Vira Aheieva: ‘The 1990s were an incredible reading experience for me’

One of Ukraine’s leading literary scholars, Vira Aheieva, conducts thorough research and shares her insights in a captivating manner. She defended her PhD dissertation back in Soviet times, but as soon as the curtain fell, she began to uncover previously banned works and interpret them using literary methods that were previously unknown. She introduced feminist interpretations of texts when they were still unheard of in Ukraine, and if heard, they were ridiculed. She studied the works of Ukrainian modernists, particularly Lesya Ukrainka, writers from the “Executed Renaissance” era, V. Domontovych, emigrant authors, and sought out “cultural resistance” in the works and activities of those respected even under Soviet rule, such as Maksym Rylskyi and Mykola Bazhan. Vira Aheieva consistently proves that the concept of “socialist realist literature” is an oxymoron because art cannot exist within such constraints, and if anything in the Soviet era could be considered art, it inherently opposed the imposed style. In 1996, Vira Aheieva became a laureate of the Shevchenko Prize, and in 2008, she received the Petro Mohyla Award. Since the establishment of the BBC Book of the Year award, she has been a member of the jury for this prize. A professor at the Kyiv-Mohyla Academy, she eagerly shares her knowledge not only with philology students and readers of scholarly tomes—Vira Pavlivna writes articles for various publications, shares intriguing stories from the lives of 20th century authors, and discusses the challenges of teaching literature in schools. In an interview with The Ukrainians, we talked about choosing one’s path, about the 14-volume complete collection of Lesya Ukrainka’s works, which was published this year and is, in part, the result of Vira Aheieva’s efforts, about the untapped field of Ukrainian literary plots, and about how education can either promote or hinder national security.

Anastasia Levkova: You were born and raised in Bakhmach in the Chernihiv region, and your parents were teachers. How did your environment influence you, and why did you choose philology?

Vira Aheieva: To the question of why choose literary studies, Solomiia Pavlychko once answered very well: “It seems to me that I didn’t choose it, but it chose me.” Yes, I grew up in a family of teachers, and I grew up in a literary-centric era.

We read voraciously—literature was our main source of satisfaction. Among my favorite childhood books was one with an incredible story. In our bookcase stood a large, greenish book with color illustrations of The Forest Song. Where did this edition come from? Bakhmach was a major railway hub, so in 1941 it was heavily bombed. And while older people, who still remembered previous wars, ran around searching for salt and other provisions, my mother, who had just finished school that year (my father had already gone to the front), together with her friend rushed to the ruined library they loved dearly and brought back a bag of books.

The Forest Song in our home was the one my mother brought from the bombed library. Perhaps that determined my love for Lesya Ukrainka.

A. L.: You studied in Kyiv during the years of “stagnation.” What was your environment like then, and what books did you grow up with as a scholar? V. A.: Kyiv University in the 1970s and 1980s was not the best environment, at least in the humanities. I have often said that my generation should have been taught by the students of Mykola Zerov, but they did not survive the whirlpool of repressions. However, there was some continuity, albeit very small, and that little bit of my good teachers—of which there were indeed not many—were taught by Oleksandr Biletskyi, who received his education before the Bolshevik Revolution. He was perhaps the only one who survived and endured those years. Or, for instance, Professor Kira Shakhova, whom we loved very much, was an indirect student of the literary scholar from the “Executed Renaissance,” the translator and Romanist Stephan Savchenko. What could truly inspire during my studies at Kyiv University was the thorough study of classical literature. The continuity of classical philological education somehow remained unbroken amidst all those pogroms. Regarding the teaching methods at that time, my biggest complaint about the Soviet Union is that it deprived me of the opportunity to read the right books at the right time. We were cut off from both Ukrainian studies and foreign literature, not to mention world philosophy. The Soviet model excluded all modernism and was limited to realism. However, if my course on foreign literature ended around Thomas Mann or Faulkner, philosophy ended with Karl Marx. We not only didn’t read Ukrainian novels in time but also foundational philosophical works. My generation managed to catch up with this, but for the Ukrainian sixtiers, it was a real problem because they emerged on the edge of a cultural void, right after all the pogroms. They did not know either Ukrainian or Western modernism, so they had to reinvent the wheel, creating what had long been created. Of course, the break in tradition was not complete. The cultural space could not be entirely cleansed. Some literature banned by Soviet censorship became available during the years of occupation. (For example, Yurii Sheveliov recalls how he bought a volume of Khvylovyi at the market, even though this meant he would have to stay hungry because there was no money left for bread that day).

