Anastasia lives in Kharkiv and works as a receptionist for one of Ukraine’s leading hotel chains. A native Ukrainian speaker in a Slavic country where Russian remains widely understood, she speaks Ukrainian with ease, though she still knows Russian. After the invasion unleashed by the neighboring power to the east, this young woman with long black hair and bright eyes decided to make meaningful changes in her daily life. She began to minimize the use of Russian and, day by day, to let it fall to the background in conversations with friends and guests alike.
“I finally realized that language carries more than words,” she explains, justifying her choice to speak Ukrainian with most people she encounters. It has become a matter of principle. Russia has historically used language to influence and control us, she adds, and she now prioritizes Ukrainian in virtually all settings, even when guests are comfortable with the other language. Fyodor Dostoevsky, once read in many schools, is now recalled in more nuanced terms as people reassess the figures of classic literature in light of political context. Those writers are seen by some as carriers of imperialist narratives used to justify invasion, a perspective echoed by the Ukrainian intellectual community.
Volodymyr Yermolenko, a philosopher and founder of Ukraine World, in a recent Foreign Policy article, argues that the influence of Russian literature has become a lens through which Russia’s political aims are discussed in Ukraine. The piece highlights how literature once celebrated across borders now stirs debate about identity and allegiance in the post-Soviet space.
Libraries and bookstores clearly illustrate the linguistic shift separating the two successor states of the former union. In Akvarel, a well-known stationery chain that stocks notebooks, pencils, and children’s guides, the emphasis is on Ukrainian-language materials. The store operates in the Nikolsky shopping center, at the heart of Kharkiv, which is predominantly Ukrainian in its demographics. Books on the shelves from the eastern regions reflect this cultural realignment. In the history section, substantial volumes on the Soviet era are complemented by Ukrainian titles like The Dictators’ Conspiracy: The Division of Europe Between Hitler and Stalin, 1939-1941.
no book
“We no longer buy books from Russia,” explains a marketer who prefers not to be named. Ukraine’s parliament passed a 2016 law restricting the import and distribution of unauthorized Russian writings, a measure tightened after the outbreak of hostilities last year. The policy requires prior clearance for Russian-language materials entering the country and, since the war began, has effectively reduced Russian content in Ukrainian bookstores.
One stated reason behind the policy is tied to Russian justifications for the invasion, including references to the presence of the Russian language in Ukraine. But recent data show a different trend: two-thirds of Ukrainians who previously used both languages now prefer Ukrainian for daily communication, and even many Russian speakers are choosing to shift their everyday language use toward Ukrainian. This shift signals a broader move toward linguistic and cultural self-definition amid conflict.
The complete disappearance of the Russian language from Ukraine, however, is not imminent, according to analyses by Ukrainian observers. Serhii Filimonov, a veteran military commander who has spoken extensively about language in the armed forces, notes that he now uses Ukrainian with his son and even expresses concern when conversations drift toward Russian among colleagues. The language dynamic remains a live, evolving issue that continues to shape personal and national identities.