Interview with Tetiana Boriak | “My God, they want to kill us again!”

Interview with Tetiana Boriak | “My God, they want to kill us again!”

Olena Kondratiuk: Dr. Boriak, the Holodomor has been a priority in your academic interests for over ten years. Please tell us how you arrived at this topic.

Tetiana Boriak: During my university studies, I did not hear a single word about the Holodomor. When I graduated from university in 2003, the Holodomor was entirely absent from the curriculum. I became interested in this topic only later. While working at the National Academy of Culture and Arts Management, I published an article dedicated to the so-called “food aid” given to Ukraine in the spring of 1933 by the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (Bolshevik). It turned out that it mainly consisted not of aid but of loans, which Ukraine was expected to repay over time. Such loans often involved the same grain that had been exported from Ukraine! In fact, I was one of the first researchers at that time to notice this point. Later, I began working on a project with Anne Applebaum, who in 2017 wrote the book Red Famine: Stalin’s War on Ukraine. As her assistant, I started to work with sources and prepared translations for her. That was when I immersed myself in oral history. Around that time, the Ukrainian historian Stanislav Kulchytskyi approached me with a proposal to investigate how widespread the confiscation was of not just grain but of all food products during the Holodomor—as he suspected there were many such cases. We jointly authored a book on the subject. 

Boriak: Yes, I participated in the “GIS-Holodomor Atlas” project and went to the Harvard Ukrainian Research Institute as a Fulbright scholar. At that time, I had a compelling idea about visualizing an oral history of the Holodomor. Once I began working with oral testimonies, categorizing them into blocks, systematizing and reflecting on them, this idée fixe [about mapping them] appeared. Later on, thanks to GIS technologies, it evolved into the “GIS Atlas” project. At the same time, I was working on the project that Kulchytskyi had suggested to me—namely, to compile an archaeographic publication—to find instances in oral testimonies about the Holodomor of the confiscation of non-grain food stores, which essentially caused the starvation. I worked simultaneously on these two projects during my internship, just as the “Maidan” was happening in 2013/14. I was working very productively up to the moment when the war began. 

“Tania, it’s war!”

Kondratiuk: From personal experience, I know it is very difficult to be far away from Ukraine when significant events are happening. How did these events impact you and your work?

Boriak: During the Maidan I was also abroad. It was a complete failure in terms of work—I could not function. The time difference also affected me. I would wait for the morning to come in Ukraine, and only then I could go to sleep. There were colleagues from Ukraine there, with whom I would discuss the situation. They said to me, “Tania, it’s war!” But I did not believe it and replied, “No, hold on, that is impossible! The imperialists have gone [temporarily] crazy; we need to wait…” So, my path toward fully grasping the situation was very long and not entirely complete until 24 February 2022. I admit that I underestimated the extent of their imperialist callousness. 

Then, in May 2014 I remember trying to make sense of it all and thinking it through… I gave a public lecture at Clark University [MA]. I remember saying that this was the beginning of war. Afterwards, some Americans approached me and said, “You are exaggerating. What war?” They were actually repeating the very same phrases I had used before. 

Kondratiuk: You say that your “path toward fully grasping the situation was not complete until 24 February…” Does this mean that for you the full-scale invasion was unexpected?

Boriak: I am quite ashamed to say it, but I was busy with children, home life, and doctoral studies, and to be honest, I was completely out of touch with the situation. I didn’t have time. First I was deeply involved with my children, and then I threw myself into my favourite topic. My husband took it upon himself to politically educate me. He shouted at me: “Tania, war is coming!” Then, starting in late 2021, he shouted all the louder: “Let’s get the children out of here. They are going to attack!” I looked at him like he was someone who had fallen for the opinion of the so-called “experts.” I said: “We live in the 21st century! Have they not amassed troops on the border before?” In other words, I was absolutely irresponsible, having two children and such deranged imperialist neighbours. On 24 February, when I woke up to my husband yelling, “Tania, the war has started!” I still could not believe it. I clung to the conviction that there were humans on the other side of the border. We all remember how Ukrainians began telephoning their relatives in Russia: “Go out into the streets! Take down the government! You are dropping bombs [on us]! What are you doing?” And in response, we heard: “You are shooting at yourselves! We will soon liberate you.” But how could this be?! Beforehand, my mind simply pushed away all thoughts about the war, because everything in my life had finally fallen into place: my children were in preschool; I had started working on something I liked; I was reading, writing, thinking—only not about the war. Thus, I absolutely did not accept the arguments of my husband, who was trying to reach me.