My biggest complaint about the Soviet Union is that it deprived me of the opportunity to read the right books at the right time.

In the 1960s, some books were passed around and read “under the counter”—today we know that the sixtiers read Pidmohylnyi and Khvyliovyi. By the way, during arrests in the 1970s, works by these exact authors were often confiscated. However, this was not a systematic absorption of classical heritage, which is why the sixtiers accomplished a lot, but not everything they could have done under different circumstances. We are still catching up to this, but of course, we want to catch up faster. A. L.: When did you become acquainted with the works that are now significant to you (and to us): Viktor Petrov-Domontovych, Valerian Pidmohylnyi, Mykola Zerov, and other authors of the “Executed Renaissance”? В. А.: If I now say that in my university program on Ukrainian literature there were no prose writers like Domontovych, Yohansen, Khvylovyi, Pidmohylnyi, Vynnychenko, it would be reasonable to remark: how foolish you were! In this sense, we really were foolish, but my generation was luckier: during my years as a graduate student, a wave of previously banned books flooded in. And it was an amazing experience. People often say: the 1990s, collapse, poverty—yes, of course, but we were young and didn’t really worry too much about it. For me, the 1990s were an incredible reading experience. There were still paper magazines, where on adjacent pages we could, for example, read the first publication of Valerii Shevchuk or Ivan Drach, or even Andrukhovych, and next to them—Khvylovyi or Pidmohylnyi. And that’s amazing. The texts that were read then, what was revealed in the 1990s, largely defined the values of my generation. А. Л.: And when you were studying, did you know that this literature existed? V. A.: The answer to this question is very individual. My professor of Ukrainian literature, Valentyna Mykolayivna Povazhna, who loved me very much, once told me about Domontovych in a private conversation. We knew something about Vynnychenko. I read Khvylovyi only during my postgraduate years. But it could have been different for someone else—for example, for some of the sixtiers, as we have already mentioned. However, if we answer your question from a slightly different angle, it’s worth emphasizing that Ukrainists, starting from the 1930s, lived with a sense of inferiority. We were told a lot about great Russian literature, while Ukrainian literature was discussed only in the context of its incomparability to Russian literature, despite the fact that many of its best names had been removed, as later became clear. And even those that remained were marginalized, like Lesya Ukrainka: she was consistently marginalized in at least three contexts: as a Ukrainian author, as a woman, and as a modernist. And so, as a result, we had this: Who is Lesya Ukrainka?—Well, she wrote The Forest Song.—And what is The Forest Song about?—Volyn folklore: a child ran into the forest, saw a water nymph… Because what else do these Ukrainians need besides folklore? The culture of a subjugated nation is one that, from the perspective of the colonizers, cannot have elite phenomena.

The culture of a subjugated nation is one that, from the perspective of the colonizers, cannot have elite phenomena.

