Its more interesting in the ATO than here; here, its tough

Tamara, how did the “MITEC. Rehabilitation Space” project begin for you? This year started with two projects—“MITEC. Rehabilitation Space” and a veterans’ project—a group English class. I had previously studied English at Karpenko-Karyi, where I received my higher education. My mentor was Yuriy Gerasymovych Ilienko. In my first year, I was disappointed with the Ukrainian directing school. This was in the 1990s, during the first Maidan hunger strike. I missed a lot of classes because of it. I had to drop out. But it didn’t all happen right away, because I was still studying at the International School of Ukrainian Studies. I met some patriotic people there. And then art and directing called to me; I saw several of Roman Viktyuk’s plays at the Lesya Ukrainka Theater—*Sacred Monsters* and *The Lady Without Camellias*. And I realized that he was a genius and that he was truly a director from whom I had much to learn, so I went to Moscow to see Roman Grigorovich Viktuk. My dream was to meet him; I spent a year preparing. He wasn’t accepting students, but he allowed me to be by his side as an auditor. What did you dream of in your youth? When I was little, I often watched Soviet films and dreamed of performing a heroic deed. I was all for a brave cause. Even as a child, I was a young naturalist, studied at the Junior Academy of Sciences, and even received a medal at age 15 for my contributions to the development of the Soviet Union’s national economy. I was among the last to receive those medals. I dreamed of doing equestrian sports, of being around horses. And then life changed so much that I went into the arts. And then—boom—the army. What was happening in Moscow? Moscow welcomed me very warmly, but I knew I would return to Kyiv. Back then, Moscow was drawing in all the best talent. This was the late ’80s, ’90s. I wanted to know what dance was, so I took up ballroom dancing and ended up at Chapkis. Back then, they taught cha-cha-cha, rumba, and Latin dances. I think I’ve always been lucky with teachers, and I chose Roman Grigorovich myself. I went to all the theaters, usually to see Roman Grigorovich’s productions. There’s probably no theater in Moscow where Viktuk hasn’t staged a play. He was very charismatic during his rehearsals, and watching him improvise was a great joy. Speaking of theater, did you manage to tie your life to it? I really liked the film studies department. Surprisingly, it was precisely in the film studies department that there were many of Dovzhenko’s “chicks in the nest” who felt his spirit. Ukrainian traditions have been very well preserved in film studies. And I have no regrets and am very glad that I was there. It was there that I interacted with students from various majors. In other words, just like a director, I was able to express myself a bit. This helped me because I did video shoots in the army. In my second year of service, I was on assignment at the press center in the Western Military District, where I established that same standard for filming and editing military routines, and I see that it really helped the army. It only seems easy, but it’s hard to film and edit the same subjects—tanks, bushes—to make it interesting for anyone. For an ordinary person who isn’t involved in corruption schemes, someone without powerful connections, becoming a film director here in Ukraine is quite difficult. Unless there’s a grant opportunity—that’s the only chance. In the army, I also put on nativity plays in 2015–16. In other words, I returned to my theatrical roots. A nativity play is a mature form of performance. In the winter of 2018, I visited Lysychansk to see my friend serving in the ATO. Ukrainians understand what a song is, but they’re very shy. In my Carpathian brigade from Kolomyia, there are absolutely no issues with nativity plays. And it was a great joy when the nativity play toured Lysychansk in 2019. Such things create a special aura and atmosphere. There are no atheists in war; we celebrated Epiphany, and everyone climbed into the manger. There aren’t many joys for soldiers, especially in the ATO zone. Before, there were all kinds of KVN shows, where it was nice to see our own people in that context. I think life has always been hard, and we need to give adults a chance to have some fun and celebrate. When did you start working on the nativity play? When I was working as a specialist and a volunteer. I spent six years at “Caritas-Kyiv,” and they are Greek Catholics; it’s a respected organization. I worked as a film expert on a program for street children. I screened films that helped the children cope with a range of subjects, including Ukrainian history, world history, and Ukrainian and foreign literature. We showed films from the school curriculum so that the children could get a sense of what these works were actually about. And that’s when I saw what a nativity play was at Caritas. Every director at Caritas is an ordained priest. And my work with Caritas paid off—I filmed everything there because I had to report on it. I’m very happy about that, because now at least I remember what I did in the army. Was joining the army your own idea? Yes, I’m a volunteer. I just joined the Armed Forces of Ukraine. A new brigade was being formed, and an acquaintance of mine was the deputy chief of staff there. He suggested I get involved in the cultural side of military life. Well, I thought about it and decided to go. I didn’t go specifically to fight; I just wanted to help those who are fighting. The thing is, our 10th Assault Brigade, created by the former president, was being dumped with all sorts of human trash from other military units—alcoholics, for example. We didn’t have any