Kondratiuk: I understand that evacuation was not an option for you, but perhaps your husband had persuaded you to be prepared in at least some way?

Boriak: The only thing I did was to pack an emergency kit, with official papers, children’s medicine, my medication supply, and warm clothes since it was still winter. We bought some groats and rusks. We packed two bags, and I told my husband, “Here, look, the bags are ready; I’ve prepared.”

A feeling of anxiety began to surface after I read an article by V. Surkov—at the time, Putin’s advisor on ideological questions. The piece appeared literally a week before the war started. I quoted it to a French correspondent because he didn’t believe me when I said the Russians sought to undermine the global order. When I read it, I began to feel anxious. But my suitcase was prepared, and I pushed all these thoughts away. February 24th was supposed to be a day like any other: take the kids to preschool, go for a swim, and then go to work. 

Kondratiuk: But February 24th was not an ordinary day for any Ukrainian. What do you remember about that day?

Boriak: I was awoken at half past five in the morning by my husband yelling, “Tania, the war has started!” He had risen earlier and had been getting ready to go to work. A few days prior, he went down to check out our building’s shelter because the head of our housing association said it needed to be inspected. We knew where it was located. The housing association had stocked up on water; some rusks were also stocked. On the morning of 24 February 2022 I told my husband to withdraw some cash (we had already bought medication, so there was no need to go to the pharmacy). From our balcony, we can see the intersection; people were starting to gather at the ATM, and lines were forming at the pharmacy and even our local corner store. While my husband went to take out money, I called my parents: “The war has started!” They said, “We know, there’s already shooting nearby.” My husband came back from the bank, our kids woke up, and, of course, they didn’t go to daycare. Then the explosions began. There was a strike on Rybalskyi Island [right-bank lowertown Kyiv]. My daughter began crying, and I couldn’t calm her down. I decided we must go to the shelter. It had a radio; someone had prepared, unlike us. The broadcast was saying that the battle for Hostomel was underway. Later, we heard about explosions near Boryspil. 

“I have two small children that I’m responsible for, and I must do everything possible to keep them alive!” 

Kondratiuk: Did you and your family remain in the shelter for long?

Boriak: No, I understood that staying in the shelter with a hyperactive child would be difficult. My husband stepped out and listened, and it seemed quiet. We went back up to the apartment. Back then, there was not yet an alert system. Now, we know if it’s a Shahed drone or Kinzhal ballistic missile coming and even where it is heading—the approximate direction and cities at risk are indicated. But back then, it was simply something exploding somewhere. You couldn’t tell if it would hit your building or not…

Later, I don’t know what exactly triggered it—either the explosions started again, or I read some news—but I told my husband I was taking the kids away from Kyiv. I was hyperfocused on the thought that nothing else matters but my two small children that I’m responsible for, and I must do everything to keep them alive! I grabbed our suitcases, divided the food between my husband and me, packed some warm clothes, grabbed a few toys, got in the car, and drove to my parents.

Kondratiuk: How was the trip to your parents?

Boriak: I don’t know how I made it; the roads were pure chaos, and traffic rules didn’t apply anymore. The concept of an “oncoming lane” didn’t exist. Everyone was driving willy-nilly. At Obolon there is an exit towards Vyshhorod, where my parents live. I realized everyone was coming from there, and I was the only one going north. 

Kondratiuk: Was it safer and more peaceful at your parents’ place?

Boriak: Possibly during the day, but then came the terrible nights. We adhered to blackout measures. My parents have a cellar, but it is completely ill-suited as a shelter. We brought down flashlights, water, and warm clothes just to be safe, but it was impossible to sleep with the children there. We went to bed on the ground floor OR upstairs—or, more accurately, I put them to bed but couldn’t sleep myself. I sat beside the children, watched over them, stayed awake, listened, and read. I read about tank columns near Vyshhorod, which were later destroyed, and about the blown-out bridge precisely on the way to the town. I realized that was the only exit road left. If that bridge was also blown up, that would be it. The town would be cut off, and you simply would not be able to leave. 