Khrystia Leshchuk: Your first book, “Memory of the Heroic: Ukrainian Military Prose of the 60s-80s,” was published in 1989. To what extent were your academic interests influenced by the regime? Did you have any underground research that you could not publish before 1991? As a student during Soviet times, how did you envision your academic future and interests? V. A.: One shouldn’t think that Soviet people were that naive or that sincere. By definition, Soviet people were duplicitous. During my fifth year at Taras Shevchenko National University in Kyiv, there was a course called “The Image of a Communist in Ukrainian Literature.” There was also a course on “Atheism.” Of course, we didn’t take this seriously—everyone understood that all that was needed was to get a grade for them. I wrote my diploma thesis on Vasyl Zemliak. He was incredibly popular at that time. His Swan Flock and Green Mills had just been released, and then the film Babylon XX was made. Everyone was talking about magical realism—it was the freshest thing in Ukrainian literature. But for my doctoral dissertation, I did not have the right to choose the topic myself. I wanted to write about Zemliak—I was told no, absolutely not about Zemliak. The department at the Institute of Literature of the Academy of Sciences, where I enrolled for my postgraduate studies, was called “Soviet Literature,” meaning that the literature had to be Soviet. I never include my first book—my doctoral dissertation—in bibliographies because there is nothing to boast about. Such was the time. And the fact that I was forced to include a quote from the newspaper “Pravda” in the dissertation at the last stage—that was also the “spirit of the times.” If the Soviet Union had not ended, my fate would have been the same as that of many talented literary scholars who had no space for self-realization because there cannot be good books when there is no freedom of thought. An example could be the career of my scientific supervisor Leonid Novychenko: broken, a “lost force,” he could not say much, but without a doubt, he was a talented literary scholar who felt the text like no one else. He taught me a lot—it was a great school for which I am very grateful to him. A. L.: What methods of interpreting the text did you use at that time? V. A.: During those years, the only accessible rational method was structuralism—we read, for example, Todorov. Some heard something about psychoanalysis, but only peripherally. (In the memoirs of Leonid Pliushch, there is an episode from that time: he met with Myroslav Popovych, who asked him: “Have you read Freud?”). Through structuralism, we learned about formalism, and that is what Novychenko taught me, for which I am once again very grateful. A. L.: When and how did you learn about feminist interpretations of texts? V. A.: This question can be answered briefly: Marta Bohachevska (a historian and public figure from Galicia, who has lived in the USA since the 1940s – TU) came and told us about it. This is not a completely full answer, but it is a quite honest one. We learned about it from Western colleagues. In 1992, I taught in Canada, where I read and listened to a lot about it. Moreover, there were books: they were brought by Western colleagues, and later by us as well. In all of this, Solomiia Pavlychko played an incredible role—she was obsessed with it. In general, I will say this: gender studies could not help but take place in Ukrainian literature because our literature is such that it cannot be read without them. Nowadays, they say that we imported feminism from “brazen America,” but this is not true; it is quite the opposite: Ukrainian Nadiia Surovtseva was a member of a delegation that arrived in the States in the 1920s and traveled around American cities for several months, promoting women’s emancipation. A. L.: Have you encountered negative attitudes toward gender studies in academic circles? V. A.: It would be more accurate to ask: was there anyone who didn’t mock you? At the turn of the 1980s-90s, the academic establishment was predominantly male. And they all doubled over with laughter: what nonsense are these girls inventing? What feminism? What gender issues in Ukrainian literature? To illustrate the extent—not of aggression, but of misunderstanding—I’ll share this: when I received the typeset of an article I was preparing for the journal “Slovo i Chas” in 1991 for proofreading, I saw that the editor had corrected the word “gender” everywhere to “tender.” When I asked what the matter was, she said, “But there’s no such word.” This was not the editor’s malice—she genuinely believed that the word should be corrected because she had never heard the word “gender.”

