Growing up in the bilingual city of Kyiv in the 1990s, my study of the Ukrainian language resembled examining a museum artifact – an intense focus from a distance, but never fully immersing myself in its rich textures or making it a part of my everyday life. During that time, Ukrainian was primarily reserved for formal occasions such as schools, banks, and celebrations, infused with a performative sense of ethnic pride. In contrast, Russian dominated in mundane and intimate settings like gossiping with friends or arguing with parents. I found myself straddling both languages with my grandmother, who spoke surzhyk, a colloquial mix of Ukrainian and Russian. While I spoke Russian out of convenience rather than a deep connection, it became evident that the language had embedded itself into Ukrainian life and culture over the course of 400 years. The Russian empire established its dominance by imposing the language on the Ukrainian-speaking population, particularly during the colonization of the south of Ukraine. As industrialization took hold in the 19th century, Russian became a symbol of status and social upward mobility, drawing in people from various ethnic backgrounds to work in factories and mines in the Donbas region, while rural areas retained their Ukrainian-speaking majority. However, with the onset of Russia’s all-out war on Ukrainian territory, independence, identity, and culture, passive acceptance of the linguistic status quo felt like a betrayal. The language that was once a neutral tool of communication now evoked terror, erasure, and oppression. Speaking Russian felt like surrendering a means of resistance. Asserting oneself through language was not a new concept for Ukrainians, as the country’s independence in 1991 brought with it the promise of a return to the Ukrainian language as a collective endeavor. However, it was only after the 2014 Revolution of Dignity and Russia’s invasion of the Donbas region that the transition gained significant momentum. In 2019, a language law was enacted, making Ukrainian the state language and mandating its use in over 30 areas of public life, including media and education. With the full-scale war in 2022, the revival of the Ukrainian language became a national project, as people consciously committed to speaking their native language, regardless of their proficiency. A survey conducted several months after the invasion found that 71% of Ukrainians had increased their usage of Ukrainian, and a poll in January 2023 indicated that 33% of Kyiv’s residents had switched to using Ukrainian. Additionally, all businesses registered in Ukraine are required to have Ukrainian as the language of their landing pages, and becoming a Ukrainian citizen now involves passing an exam that assesses proficiency in Ukrainian language, knowledge of the country’s history and constitution, and a monologue based on a prompt. This revitalization of the Ukrainian language is viewed as a rebirth by Volodymyr Dibrova, a writer, translator, and Ukrainian language instructor at Harvard, who believes that language, rather than religion or territory, is the factor that distinguishes Ukrainians from their adversaries. The resurgence of Ukrainian has brought about a complex journey for predominantly Russian-speaking Ukrainians like myself. If Ukrainian is indeed our language, then why weren’t we speaking it all the time? Why wasn’t it the language of our relationships and everyday interactions? These questions weighed on my mind as I started transitioning into speaking Ukrainian with friends who primarily spoke Russian. Having lived in the United States for 20 years, Russian remained the language of my Ukrainian friendships. However, one unexpected phone call shattered my assumptions when a friend from Donetsk, who I had never heard speak Ukrainian in the 25 years of our friendship, answered in Ukrainian to give me parking instructions during my visit to Pennsylvania. This unexpected shift made me pause and reflect on how it might impact our closeness and connection. During my visit, I struggled to express myself in Ukrainian, often feeling that my thoughts fell flat and my vocabulary was limited. My mind raced to find the right word, and I frequently found myself slipping into a mix of Russian and English. While I felt proud of both of us, our conversations became taxing. Even with my parents, who reside in Kyiv, switching to Ukrainian still feels unfamiliar and uncomfortable, adding strain to our already complex dynamics shaped by the war and geographical distance. I am aware that there are even more intricate linguistic relationships, exemplified by Oleksandra Burlakova, a digital-content creator and video blogger from Kyiv. Burlakova grew up in a Russian-speaking family but switched completely to Ukrainian in 2021 to solidify her national identity. However, her husband did not make the change until February 24, 2022, the day the Russian invasion began. For almost a year, the couple conversed in two different languages. Burlakova shared that falling in love with someone also meant embracing their language, and when that changes, it is an unusual experience. Initially, she struggled to find the right Ukrainian words to express her emotions, as she had only seen people arguing in Ukrainian on TV but had never witnessed it in real life. However, through immersion in Ukrainian literature, movies, and music, she began aligning her verbal expression with her inner experiences, feeling like a whole person once again. Danylo Haidamakha, a Ukrainian language activist and TikToker, described the act of switching languages as akin to swimming from one shore to another, unsure of whether the journey will be successful. When I made the decision to depart from the familiar and embrace Ukrainian, it felt like uncovering a vulnerable and unexplored part of myself. I realized how deeply ingrained my consciousness had been in narratives of Russification, which had convinced generations of Ukrainians of the perceived inferiority and lack of refinement of their native language compared to Russian. The Russian empire had banned Ukrainian literature and art in the 19th century, excluding it from public life. Even the unique aspects of Ukrainian phonetics, such as suffixes and endings, were viewed as threats during Stalin’s rule, resulting in the distortion of Ukrainian words to resemble Russian or their complete removal from dictionaries to create the illusion of linguistic similarity. Additionally, the Stalinist regime, alongside the horrific artificial famine of the 1930s that claimed millions of Ukrainian lives, stripped surviving Ukrainians of their ability to think and speak freely. Christina Pikhmanets, a Ukrainian linguist and educational and cultural adviser at Sesame Workshop, emphasized the centrality of language in decision-making processes and the formation of social and cultural identities. Pikhmanets, who is currently involved in translating Sesame Street into Ukrainian, consciously avoids using words borrowed from Russian or English. The need to “activate” their linguistic heritage is common among many Ukrainians, according to Burlakova. Conversation clubs and online schools dedicated to Ukrainian language learning have emerged to support this process. TikTok and Instagram are teeming with young Ukrainians who are rediscovering the richness and beauty of their language. Ukrainian-language TikTok posts have showcased nearly 30 synonyms for the word vagina and compiled words for rare colors like periwinkle, cinderblock, and wheat. Anna Finyk, a TikToker with over 20,000 followers, has made it her mission to assist others in improving their language skills without pressure. Through playful videos, Finyk unearths forgotten Ukrainian words, exposes mispronunciations, and pretends…
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