On the fifth night, as I sat next to my children, my history education finally kicked in and I realized: “My God, they want to kill us again!” It really only sank in for me on that fifth night. I think my subconscious was processing information, but since I wasn’t in a state of mind to process lengthy chains of reasoning, it just threw the essentials at me: “It’s dangerous here! You could be killed here! You have two children; you need to get out! As a mother, you have one duty right now—to bring your children to safety!” Everything else simply ceased to exist—husband, parents, my whole life, all my desires… All that remained were two children whom I had to save, and that’s it! When my parents woke up, I told them I was taking the kids away. I phoned my husband and said, “Zhenia, I’ve decided to go.” He asked, “To where?” I said, “I don’t know—just away from here!” In that moment, I remembered the words of the former Israeli Prime Minister Golda Meir: “If someone says to you that they want to kill you, then don’t doubt it!” This should hang in every history classroom next to the map of the GULAG as a small reminder.

“If I found myself under occupation, as someone who researches the Holodomor, as a historian, I would be unlikely to get out alive” 

Kondratiuk: Many of my historian colleagues mentioned that they feared for their lives in the event of occupation. Did you have similar thoughts or concerns?

Boriak: Yes, I understood that if I found myself under occupation, as someone who researches the Holodomor, as a historian, I would be unlikely to get out alive. There was information that the Russians were hunting such people and that they had lists of ATO service members, teachers, professors, Ukrainian intellectuals, and public opinion leaders. That is to say, there was a clear understanding that I would not survive under occupation. 

Kondratiuk: Did you leave only with your children? What did you take with you?

Boriak: Well, I wanted to take children’s books. People take all sorts of things when evacuating, but Tania takes children’s books. We actually did take a few, although not too many, of course—only what could be carried. So, just the essentials: two kids and four bags—a backpack on the front, one on the back, and a bag in each hand. I let the kids take whatever toys they wanted. I remember my son wanted to take a big toy car, but he agreed to something smaller. I also took a hard drive and computer. The whole of my past life was on that drive: professional, family, personal—everything!

I remember how it was recommended at the time to write the children’s names and all possible contact numbers and put them in their belongings. I did that. I still have those pieces of paper. After [our] victory, I will give them to a museum. When I visited the Warsaw Uprising Museum, I saw the same kind of “tags” from 1944, and I was overcome by emotion because I had saved the very same kinds of papers.

“It is interesting to read and write history books, but not to find yourself in one”

Kondratiuk: Dr. Boriak, how was your journey from Ukraine to Lithuania? What was hardest for you?

Boriak: We bid our neighbours farewell. We left. We drove through our forest. It was also terrifying because we used to love walking in the forest at all times of the day. It is a very beautiful forest. And here you’re driving through this forest and realize that there could be a reconnaissance group running around out there, ready to shoot at your car. But sitting and waiting for them to come or not, I just couldn’t do it anymore. I realized that I had to run; I had to save the children. At least, it seemed to me to afford us more chances than simply sitting and waiting. We drove for a long time in the forest because the bridge had been destroyed. Then we came to Vyshhorod: roadblocks, an empty city. When we reached Kyiv, they were already setting up “hedgehogs” [metal anti-tank obstacles]. Even at the entrance to the city, they had put up signs that said “Mined!” You are driving along this road, which you used to take every week to visit your parents. Everything seems so familiar, but then there are these signs: “Caution, mines!” 

We then came to the train station. It was like “Armageddon” from the movies. It is interesting to read and write history books, but not to find yourself in one. Before leaving, we had heard that there were evacuation trains to Warsaw. But when I saw the lineup, I realized there was no way I could wait it out with two little kids. The kids and I stood in a corner while my husband looked for information. A train heading to Khmelnytskyi was announced, but we didn’t board it because I specifically wanted to take the children abroad. I was in such a panicked state that I felt safety was only possible beyond the border. At the same time, the question of emigration was absolutely not a consideration for me. Nowadays, there is a category of people for whom the war is an opportunity to modify their life plans. Everyone makes their own choices and decisions and bears responsibility for them. For me, the question of emigration was never a consideration. I have seen foreign countries, travelled abroad, and undertaken internships. For me, it was a place of safety where I could save my children. 

“Tania, you’re going to Lithuania”

Kondratiuk: And did you have a country in mind, or maybe a city? Where were you going? 

Boriak: No, I was just going anywhere. I was standing with the children and our bags when I saw a train pull up marked “Ternopil.” I phoned my husband and said, “There’s a train to Ternopil. Hurry!” We were standing in the passageway close to the train at that moment. I grabbed the kids, my husband ran over, and we made it just in time. We even managed to get seats. And off we went. 