Removing the Russian intermediary A. L.: What distinguishes the 14-volume Complete Works of Lesya Ukrainka released this year from the previous 12-volume edition published between 1975 and 1979? Announcements for the new edition mentioned that it includes works omitted from the 12-volume set (such as the poem Boiarynia). What new insights can the commentaries in the 2021 edition offer to Ukrainian readers? V. A.: Actually, after the publication of Lesya Ukrainka’s works in the 1920s by the publishing house “Knyhospilka,” prepared by Mykola Zerov and his colleagues, our 14-volume edition is the first academic edition. I assert this not out of a desire to exaggerate the significance of our work or to diminish the importance of the Soviet compilers. I, along with all the creators of this complete works edition, have already been accused of not respecting those who prepared the 12-volume edition, but let’s look at the issues surrounding it. When people say that the Soviet regime published Ukrainian classics and supported Ukrainian culture, it is, of course, a lie. Even if there were significant projects—publishing and cultural—they emerged either from the passion of some of our cultural figures, like Mykola Bazhan’s strong commitment led to the Ukrainian Soviet Encyclopedia, or as ideological responses to “overseas traitors.” This was also the case with Lesya Ukrainka. Her centenary was in 1971, and work on the collected works began after the anniversary. Why? Because in the United States, a huge volume was published for the date—a chronology compiled by her sister, Olha Kosach-Kryvyniuk. Thus, behind the Iron Curtain, there had to be some response to this, and the rhetoric was: we will not hand over our classics to the enemies of Soviet Ukraine. Additionally, work on the 12-volume set began after the 1972 pogrom, and here we can sense a desire to downplay the role of the 10-volume edition published in the 1960s, which was created in a more liberal atmosphere. So, what are the criticisms of the 12-volume set? It indeed lacked Boiarynia, several poems, and the article Vynnychenko. Some letters were removed, and if certain works are not included in the complete works, then it can no longer be considered a complete collection. But let’s move on. The 12-volume edition is thoroughly ideological: if one reads the commentary to this so-called complete works sequentially, a picture emerges: Lesya Ukrainka is portrayed as a friend of the workers, close to Marxism, almost a Soviet person. In contrast, around her are nothing but enemies: her mother, husband, closest friends, not to mention her uncle Mykhailo Drahomanov—all depicted as bourgeois nationalists, enemies of the working class. This raises the question: how did she manage to maintain her integrity in such an environment? (By the way, the imposed belief about Larysa Kosach being a Marxist continues to persist. As soon as we publicly announced that we were preparing the complete works, I was inundated with letters from young contemporary Ukrainian Marxists demanding that the translation of the Manifesto of the Communist Party, supposedly done by Lesya Ukrainka, be included in the complete works. These young Marxists referenced the “Great Soviet Encyclopedia”. I don’t understand why they still haven’t realized that the GSE is not an informational source—it is an ideological source. And it’s easy to trace through Lesya Ukrainka’s letters that she did not translate this manifesto.) Of course, from the same ideological standpoint, the 12-volume edition presents the Russian translation of Gerhart Hauptmann’s play The Weavers, a Nobel laureate whose works Larysa Kosach indeed loved very much and allegedly translated into Russian—according to the Soviet compilers. However, as we know from her letters, Larysa Petrivna did not love Russian culture and was quite skeptical of it. What turned