psychologists. We had to figure it out on our own. Artists and priests would come visit us. I pestered the brigade while we were getting organized, putting on concerts every Saturday—it was a kind of art therapy. Thanks to the remarkable carte blanche that the 10th Assault Brigade had, it received a lot of attention; there were no staff positions for military chaplains, and thanks to two Orthodox priests from Kyiv, a Muslim sheikh, and Greek Catholics, our team filled the gap. Filaret also eventually came to the ATO, and everyone realized that people of different faiths could be even closer friends. That’s how everything was resolved right away, thanks to the loyalty of the Armed Forces of Ukraine and the Kyiv Patriarchate. The goal was to do as in the U.S. Army, where there are three clergymen—a Roman Catholic, a Greek Catholic, and an Orthodox—so that soldiers could turn to clergy of their own faith. I remember how, two years ago, a law was passed on the separation of the Kyiv and Moscow Patriarchates. And at the university, our political science professor asked how we felt about it. Some agreed, some did not. In the army, too, there were people who disagreed with the separation from the Moscow Patriarchate. We are dealing with an aggressor country, and the army should not have friendly relations with it, even when it comes to the church. Tell us how you got into icon painting Once, I spent two months sleeping on newspapers in the briefing room. Military life is so turbulent. It seems that “Holos Ukrainy” and “Uryadovy Kurier” are delivered to the army. I would lie on them and periodically read stories about people who had left the army and how they later found their place in civilian life. There was a story about a veteran who carves horses out of wood; he received assistance through a veteran’s grant. I realized that veterans who have a craft have the best chance of receiving social and financial assistance. If you have a craft, you can live a decent life and have support. And it’s even better if that craft is a folk art and connects with the people. I also saw an example in my team from Kolomyia, where folk artist Oleg Kirochuk was a pysanka artist. He has exhibitions in Toronto, in New York… He is probably the most famous pysanka artist in Ukraine. And that’s the picture I formed. I’m not a believer and I’m not religious, but I worked with priests for three years. Plus, my mom comes from a family of victims of repression. She was a very devout person and constantly took me to St. Volodymyr’s Cathedral. When I was discharged from the army, I went to the employment center; for three months they gave me the minimum assistance, and later the assistance began to decrease. Then I saw an ad: “Icon Painting. Byzantine Style. TEOFOS School.” I called and decided I needed to invest in my future. A year later, I received my diploma. My icons are meant for exhibitions, because each piece has its own fascinating story. For example, I have a piece depicting two archangels and the Archangelic Gates. At the archangels’ feet is a crescent moon in memory of my friend Isa Munayev, a brigadier general from Chechnya. He served under Dzhokhar Dudaev, came to fight our common enemy, and organized a battalion named after him, which included Chechens, Caucasians, and our Ukrainians. I was pleased that the priest, who works closely with the Desnianskyi District Veterans’ Association, approved these images. We are a very tolerant country because we allow Muslim crescents to be incorporated into Orthodox icons in honor of the fallen. For me, this is a very significant moment. Are you comfortable with the “MITETS. Rehabilitation Space” project right now, and do you have any hopes for it?  To be honest, I don’t even know… Since last year, I’ve had two IOM veteran grants for icon painting. Surprisingly, it was very easy, perhaps because I already had something to show people. This confirmed the idea that crafts are very warmly and positively received by grant providers and society. There’s something to be proud of and to report on. And this project is like a rehearsal during isolation, so I can go out to people later. Although I’m a sociophobe, I haven’t met any veterans yet—people who adore others. The Ukrainian patriotic community, which emerged thanks to the Russian-Ukrainian war, has different layers; it’s interesting and complex at the same time. But every project gives me a little nudge. My family likes that I get involved in such projects. They respect me. How can art convey a war experience that the public will understand?  If you’ve been in a war, maybe here, in civilian life, you just don’t want to do things you don’t like, because you understand the value of life. You can no longer force yourself to work on something uninteresting. There’s a kind of sublimation… I don’t know if my work conveys what I feel. Art can help you survive after the war, to distract yourself, because we carry it with us; it’s always with us. We can’t let it go, and in order to stay here, in civilian life, you need to have something to occupy yourself with—and for me, that’s what I do, and I see positive feedback; it gives me balance in civilian life. If I don’t see positive feedback, I see indifference. It hurt me at the photography workshop. We came to this project where everyone present wants to be significant and loved, to get the most benefit in terms of practicality. When they didn’t let me finish talking about my project, I cried because I felt lonely, and I also felt that people were strangers to me. I’m in a zone of discomfort in this group. It’s important for us to do what society approves of, so it’s more interesting in the ATO than here; here, it’s hard. Journalism group: Dasha Kolesnik, Alina Shevchuk.