Kondratiuk: What was the journey like, and how many cities did you pass through? Who helped you evacuate? Please tell us.

Boriak: It was terrifying because the Russians had just then hit the train station’s southern exit. Then, a very moving moment occurred when the train stopped at some station, and the locals handed out water to those travelling further. There was also such an unsettling silence; everyone sat silently, caught up in their stress. And then I saw a message from my brother. He had received a message from his colleagues in Europe about the locations of people who had volunteered to help Ukrainian refugees. I opened it and saw some names, emails, and countries. I was looking at this list when my eyes suddenly stopped at the line, “Dovilė, email, Lithuania.” As I had decided only to listen to my intuition, I thought, “Tania, you’re going to Lithuania.” I told my husband, “Zhenia, I’m going to Lithuania.” He responded, “Why? Justify it.” I replied that I didn’t know, I couldn’t explain it, just that I felt it. 

We arrived in Ternopil, and that’s when my husband’s colleagues helped us. This ties into the theme of horizontal connections, which is studied a lot these days. It’s something that “Soviet” totalitarianism failed to destroy in us but managed to destroy in the Russians. Zhenia sent out a request: “People, if you are on the train to Ternopil, please help us with accommodation.” Immediately, he was sent the contacts of volunteers putting people up for free in their homes for those travelling further west. We phoned. They even met us because we had arrived at night and there was a curfew. They fed us pelmeni (dumplings). We put the children to sleep, and I sat with my husband in the kitchen. He asked, “Well, what next?” I replied, “Well, we are going to Lithuania.” 

Kondratiuk: When you decided to go to Lithuania, how exactly did you plan your logistics further?

Boriak: We then took a train to Lviv and arrived at the train station, and there, as in Kyiv, it was again “Armageddon.” The whole square in front of the station was filled with tents: the Red Cross, a warming station for women with children… We went to see what we should do next. There was a bus from the Red Cross, but they said it would just come and go and didn’t follow a regular schedule. They said, “We only take women with children; if that suits you, then wait here.” We moved on. We saw a few other buses. People were literally taking them by storm. I observed this and thought, with four bags and two kids, no, I’ll get crushed over there. Then, thank god, we found a transporter who had actually thought to schedule times. We went up, bought tickets, and they told us when the bus was departing. We went over to the bus. We said goodbye to my husband. He said, “My god, when will we see each other again.” Still nonplussed, I replied, “Zhenia, I don’t believe it! This can’t last long; it just can’t. The Russians will be given some conditions soon. So, no, I don’t believe this will go on for a long time” (said Tania the optimist, who by now has not been in Ukraine for two years and hasn’t seen her husband except on the screen of her phone and iPad). So the kids and I, behaving calmly and well-mannered by some miracle, got on the bus and set off. When we arrived, we got off the bus, and I thought, “Ok, let’s move forward,” but there was a lineup… My God… I looked at the line starting to form, and someone said, “Where are you going? You don’t have to wait in line; you are with two kids.” Thank God! I ran ahead, relieved to skip the queue. Everything was very quick at the border. We handed our documents to the Ukrainian border guards, who quickly gave them back, and then we moved on to the Polish side. The Polish guards even helped me to carry my bag. Volunteers were already standing there with treats. They asked, “Can your children have some?” “Yes, they can!” I replied. Then, the kids came along with bags full of treats. It was very, very moving. I am thankful to the Polish people for how they welcomed us. You could really feel incredible empathy from their side. I got in touch with a volunteer. She said to go to Przemyśl, and from there they took us to Lithuania.

“Our grandmother was deported to Siberia. All our lives, she told us: ‘Children, fear the Russians.’” 

Kondratiuk: And how did Vilnius welcome you? Who helped you to settle into everyday life? 

Boriak: When we arrived, we stayed with volunteers for about ten days, until an apartment became available that belonged to their colleagues, who were moving to a house. They rented that apartment to us. It was a one-room studio. I remember how warmly they greeted us. We got to know each other. They fed us and then told us, “Our grandmother was deported to Siberia. All our lives, we heard her say: ‘Children, fear the Russians.’” These good people, when they heard that the war had started, they cleaned out their closets and sent warm clothes as aid. Then, they volunteered to help because they understood what would happen next. It was incredibly comforting to find ourselves among people who did not need anything explained to them, because I simply did not have the strength to explain anything at that moment. 