out to be the case? The Russian translation of the play The Weavers was published under the signature “L.K.” So, the commentators, without much thought, conclude that “L.K.” refers to Larysa Kosach and include this translation in the publication, particularly to demonstrate how Lesya Ukrainka loved Russian culture. However, as it turned out, the translation was done by Liudmyla Kolomoitseva for the publishing house “Donskaia Rech.” This is how myth was created. And what was done with the comments in the 12-volume edition? Let me tell you the most striking example. Lesya Ukrainka translated Heinrich Heine, and Heine mentions Asinius, a Roman aristocrat to whom Virgil dedicated his works. In the supposedly academic 12-volume edition, there is a reference: “Asinius (Lat: asinus)—donkey.” And that’s it… Notice the parentheses, “lat”, the period after “lat”, the dash… It’s all very academic! And there’s a lot of this—one could compile an entire list. When I read these notes, I couldn’t believe my eyes; I thought maybe I worked too much. But no, they are indeed there. I am told that I do not respect my predecessors who worked on the 12-volume edition—and I will honestly say: yes, I do not respect those who offered no resistance to the pressure at all. This is not about heroism, but rather about a lack of respect for the profession. I can understand why Boiarynia was not included in that edition—because no amount of misleading commentary could have saved a work in the Soviet Union where the protagonist says, “And how hateful to me is this Moscow!” Nearly all the letters to Mykhailo Kryvyniuk dealing with national issues were also removed (at the time, this was justified by claiming that they were removing personal information). Yes, I understand that censorship forbade certain things. And I can sympathize with academician Yevhen Shabliovskyi, who wrote the preface for that 12-volume collection, where he analyzed two works: On the Field of Blood (according to Shabliovskyi, this work is about traitors—Ukrainian nationalists) and In the Catacombs, where, according to Shabliovskyi, Lesya Ukrainka is portrayed as an atheist. I have no complaints about that preface because it was censorship. I even have no complaints about the fact that the commentators of that time couldn’t grasp all the allusions in Lesya Ukrainka’s dramas, because for each of them, she read newly published texts by contemporary scholars of religion, orientalists, and philosophers in several European languages. To fully understand all of this would have required an education that was impossible in the Soviet Union. But I do have major complaints about the people who were too lazy to flip through the accessible Brockhaus and Efron Encyclopedic Dictionary to find out who Asinius was. No one had banned Asinius, and it was entirely possible to learn about him. Therefore, I insist that the 12-volume collection of Lesya Ukrainka’s works from the 1970s is a national disgrace. It’s good that the texts were published, but the way our greatest, most outstanding author is presented in this collection is shameful. What has been achieved in this edition, the 14-volume collection? It presents a different Lesya Ukrainka—not marginalized, but one who has reconnected Ukrainian culture, removing the Russian intermediary, to the European context, to the broader European network, and in doing so, has returned Ukraine to Europe. Lesya Ukrainka—is the one who has reconnected Ukrainian culture to the European context This is why antiquity and Christianity are central, as they are the two foundations upon which great European civilization is built. This all has become palpable in the new edition because it has been thoroughly commented upon. Now, the works can be read differently, interpreted differently, and understood in new ways.  We can now see our entire culture through a different lens.

