海角大神

For Ukrainians, memory fuels the fight for sovereignty

The visitors enter the building on Yaroslavksa Street through a scuffed metal door and climb two flights of stairs under the weight of unwanted memories. In a gray office with blank walls, they meet attorneys with the Kharkiv Human Rights Protection Group, who sit at desks behind laptops, poised to listen. Here the men and women and children reveal their anguish and loss. The lawyers type notes as they talk, and with each recorded narrative, the larger story of Russia鈥檚 invasion of Ukraine gains another detail that history cannot erase.

Natalia Rudenko arrives at the office on an ashen February morning with her young son, Egor, to share an account of wartime terror spanning three generations. A year earlier, as Russian troops surged over the border and bombarded Kharkiv, Ukraine鈥檚 second-largest city, mother and child found refuge in the basement of an apartment building near their home.

They lived underground for the next three weeks, their days and nights splintered by the ceaseless sounds of war above. Venturing outside in March, Ms. Rudenko, whose husband volunteered in the country鈥檚 territorial defense force, discovered that an artillery shell had damaged their home.

She packed two suitcases and traveled with Egor by train to the western city of Lviv to stay with a relative鈥檚 friend. The distance from the fighting eased her anxiety without subduing her concern for loved ones left behind.聽

Soon after invading, the Russian military captured Ms. Rudenko鈥檚 hometown of Staryi Saltiv, a summer resort destination 25 miles from Kharkiv and half that far from Russia. Her parents, Tatiana and Yuri, who still lived in the house where she grew up, resisted her pleas to evacuate.聽

In early May, facing a Ukrainian counteroffensive, Russian forces pummeled the area with artillery to cover their retreat. Yuri and Tatiana, eager to tell their daughter about the town鈥檚 liberation, walked from their home to the top of a small rise in search of a cell signal. The call failed to connect. As the couple descended the hill, a rocket blast killed them.

Ms. Rudenko, a grocery store manager before the war, returned to Kharkiv in January and reunited with her husband. The dark circles beneath her eyes attest to an unrelieved sorrow that she attempts to conceal from Egor.聽

Since the weeks underground, he trembles with fear at loud noises, and his erratic moods often eclipse his playful demeanor, suggesting a young mind traumatized. She worries the war has claimed her parents and her son in different ways. She needs the world to remember.

鈥淢y mother and father are gone forever. But I want Egor to grow up in peace in Ukraine,鈥� she says. Her head drops as tears fall. 鈥淚 want everyone to know what Russia has done.鈥�

The Kharkiv Human Rights Protection Group gathers testimony and evidence for referral to prosecutors investigating potential war crimes. The work represents one facet of Ukraine鈥檚 efforts to preserve memories of Russia鈥檚 unprovoked war and honor the dignity of its victims, living and dead.

The varied approaches 鈥� from formal actions of civic institutions to private vigils of everyday Ukrainians 鈥� embody a collective act of remembrance that also advances Ukraine鈥檚 ambition to pursue a future free of Moscow鈥檚 grasp. Beyond its military鈥檚 tenacity, the country has fought to counter Russian President Vladimir Putin鈥檚 parallel war on history, seeking to thwart him from silencing the Ukrainian idea.

鈥淢emory is the foundation of our culture, our identity,鈥� says Hanna Yarmish, the education director at a museum dedicated to the 18th-century philosopher Hryhorii Skovoroda. A missile strike gutted the institution outside Kharkiv last May. 鈥淭he memories of this war will mean that every future generation will understand what Ukraine represents, what Russia represents 鈥� and why Ukrainians will always choose freedom.鈥�

Their resolve to never forget Moscow鈥檚 brutality exemplifies a desire to escape the Russian tyranny that for centuries stifled Ukraine鈥檚 distinct heritage, history, language, and identity. Starting in the mid-1600s, when the Russian Empire began conquering Ukrainian territory and branded its people 鈥淟ittle Russians,鈥� Kremlin rulers at once dictated and disfigured the country鈥檚 future.

Vladimir Lenin codified Russia鈥檚 hegemony over Ukraine after quelling its fight for independence, absorbing the smaller nation into his newly formed Soviet Union in 1922. His successor, Josef Stalin, killed millions of Ukrainians in a decadeslong reign that brought the state-imposed聽famine known as the Holodomor, forced-labor camps, and mass purges, along with conscription into the Red Army.