Kondratiuk: Dr. Boriak, what were your first days in safety like? What were they filled with, exactly?

Boriak: For those ten days that we lived with them, I sat on the telephone. The parents of the director of our kindergarten were in Mariupol. She herself was from Mariupol but left with her children after 2014. Her parents stayed in Mariupol, and there was no contact from them. At that time, I wrote to her every day. Thank God, at some point, she replied that her parents had made contact and had managed to leave. They went to her in Poland. At least here is one good story about people who managed to save themselves from Mariupol. I inquired about acquaintances who ended up under occupation and messaged all those I could; everyone had survived. I spoke with others—one friend had left for Khmelnytskyi, some headed west for Zakarpattia, while many friends remained where they were. Some went to Poland and Germany; everyone chose their own strategy for survival based on their experience and intuition. 

Then I realized I had to do something. I saw an ad on Viber from a news channel: “We’re looking for someone who can work with information, disseminate news, and translate into English.” I volunteered, and for several hours every day, I worked for them. They provided me with a list of official Facebook pages, Telegram channels, and Twitter accounts. I would search them for news and translate it. Some things they approved, and others they didn’t. In short, this was my modest contribution to our informational front. 

I am very grateful for Dovilė’s help settling us in those first days. She went with us to the migration centre. Normally, people arrive in some manner, join groups, and look for some centres, but I had taken my children to a safe place and was “in between,” as they say. That is why I am thankful that she took me by the hand to the migration service and sorted everything out with us. We were among the first there because we arrived on March 3. Together with her, we completed all the documents. Then Dovilė said, “Here is the contact of a person who deals with the kindergartens and speaks Russian.” I called, and it was a pleasant man named Valerii. He asked where we were living so that he could tell us which kindergartens were nearby. We went there, and a very kind director greeted us. I am very grateful to all these incredible people. 

Boriak: A few weeks after moving to the new apartment, the kids started going to kindergarten, and I wondered what was next. I thought to myself: I know that there are universities here. I went online and found three universities, two of which have history programs—one in Vilnius and one in Kaunas. I emailed them, introducing myself as a refugee from Ukraine due to the war, a mother of two, and holding a PhD in history. At that point, information about different scholarships and programs initiated by the universities to support Ukrainian refugee scholars was already circulating. Inspired by this information, I asked whether they had any scholarships, positions, or any kind of work. I received quick responses; they invited me to visit and asked if I needed any kind of assistance. Their attitude was so humane. We agreed to meet at the University of Vilnius. I arrived and showed them my documents. They offered me a half-time research position because there wasn’t any more funding. I was very grateful; I would have even agreed to a third of a position at that time. 

Kondratiuk: Dr. Boriak, being in Vilnius, do you get the sense that Lithuanians are also striving to rid themselves of Russian narratives in different areas, especially in the humanities?

Boriak: It is positive that at least the phrase “Russian imperialism” is beginning to be heard. Loreta Skurvydaitė, the chair of the history department, says she perfectly understands us because when historians turned to Lithuanian society and their colleagues to discuss Russian imperialism, they were told they were suffering from post-Soviet trauma. Presently, Lithuanian volunteers have formed Telegram groups to track the background of Russians arriving on concert tours. Active Lithuanians recognize the threat. There is also discussion about the fame of Pushkin. At an event, some Lithuanians came out in defence of him, while others took the opposing view. I was told that the Pushkin Museum held a class for Ukrainian children! But does this really negate the reality of Russian disinformation and hybrid warfare or that Pushkin himself was an imperialist? After all, was it not Pushkin who said, “One must submit to the glory of Russian arms.” Is this quote hanging in the museum? And what of his remarks on the “Circassian genocide”? They first killed all the Circassians, and then Pushkin wrote, “We shall mourn those good people who once lived here.” They want to do the same with Ukrainians. They will kill everyone, and then someone will write, “Ukrainians once lived here. We will mourn them.” For me, this overshadows both “Ruslan and Ludmilla” and all his other works. 

“As it turned out, Europe only knows Ukraine from what it hears through Russian channels”

Kondratiuk: I know you have never shied away from the popularization of Ukrainian history. Have you had the opportunity to work in this direction? 