An uncultivated field of plots A. L.: You often share stories from the lives of writers, recounting anecdotes and real-life incidents in various settings—lectures, articles, conversations, and literary events. Have you ever considered publishing these stories as a standalone book? V. A.: You know, I would love to do so many things! But it’s impossible given the limited time we have. In fact, much of what you’re referring to are apocryphal stories—some of them are verified, others are not. I often like to echo Serhii Zhadan’s words: writers didn’t just write, they also lived. And once again, this is a broader issue. It needs to be done, and I don’t understand why so little of it actually happens. We have an incredible amount of untapped stories, and yet we complain that we don’t have a rich culture. When we were working on the Lesya Ukrainka project, even at the announcement stage, people were asking me: is there a single short biography from which you can learn about Lesya Ukrainka? No, such a book doesn’t exist, but there should be one. There should be academic publications, but there also need to be popular books. Or another important issue is cultural locations. While walking through the center of Kyiv, I see that in recent years, several memorial plaques have appeared in the city center, honoring corrupt ministers, saying that such-and-such lived in this building. I understand: for your money, any plaque can be made. Or just near the Mariinskyi Palace, a few years ago, a statue of Anna Akhmatova suddenly appeared. I’m very curious: who allowed this, why, and on what basis? Akhmatova is a beautiful poet. I’m not against a memorial plaque on the wall of the house where she lived, but why a statue in Mariinskyi Park? Or the memorial plaque for Osip Mandelstam. I’m not against it, but at the same time, I haven’t noticed a single memorial plaque for figures of Ukrainian culture. If Les Kurbas and other prominent figures lived on Liuteranska Street, then why is there a plaque for Akhmatova there, but not for them? I often see a group with a guide talking about Akhmatova and Mandelstam, but I never see tours about Les Kurbas Maksym Rylskyi or Mykola Bazhan on the streets of Kyiv. We desperately need a cultural space marking. No one will create a cultural passport for us from the outside. We must do it ourselves, through joint efforts, including establishing a state framework for this purpose. On the same topic, there’s a story about Pidmohylnyi and Prague that struck me. I’ll start from afar. Recently, I began researching Pidmohylnyi and was simply horrified: less than a hundred years have passed, and nothing remains. There’s no somewhat satisfactory biography, nor is there an archive that is even remotely representative. We know about those whose wives or families preserved their archives, but this is not the case with Pidmohylnyi, which is why there’s a void. He was taken at 33, and even his biography cannot be restored, even though he is one of the most prominent figures in our classical canon. And here I find a mention that Pidmohylnyi was in Czech Republic. Within five minutes, after cross-referencing with Arkadii Liubchenko’s diary and Valeryan Polishchuk’s memoirs, I get confirmation: indeed, he was in Czech Republic and Germany. Then I learn that in Prague there’s a café where Pidmohylnyi performed. They take Ukrainian guests there. So, this address is known in Prague, while almost no one in Kyiv knows it or promotes it! And this, again, highlights the issue of marking our cultural space. Once at the Kharkiv Literary Museum, I asked my colleagues where the café “Pok” was located. This is the same café depicted by Anatol Petrytskyi, where Semenko stands against the backdrop of its window. Café “Pok” was a hub for all the Ukrainian cultural revival in Kharkiv during the 1920s. People drank coffee and alcohol there, wrote texts, edited articles, and made agreements… The staff at the Kharkiv Literary Museum searched for the café but couldn’t find it. Why? Because “Pok” is an informal name, the official name was different. Kh. L.: It seems they have now found it: at the Literary Museum, they mention the address Sumska St., 5. Officially, café “Pok” was called “Chervonyi Kondyter” (Red Confectioner). This is the most plausible version, but it remains a hypothesis, as there is still no verified information available. V. A.: You see, it’s actually quite difficult to research. And from a business perspective, what a great idea it would be to create a café “Pok” in that space—a literary café, opened by Serhii Zhadan… Only in recent years have things in Kharkiv changed significantly. I hope we will still have coffee at “Pok”…