The depths of Russia鈥檚 oppression drew into clearer focus only after the Soviet Union imploded in 1991. Less than a decade later, Mr. Putin ascended to power, and in the ensuing years, rather than redress past atrocities or build a stable alliance between the countries, he fixated on Russia reasserting control over Ukraine.

A popular uprising in 2014 ousted Ukraine鈥檚 then-president, Viktor Yanukovych, widely perceived as a Kremlin pawn. Mr. Putin responded by annexing the Crimean Peninsula and backing Russian operatives who seized portions of the Donbas region in southeastern Ukraine.

The land grabs portended the full-scale war he launched 14 months ago during the centennial year of the Soviet Union鈥檚 founding and three decades after Ukraine gained its independence. In a televised address days before the invasion, Mr. Putin mythologized his nation鈥檚 imperialism, describing Ukraine as 鈥渆ntirely created by Russia鈥� and 鈥渁n inalienable part of our own history, culture, and spiritual space.鈥�

Mr. Putin鈥檚 bloody crusade to elide the national narrative of a sovereign Ukraine recalls the dark methods of Stalin, Lenin, and earlier Russian leaders to inflict a forced forgetting. His strategy to weaponize memory has fortified the solidarity of Ukraine鈥檚 people, whose united defiance evokes the struggle of their forebears and illuminates an indelible new history that belongs wholly to Ukraine.

鈥淲e must talk and be heard,鈥� says Oksana Mandryka, an attorney with the Kharkiv Human Rights Protection Group. 鈥淯nder the Soviet Union and the Russian Empire, we couldn鈥檛 tell our story because we weren鈥檛 allowed to exist as a separate people. Telling stories 鈥� and remembering them 鈥� is how we will keep our spirit alive.鈥澛�

Dappled sunlight falls across a forest cemetery where snow frames hundreds of empty graves. Wooden crosses bearing numbers in black ink stand inside the dirt plots. The dead have been removed. Their absence persists for those who loved them.

Russian troops captured Izium last April after a weekslong assault that damaged or destroyed three-fourths of the homes in the city of 46,000 people southeast of Kharkiv. A single airstrike on an apartment building killed 54 residents.

The Ukrainian army reclaimed Izium in September, exposing the horrors of the occupation. The Russians dumped some 450 bodies into the crude graves that now lay bare. Most of the dead were civilians; many showed signs of torture. A mass burial pit contained the remains of 17 Ukrainian soldiers.

Officials exhumed the victims to begin the arduous process of identifying them. Several who were congregants at Holy Ascension Cathedral, a Ukrainian Orthodox church, have received formal reburial in the same cemetery. On this cloudless afternoon, beneath a gossamer canopy of pine trees, archpriest Bogdan Dumindiak has finished a graveside service for a grandmother killed in the apartment attack.

The invasion has expanded his perspective on the symbolism of burial rites. 鈥淚t is now not only personal and spiritual,鈥� he says. 鈥淚t is also historical.鈥� He seeks to reassure bereaved survivors that their lost loved ones live forever in the national memory.

鈥淲e must remember each individual for the family and for Ukraine,鈥� Father Dumindiak says. He wears a parka over his vestments against the cold, his manner as quiet as the woods around him. 鈥淭hey would be part of our future if not for Russia.鈥�

The empty grave marked with cross No. 76 once held the body of Olena Shevchenko鈥檚 daughter, one of the 8,490 civilian deaths as of mid-April that the United Nations has recorded in Ukraine since Russia invaded.

Victoria Redko brought a homemade meal to her mother almost every Wednesday for decades. She prepared containers of borscht, dumplings, or potato pancakes before walking the mile to her childhood home.聽

As Russian forces attacked Izium last spring, Ms. Redko worried about her mother, a pensioner and widow who lives alone. Unable to contact her 鈥� the city lacked power and cell service 鈥� Ms. Redko decided to keep their weekly lunch date. She filled two tote bags with food and set out on the聽second Wednesday in March.

She never arrived. Ms. Shevchenko鈥檚 younger daughter later braved the Russian shelling to drive to her sister鈥檚 home and learned the worst from a neighbor. An artillery blast killed Ms. Redko as she walked to her mother鈥檚 house.

Ms. Shevchenko wipes away tears while sitting in the kitchen where she and her elder daughter had talked and laughed. An artificial rose in a vase on the table honors the memory of Ms. Redko, the mother of two adult sons. 鈥淚 have a sadness that is deeper than anything I have ever felt,鈥� she says.