Boriak: Oh, certainly. Naturally, a research position involves working on your own topic, but the university asked me to lecture on Ukrainian history because, as it turned out, Europe only knows Ukraine from what it hears through Russian channels. And now, as they begin to discover Ukraine and reject the Russian perspective, they have included Ukrainian history in the course curriculum. They offer an undergraduate course titled “Lithuania’s Neighbours.” The essence of the course involves familiarizing students with the history of Lithuania’s neighbouring states, including Poland, Russia, and Ukraine. A module on Ukrainian history was added in the spring of 2022, and I was asked to deliver those lectures. Of course, I agreed. At the start of the new academic year, funding was secured, and I was hired full-time. 

Another very helpful thing, in my opinion, is the European program Erasmus+, which offers the possibility to visit various universities across Europe as a guest lecturer. For my first time, in 2023 I travelled to Slovenia, where I gave lectures on Ukrainian history at the University of Ljubljana. And last year, I went to the Catholic University of the Sacred Heart in Milan, where I also gave lectures on Ukrainian history. In these lectures, I tried to debunk myths and speak about what we all now refer to as decolonization and de-imperialization. I tried to help dispel the Russian narrative and explain why this is necessary. I sought to present Ukrainian history free from Russian distortions and highlight our moments of suffering, including the crime of the Holodomor. I presented Ukraine as a free European state, crushed by an empire that persists in its attempts to subjugate Ukraine.

Of course, I speak out a lot about the Holodomor here in Vilnius. The Lithuanian media have invited me several times to talk about the war, its origins, Russian imperialism, Ukraine, our past, and the Holodomor. I gave a speech at the Seimas of the Republic of Lithuania for the commemoration of the Days of Mourning and Hope, Occupation, and Genocide, as well as other speeches. After one of my presentations about the Holodomor, a Polish woman approached me and said that only now did she understand what the Holodomor was, how it was organized, and how traumatic it turned out to be for Ukrainians. 

Kondratiuk: If we are talking about the popularization of Ukrainian history, then I cannot help but ask you about the wonderful project “History Fleshed Out,” which you ran together with Danylo Yanevskyi. Please tell us a little about this initiative. 

Boriak: This was very interesting. I became involved with the project thanks to the Fulbright Program. In 2016, since I was in their contacts, they invited me to participate in evaluating potential scholarship awardees for the program. After this, Danylo Yanevskyi asked me to join the “History Fleshed Out” program. I happily agreed because I saw there was a need for historical knowledge, and on the internet, one can find everything from alternative history to outright fake information. The idea was to invite high-level experts and present one aspect of Ukrainian history in an accessible form. Additionally, we had the opportunity to introduce the broader public to Ukrainian historians and intellectuals. 

The last episode to air was about [propaganda] posters. We made it with Oleksandr Maievskyi, who is a specialist in World War Two posters and has published a book on the topic. He studies the poster as an instrument of propaganda and how this type of art helped transmit certain messages. At the end of February 2022, we were supposed to record an episode about linguicide—about what was done to the Ukrainian language and how it was violated—with philologist Larysa Malenko, but unfortunately, I did not manage to do it. 

Kondratiuk: When I was in Vilnius in the fall of 2022, I went to an exhibition dedicated to Ukraine and only later found out that you had also contributed to its creation. What was this project, and what was its goal? 

Boriak: Yes, in April–May 2022, I happily joined a great project called “Tracing the Outlines of Ukrainian History: Louder.” Oleh Suraiev, a Lithuanian whose mother is from Kyiv, reached out to me. There was an idea to create a project with the framework of the decolonization of Ukraine and the debunking of myths. They proposed holding an exhibition about Ukraine and finding touchpoints between Ukrainian and Lithuanian history. We share a common period in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, which is a significant touchpoint, as well as some later shared history. My task was to research themes, write a historical timeline, and create a chronology of key events of our shared history. In other words, I was responsible for the historical component while they reached out to several artists who added a few interesting artistic pieces. For instance, one piece was a field of sunflowers damaged by bombs. I think it turned out to be a good combination of history and art. The exhibition took place in Vilnius at the Radziwiłł Palace Museum. 

“The oral history of the Holodomor, as a source base, attests above all to the reality of the genocide as premeditated murder.”

Kondratiuk: Dr. Boriak, we have touched on your doctoral dissertation a few times. Could you tell us about your monograph, “Oral History as a Source for Holodomor Studies: Formation of Eyewitness Testimony Collections and their Informative Value”?