School and National Security A. L.: You often comment on the school literature curriculum and have lectured school teachers of Ukrainian literature. Do you see changes in this area since 2014? В. А.: Як на мене, ми досі зловживаємо представленням української літератури як такої, що мала основним своїм завданням боротьбу з кріпацтвом, царатом, що вона передусім про бідних нещасних трудящих, селян, кріпаків. Та скільки ж можна вже говорити про тих кріпаків?! Говорімо сучасним дітям сучасною мовою. I’m not saying that Ukrainian literature didn’t depict serfdom and the plight of the unfortunate workers—however, it is not limited to that. Do modern children really need The Master by Karpenko-Karyi? Perhaps we can do even without Chipka Varenychenko—this is worth considering. Moreover, literature should not aim to directly educate or serve as propaganda—not because it’s bad, but because it doesn’t work. Learning Love Ukraine by Sosiura won’t make the modern generation love Ukraine more. In my opinion, they would be more inclined to love it after reading The Forest Song.

Literature should not aim to directly educate or serve as propaganda—not because it’s bad, but because it doesn’t work.

You ask about changes. Changes are necessary, but they need to be well thought out. At one point in the reforms, it became evident that the team at the Ministry of Education of Ukraine—very modern, well-educated, and pro-Western—proposed to combine Ukrainian language, Ukrainian literature, and foreign literature into a single subject. When I wrote an article about this, I began by saying that we should consult the Security Service of Ukraine (SSU), because this is a matter of national security, and I am not exaggerating. I suspect that this is not about hostile intentions but, excuse me, foolishness: people do not understand what they are doing. Even if this is based on the experience of certain countries—there were references to Finland in the ministry—I assume that someone, like the Finns, might be able to afford such a change. But we cannot allow ourselves that— we are just clawing our way out of our colonial past. Alright, we managed to fend off that proposal. But we did this through the efforts of the academic community. Where is the cultural policy? Where is the state framework for this? I generally do not see an understanding in society that for people to vote for pro-Ukrainian political forces, they must have a Ukrainian identity. And there is no other way to form a Ukrainian identity than by providing the appropriate education. This is why Soviet ideology worked so powerfully; that’s why the Soviet discourse was built so meticulously (and that’s why figures like Vynnychenko and Khvylovyi were excluded from the curricula)—to form the identity of the Soviet person. And the Soviet Union managed to achieve this to some extent. In the study of literature in the current school system, there is also a problem with foreign literature. Because who predominantly teaches foreign literature? It is no secret that these are usually people with a background in Russian studies, and there are still quite a few of them. I have seen in many examples that individuals educated in Russian studies rarely manage to overcome the toxic reverence for great Russian culture. Russian classics occupy a disproportionately large place in the foreign literature curriculum. A. L.: If we’re already discussing Russian literature, another question arises. The whole world knows Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. There are pinnacle examples of Russian literature, the same Pushkin. However, as highlighted by American researcher Eva Thompson, Russian literature often serves as the troubadour of the empire, and it exhibits a chauvinistic perspective, particularly toward Ukrainians. I once wanted to stop reading Bulgakov’s The White Guard at the point where the characters disdainfully discuss the Ukrainian language. Should Ukrainian schoolchildren study the works of Bulgakov? And should they study Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and Pushkin? V. A.: Recently, I finished a book of essays on Ukrainian-Russian cultural relations—I hope it will be published soon. My peers will recognize the allusion, as hundreds of volumes, entire libraries, have been written about Russian-Ukrainian cultural interactions. It was an extraordinarily profitable profession: discussing how Chernyshevskyi or Dobroliubov influenced Shevchenko. I’m not saying that there’s nothing good in Russian literature, but it’s also true that Western Slavic studies were largely supported by Russian imperial money. I’m not saying that Ukrainian children shouldn’t read Pushkin. However, on the other hand, if they don’t read him, it won’t be such a tragedy. I’ve never heard any outcry about Ukrainian children not reading Byron or Goethe. But the cries about Pushkin are incessant. It’s more complicated with Bulgakov. Such chauvinism and lack of understanding are intolerable. A writer should be someone who deeply feels the movements of the human soul. This raises the question: how could a person who lived in Kyiv and witnessed all the events of 1917-1918 be so blind and deaf to not understand anything? After all, The White Guard is an absolutely falsified history, almost a zoological chauvinism. Bulgakov also has the story I Killed—and it is simply misanthropic, it’s horrifying. When discussing Bulgakov, it’s important to explain honestly: he is like that, this is how he treated us. By the way, Oksana Zabuzhko has a brilliant essay on this. If someone wants to love Bulgakov despite how he treated Ukrainians, that is a private matter for that individual. However, education must align with the country and the interests of the state in which this education is provided. A. L.: So “The Master and Margarita” shouldn’t be included in the school curriculum? V. A.: Bulgakov simply cannot be included in the literature curriculum because how many lessons of world literature are there in school? And in this number of lessons, we should fit all the outstanding works between Homer and, say, Kundera, which is a huge number of authors, so Bulgakov does not fit in at all. Why is no one outraged that children in schools do not study Czesław Miłosz? By the way, there is an obvious lack of parity between the interest in Ukrainian-Russian and Ukrainian-Polish cultural relations. There were many contacts, and there were very interesting things. But when it comes to the question of “why are they outraged by this but not by that?”, of course, there is an answer: everything boils down to Russian propaganda. I really delivered a series of lectures for teachers of Ukrainian literature, and there were several groups: some volunteered to attend, and it was interesting to engage with them. Others were required to come to the lectures as part of a professional development course—and those teachers listened, didn’t ask questions, didn’t express opinions, and quickly gathered their things and left after the lectures. So, the state invests some money in these courses, but everything is stalled. For anything to change, teachers need to be retrained. How to do this? I don’t know. But this is a problem we will stumble over for a long time. And until we put Ukraine-centricity at the core of our education, we will keep stumbling over political issues. Interviewers — Anastasiia Levkova, Khrystia Leshchuk

Translation — Anastasiia Fegir

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[The translation of this publication was compiled with the support of the European Union and the International Renaissance Foundation within the framework “European Renaissance of Ukraine” project. Its content is the exclusive responsibility of the authors and does not necessarily reflect the views of the European Union and the International Renaissance Foundation]