A child of the Soviet Union, Ms. Shevchenko speaks Russian, the dominant language in eastern Ukraine. Before the war, the region shared a strong kinship with Russia, rooted in family, religion, culture, and history. Two of her paternal uncles served in the Red Army during WWII as the Soviet Union fought to liberate Ukraine from German occupation. Her mother recalled Soviet soldiers handing out bread to hungry families.

Three generations later, Ms. Shevchenko鈥檚 youngest grandchild 鈥� one of Ms. Redko鈥檚 sons 鈥� wears the uniform of the Ukrainian army. His unit took part in the counteroffensive that drove Russian troops from most of the Kharkiv region last fall.

鈥淧utin calls us 鈥榦ne people.鈥� It was always a lie,鈥� she says. 鈥淏ut in Soviet times, we thought Russia was against fascism. Now Russians are the fascists. We will always remember this aggression.鈥�

Ms. Shevchenko still talks with her daughter every Wednesday when she visits Ms. Redko鈥檚 grave in the forest cemetery where the family reburied her after Russian troops retreated. More than 100 bodies that officials disinterred in September remain unidentified. Father Dumindiak struggles to find meaning in the country鈥檚 torment.

鈥淲e carry this sadness in our hearts,鈥� he says. A low rumble drifts through the woods from a nearby road as flatbed trucks haul Ukrainian tanks toward the besieged city of Bakhmut. War has taught him that the pain of memory is the price of sovereignty. 聽

鈥淲ith God鈥檚 help, we will stay free. We will try to forgive,鈥� he says. 鈥淏ut it is not possible to forget.鈥�

The security guard stepped outside to take a call a little before 11 p.m. He knew the thick building walls would interfere with cell reception. He had no inkling the decision would save his life.

Moments later, a missile slammed through the roof of the National Literary Memorial Museum of H.S. Skovoroda. The impact blew out the windows and ignited a fire that consumed the interior. Rescue workers found the security guard pinned under debris, injured but alive.

Hanna Yarmish, the museum鈥檚 education director, views his survival as a metaphor for the resilience of Ukrainian culture as epitomized by the lasting influence of Hryhorii Skovoroda. 鈥淚n the same way that you cannot extinguish the memory of Skovoroda,鈥� she says, 鈥測ou cannot extinguish the Ukrainian idea.鈥�

Snow crunches under her boots as she walks through the ruined museum on the estate grounds where the 鈥減hilosopher of the heart鈥� spent his final years before his death in 1794. Missile fragments from the attack last May dangle in tree branches above the missing roof.

鈥淵ou can destroy some buildings, some monuments. But the physical is not the essence of who we are,鈥� Ms. Yarmish says. She invokes Skovoroda鈥檚 tenet that meaning resides within human thought, spirit, and will. 鈥淭he museum is still here because鈥� 鈥� she taps her heart 鈥� 鈥淪kovoroda is here.鈥�

Russia鈥檚 military has bombed 1,600 museums, cathedrals, memorials, and other cultural sites across Ukraine and looted tens of thousands of artworks and artifacts. As with the Skovoroda museum, located in a village of fewer than 600 people near Kharkiv, many of the strikes have occurred in isolated areas without discernible military value.

The rocket that hit the museum marks the sole attack to date on Skovorodynivka, the rural enclave named for the philosopher, whose writings explored themes of individual freedom, spiritual understanding, and the benevolent pursuit of happiness. Mr. Putin appears familiar with his work, if less so his ethos of compassion.

Two years ago, the Kremlin website posted a rambling essay credited to the Russian president and titled 鈥淥n the Historical Unity of Russians and Ukrainians.鈥� Denying the existence of a unique Ukrainian culture and identity, the piece argued that Russia held equal claim to the legacies of Skovoroda, Taras Shevchenko, and Ivan Kotlyarevsky, three of Ukraine鈥檚 brightest literary lights.

Ms. Yarmish considers the museum attack a microcosm of Mr. Putin鈥檚 failed effort to redact by force Ukraine鈥檚 cultural history. The staff removed almost the entire museum collection soon after Russia invaded, preserving for posterity the tangible evidence of Skovoroda鈥檚 Ukrainian heritage.

At the same time, the bombing has infused his writings with renewed relevance in Ukraine, as President Volodymyr Zelenskyy made explicit during a Victory Day address last May.