Boriak: My immersion into the subject began after graduating from university. However, I first heard about the Holodomor from my Ukrainian language and literature teacher, Alla Oleksandrivna Sakun, who spoke particularly about her family experience. At the time, I could barely grasp what she was talking about. I kept thinking, “How could such a thing happen?” This was some time in my sixth grade. 

Later, oral history projects stubbornly led me toward the topic of the Holodomor. It was during my maternity, realizing I couldn’t bear to just stay at home with the children, that I applied to a doctoral program. This was one year before the war. I had already accumulated a lot of material from various projects. The research topic was initially formulated slightly differently from the final title. I wanted to examine the Holodomor through the prism of oral history. At the same, this brought adjacent fields of study into focus, such as traumatic memory studies, Soviet totalitarianism, and archival studies. 

I was struck by how relentlessly the Kremlin worked on the information front to systematically wipe out all evidence of the famine from the archives (there even exists the term “archivocide”), deliberately destroying archival records from those years. In the context of the Holodomor, it is important to understand both what the archives are silent about and what they speak about. How the Chekists destroyed original diaries and poems with references to the famine and how the Kremlin’s war from that time is interconnected with the present. How during the recent occupation of Ivankiv district in Kyiv oblast, the local history museum was destroyed. It had housed the diary of the teacher Oksentii Musiienko, but fortunately, historians had digitized it a year before the war. Beyond the Kuban, there is only one monument to the famine, which has been used to reinforce the narrative of an “all-Union famine.” How the politics of memory in Ukraine and Russia diverged into absolutely different paths, turning us to self-reflection and the Russians toward the abyss about which the historian L. Yakubova has written and ultimately toward the present genocidal war. How the narrative of “Nazi collaborators” was concocted to discredit eyewitnesses to the famine. How they courageously tried to overcome the totalitarian machine of lies after World War II, crying out about the threat of the USSR, imperialism, and cannibalistic communism. Their voices went unheard, and parts of Europe became occupied. Just as we are now yelling about the same threat of Russian imperialism, and some respond: negotiate. How the memory of the famine emerged from unexpected places during various oral history projects, because eyewitnesses to the pain experienced in the winter and spring of 1933 had no one to share it with. How intergenerational bonds were shattered by fear, which became a part of our identity. How the Holodomor destroyed Ukrainian identity. How, when given the slightest opportunity, Ukrainians rushed to record testimony about the famine, attempted to calculate the death toll in their own villages, and erected monuments [to the victims]. First during the Nazi occupation and then after the actual recognition of the famine by the Ukrainian Communist Party in 1987. How eyewitnesses tried to make sense of the Holodomor. How it was perceived by foreigners and Ukrainians themselves at the peak of the famine. How they bore accurate witness to what they had observed. How what was seen and/or lived broke people and turned them into mere cogs in the system. How the accumulated mass of memoirs and testimonies of over one hundred thousand accounts, by my calculation, shatters the claim that V. Yushchenko allegedly invented and forcibly implanted false memories about the Holodomor into our collective memory. 

The oral history of the Holodomor, as a source base, attests above all to the reality of the genocide as premeditated murder. After all, the Holodomor resulted from the confiscation of food stocks (not just grain, as in Russia), accompanied by simultaneous restrictions on movement and an information war against the famine, already initiated in 1932. The Holodomor is also about the trauma its eyewitnesses survived. It is about the criminal nature of Soviet totalitarianism, which managed to design such a diabolical mechanism for the murder of millions without wasting bullets. Demographers say that this is the only famine in history where such a large number of people died from hunger in so short a span of time (about half a year). 

“I feel it is vital to write articles for a Western audience, to present our point of view.”

Kondratiuk: Are rallies in support of Ukraine still taking place in Vilnius, or have they subsided?

Boriak: They are ongoing. One of the organizers is Arcadius Vinokuras, a director and playwright, a person in an intellectual occupation who works with words and meanings. Since the beginning of the war, he has been organizing rallies in support of Ukraine, which take place every Monday. Once, he invited me to speak. At the time, Mr. Vinokuras said to me that they would gather and stand together until victory. This rally still takes place every Monday. Every week, screens and Ukrainian flags are also set up at Cathedral Square near the Iron Wolf monument and the base of the Gediminas’ Tower. The Ukrainian anthem is always played, and guests speak for about half an hour. The organizers ask people to come with flags, show support, take photos, and share them on social media. In this way, they also try to engage active Lithuanians. When there was a protest against Pushkin as a symbol of imperialism, one Lithuanian answered the painful question, “Are you Lithuanian, or does Pushkin personally bother you?” To which he replied very well, “I don’t want Lithuania to end up like Ukraine.” It really is that simple. 

