six letters a day while traveling. Because of her tuberculosis, she spent much of her life in sanatoriums across Europe. Her letters form an intellectual diary of the Belle Époque, particularly the decade before World War I. And unlike many of her contemporaries, she had a chilling premonition that this beautiful world was on the brink of collapse.

Her perspective is deeply European, unmistakably Ukrainian, and distinctly female — something that is still missing from the broader European literary canon. And it’s absolutely fascinating.

The Kyiv Independent: Would you say that there are any major taboos that exist in Ukrainian literature today?

Oksana Zabuzhko: That’s a difficult question — a really difficult one. I wouldn’t say we’re fully ready to discuss how exactly the war has affected our writing.

In terms of genre, yes, there’s already some discussion. Poetry, for instance, always survives — it’s the art of quick reaction. Essays, too. This is a strong time for poetry and essays. But when it comes to longer forms, like the novel, it’s much more complicated. And speaking of taboos, there’s something I think it’s time to acknowledge.

One of the biggest challenges for a writer in a country at war is that you lose many privileges — but perhaps the most profound loss is the ability to freely criticize your own country. It’s a form of self-censorship, and it’s a real problem for free thought, for imagination, for writing itself. When your country is under attack — when someone is trying to erase it from existence — you start to think in terms of security above all else. Criticizing your country suddenly feels like siding with the enemy, with those who want to destroy it.

And then you realize that being able to openly critique your own country is a privilege. A privilege that disappears in wartime. Because now, you feel mobilized. You feel a duty to strengthen your country, to contribute to its resilience. Anything that exposes its weaknesses can be twisted, weaponized by those who seek to annihilate it.

That, I would say, is what makes me most uncomfortable in my own writing right now — this imposed self-censorship. But that’s war. That’s war.

The Kyiv Independent: Right now in the West, we have a troubling situation where people are eager to humanize Russia, including Russian soldiers fighting in Ukraine. They seek a kind of normalization. Perhaps you heard of the documentary, “Russians at War,” in which soldiers are portrayed as simple, helpless men. I know Ukrainian authors don’t particularly want to be diplomats; they want to write. But how do we confront this moving forward?

Oksana Zabuzhko: There are, of course, different shades of propaganda, and “Russians at War” — a documentary that many of my Western friends didn’t even recognize as propaganda — was a shocking example of their naivety. A simple question: Do you really think a filmmaker with a camera would be allowed to move freely among Russian soldiers without permission from someone higher up?

When I asked this, the response was always the same: “Oh, really? I didn’t think about that.” This lack of awareness is alarming. The war is at their doorstep too, yet they fail to ask the most basic questions. When they see Russian soldiers being filmed by an allegedly independent filmmaker, the first thing they should ask is: How did this filmmaker get access? Of course, it was approved and paid for from the top. This is all part of Russia’s soft power and propaganda — this push for normalization is a key part of their cultural strategy.

So what can Ukrainians do? Just yesterday, I was discussing this with my agent, who is arranging interviews for me at the Leipzig Book Fair. A journalist asked if I would consider a public dialogue with a Russian writer — someone respected, someone who has written a book against the war, not just a statement or an open letter. And this, too, exposes an important distinction: a writer’s stance on war is not just what they say in interviews. It’s what they put in their books. If a writer has spent years romanticizing the Russian Empire, glorifying (Soviet dictator Joseph) Stalin, or celebrating its imperial past, how can they now claim to be against the war? It’s as absurd as imagining a so-called “anti-fascist” German writer in the 1930s praising (Holocaust architect Heinrich) Himmler’s leadership while condemning (Nazi leader Adolf) Hitler in interviews.

The reality is, I might have a drink with one of these so-called “anti-war” Russian writers in a bar — some of them I’ve known for years — but I won’t share a stage with them in public discussion. And here’s why: in three years of this full-scale war — the largest in Europe since World War II — there has been no collective Russian action against it. Yes, many Russians fled abroad. Yes, some join Ukrainian protests in Berlin or other cities. But have they organized their own protests against Russia’s war? Have they released any collective statement against it? No. Not one.

But when you put them next to us, when you invite them to share the stage with Ukrainians, you legitimize them. You try to place them in the same category of suffering, as if their situation is comparable to ours. And I’m sorry, but it’s not. Not until they take a real stand. So yes, I might have a private conversation with them, but a public discussion? No way. Not until after our victory.

Note from the author:

Hey there, it's Kate Tsurkan, thanks for reading my latest interview. Oksana Zabuzhko is truly a living legend, one of the greatest figures of contemporary Ukrainian culture, and I was so thrilled to not only finally meet one of my literary heroes but share our conversation with you. Now more than ever it is important to support Ukrainian culture, as Russia seeks to dismantle it. If you like reading this sort of thing, please consider becoming a member of the Kyiv Independent.