The annual holiday commemorates the Soviet Union鈥檚 defeat of Germany in WWII. Mr. Zelenskyy mentioned the museum attack from three days earlier and quoted Skovoroda in condemning Russia鈥檚 invasion: 鈥淭here is nothing more dangerous than an insidious enemy, but there is nothing more poisonous than a feigned friend.鈥�

Mr. Zelenskyy denounced the 鈥渂arbarians who shell the Skovoroda museum and believe that their missiles can destroy our philosophy,鈥� and he vowed that 鈥渨e will not give anyone a single piece of our history.鈥� Ms. Yarmish voices similar conviction as she steps out of the scorched museum and descends its front steps, a Ukrainian flag waving in the breeze above her.聽

鈥淔rom the first day the war is over,鈥� she says, 鈥渢he museum will be open.鈥�

Vasily Hrushka worked the land for most of his life and the land always gave back. He trusted the rich, black soil in the fields where he sowed and harvested crops, earning the modest living that supported his family.

It was when war came to Kamianka that the earth betrayed him. Russian forces occupied the village nestled in a shallow valley outside Izium for six months starting last spring. The area marked part of the front line, and as heavy shelling damaged or聽destroyed every single home and residents fled, Kamianka鈥檚 population plunged from 1,000 to below 50.

Rockets twice hit Mr. Hrushka鈥檚 house. He rolls up his sweater sleeve above the elbow to reveal a scar the size of a silver dollar from a chunk of shrapnel. He points to another scar on his forehead and shares the story of a drunken Russian soldier who entered his home and struck him with the butt of a Kalashnikov rifle.

He healed from those injuries but endured a third after the Russians withdrew. The invading troops left discarded ammunition boxes, live artillery shells, incinerated tanks, and other war detritus throughout the village. In October, as he cleared debris from his fields, a mine buried in the soil exploded. His left foot was gone.

Mr. Hrushka recounts his misfortune without self-pity as he sits on a bed in his living room, crutches on the floor below him. His pale blue eyes pool with tears only when he describes the devastation of war. Homes reduced to ashes. The screams of farm animals ripped open by artillery. A neighbor sprawled dead in his yard, face turned toward the sky.

鈥淭his is what Russia has given us,鈥� he says. He holds up a callused hand to correct himself. 鈥淭his is what Russia has taken from us.鈥�

The invasion has forced 14 million Ukrainians from their homes, and officials have logged more than 76,000 alleged war crimes committed by Russian soldiers. The list includes summary executions, torture, sexual violence, and destruction of civilian homes and infrastructure. In March, the International Criminal Court issued a warrant for Mr. Putin鈥檚 arrest, implicating him in the mass abduction and deportation of Ukrainian children.

The incalculable trauma wrought by the invasion will trail Ukrainians for generations. 鈥淥ur bodies right now are clenched like a fist,鈥� says Natalya Potseluyeva, a psychologist who treats survivors of war crimes. 鈥淓verybody in the country feels this way to different degrees.鈥�

Ms. Potseluyeva counsels people to accept that the war lies beyond their control and to focus on finding daily purpose even with missiles falling. She tells them that defusing memories of Russia鈥檚 cruelty will require time and talking.

鈥淲e can鈥檛 simply forget this destruction being done to us. So we must learn how to speak about these things to understand our trauma,鈥� she says. 鈥淭his will allow us to think about our future again.鈥�

The date of Feb. 24, 2022, will forever represent a watershed in Ukraine. The day Mr. Putin unleashed his wider invasion聽arrived 31 years after the country declared its independence from the Soviet Union on Aug. 24, 1991. His decision demarcated in blood the moment Ukrainian identity slipped free from Russian history.聽

Another date from last year shadows Mr. Hrushka 鈥� Oct. 19, when the earth erupted beneath him. He has lost much to Russia, yet like his homeland, he chooses to look ahead. He expects to receive a prosthetic foot in the coming months, and in time, he plans to resume working in his fields.

In the war鈥檚 first days, as rockets rained on Kamianka, Mr. Hrushka and his wife prepared to flee. He set free the cows, goats, and pigs in his barn so they might escape slaughter by the Russians. When he checked on the house a few days later, the animals had returned. He saw in their behavior a reflection of Ukraine鈥檚 indomitable memory.

鈥淭his is home. They remember,鈥� he says. His eyes shine as he smiles.聽鈥淲e remember.鈥澛