Kondratiuk: Do many people attend these rallies?

Boriak: Many people gathered for the anniversary of the beginning of the escalated war. I also dropped everything, cancelled my kids’ classes, and went with them. Long Ukrainian and Lithuanian flags were carried through the Old City. Then we came to Cathedral Square, where there was a large rally. The whole square was filled with people. It’s not like two or three people come—no, Ukrainians come out and stand with their flags.

Kondratiuk: I understand that long-term planning is not a feasible option for Ukrainians, but nevertheless let me know about your academic plans. 

Boriak: My plans are also quite complicated. I have a two-year contract with the University of Vilnius for 2024 and 2025, but beyond that, I don’t know. I would like to adapt my book for English-speaking readers, but for now, I need to complete everything around the defence of my dissertation. Only after that can I think about what comes next. I am also thinking of writing a book about Russian imperialism in Ukraine. I have a lot of material that I could include in such a monograph. So, the ideas are there, but since I’m not only a researcher but also a mother of two, it will be challenging to go to another program because I’d have to take the kids into another environment. Two specialists—my daughter’s speech therapist and my son’s art teacher—separately told me that it took half a year to bring the children out of the state they were in after they arrived. Without question, this is not something that just passes. That’s why I am very grateful for the job I have right now. 

By the way, last year a colleague approached me to do an issue for the journal Genocidas ir resistenciija (Genocide and resistance) dedicated to the history of Ukraine in the 20th century. It has already been released. It is very good that they managed to find funding and published it in both English and Lithuanian. Now it can be used by students. We strove to include the most painful topics of the 20th century. 

I feel it is vital to write articles for a Western audience, to present our point of view. Again, I will repeat that this is why I want to make my book available to a Western audience: in Ukraine people already understand the dangers of Russian chauvinism, imperialism, and militarism, while in the West they do not. I want to approach it in the way Ukrainian historian Larysa Yakubova did in her book Ruscism: The Beast from the Abyss. When I read it, I cried. It was one of those few books that made me cry because what can be done to people is terrifying. We know in theory that there were Nazis, the Holocaust, and gas chambers; we know about the Holodomor, but it is something abstract, historical, and professional. We work on it, write about it, turn off the lights, and go pick up our kids from daycare. But real understanding came in 2022. And what do we do with these people who are intent on killing, in whose eyes we are already so dehumanized that killing us is not a problem? I do not have clear plans. I don’t know what I will do with my life; I have decided to live in the here and now. 

The interview was originally published by Ukraina Moderna: link 

Interview by Olena Kondratiuk

(Prepared as part of the Juliusz Mieroszewski Centre for Dialogue scholarship program.)

This publication includes photographs from the private archive of Tetiana Boriak.

Tetiana Boriak

Tetiana Boriak is a Candidate of Historical Sciences and a researcher at Vilnius University (Vilnius, Lithuania). She is the author of Oral History as a Source for Holodomor Studies: Formation of Eyewitness Testimony Collections and their Informative Value. Edited by Oleksandr Danylenko. Kyiv: TOV “Iurko Liubchenko”, 2024. 632 pp.; The Documentary Heritage of Ukrainian Emigration in Europe: The Prague Archive (1945–2010). [Ministry of Culture of Ukraine, National Academy of Managerial Staff of Culture and Arts]. Nizhyn: NDU “Mykola Hohol” Publishing, 2011. 542 pp.; and 1933: "And Why Are You Still Alive?" Edited by Tetiana Boriak. National Academy of Sciences of Ukraine, Institute of History of Ukraine. Kyiv: TOV “Klio” Publishing, 2016. 720 pages. She is the author of more than seventy academic and popular history articles and reviews. Boriak is a co-host and presenter of the educational program History with Meat. She is a Fulbright Fellow and worked on the “Testimonies” module of the MAPA Digital Atlas Great Famine Project. Her research interests include the Holodomor, oral history, archival and source studies, and genocide studies.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Stay Up To Date

Subscribe to our email list for regular updates, direct to your inbox.