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A Ukrainian publisher still in the country shares her experiences over the past weeks and her team’s determination to keep their projects alive.
One day before the war escalated, my friends and colleagues from ist publishing (Nastya Leonova, Borys Filonenko) and myself were giving an interview for the Ukrainian literature magazine Chytomo in our new office. It was dedicated to the fifth anniversary of our publishing company and our plans. I remember it was a sunny day, but there was extreme tension in the air and the day was heavy. We spoke about our readers and how their interest in art and culture had grown substantially in the past five years. Our audience reads in Ukrainian; from the first day of operating, we felt that it was crucial for us to offer translations in Ukrainian only.
I remember a lot of "offers" and suggestions to publish in Russian—as readers here, allegedly, were used to it, and it was easier. Admittedly, when we started publishing cultural texts in Ukrainian, it could take two years to sell 500 copies, which is a long time. But the situation soon changed and today, Ukrainian book chains have declared that they will stop working with Russian organisations and are removing all books in the Russian language. It seems that we were pioneers.
After the interview, Borys told me: "I am getting ready for the losses". It was the last day when all the team was together in Kyiv at the office.
The next day the war started. I managed to take one small backpack with documents and run from my flat. Nastya and I wanted to take some papers, stamps and a work laptop from the publishing office. But our office is located in Podil—an area where at that moment everyone was hearing explosions—so we were forced to head west, instead of to the publishing house. All publishing activity immediately stopped. All projects that were in different stages are now frozen. Force majeure circumstances from the agreements came into action—you know, those clauses that no-one ever pays attention to. Emails from our international colleagues and partners flooded in with the words of support or offers of accommodation. But for now, we stay in our country. Publishing teams that once co-ordinated book-making are currently engaged in refugee support, humanitarian help and bolstering territorial defence forces protecting our country. A part of our team and our book stock storage are in the East, in Kharkiv—under the devastating missile strikes. Relatives, friends and colleagues are in the hot spots; they can’t leave the bomb shelters, and they are running out of medicine and food. The question regarding publishing’s fate is not on the agenda at the moment.
Just yesterday, a literary critic Yevhen Stanisevych talked about Boccaccio, resuming his course "Books on which the world rests". Some say that there were sirens during the talk. Regardless, it didn’t stop
However, it’s important to mention that there is one book left that we should publish now anyway. I’m talking about the project by Pavlo Makov, Fountain of Exhaustion. High Water. Pavlo is a Ukrainian artist who stayed in Kharkiv with his family for the whole week of severe bombing. It is he who represents the Ukrainian pavilion at the Venice Biennale 2022. We are honoured to be the Ukrainian pavilion’s partner in taking care of the English and Ukrainian book publication supporting the project, which will open on 23rd April.
It is as yet unknown if this project, which was in preparation for half of the year, will be completed. Still, I personally know that the pavilion’s curators, Maria Lanko, Lizaveta German and Filonenko, are doing their best to make it happen. Currently, the team is scattered all around Ukraine and outside it, saving their lives, so we are not talking about the final edits for the book. From a publishing point of view, we asked our long-time friend, Amsterdam-based Valiz, to print the stock in the EU. Publisher Astrid Vorstermans agreed straight away, and the print shop is ready to commence the printing for us to be in time for the pavilion opening. But still, at the moment, we can’t be sure that we will be able to finalise the book ready to print. The situation changes every minute.
Currently, all we have for this project are three trial covers on different types of paper we managed to print right before the war. It is these three pages and the artwork itself that were evacuated to Western Ukraine. Being engaged in the pavillion opening and the book publication is surprisingly therapeutic in connecting us to our life before the war, even under this constant terror.
I’ve managed to write this small text in four days. There was a day when I couldn’t write a single word—but the state of numbness changed into the desire to act. Likewise, the cultural publishing community in Ukraine has activated almost in an instant. There is a complete boycott of Russia in the international cultural field. Petitions are being signed, and cultural representatives are releasing official statements boycotting Russian cultural representation. Some Ukrainian publishers are offering free downloads of e-books and audiobooks from their platforms and donating their savings to the army.
Today I came across a post on Facebook informing me that a well-known Ukrainian cultural-educational institution, Cultural Project, is continuing to release online lectures. It was a piece of good news. For instance, just yesterday, literary critic Yevhen Stanisevych talked about Boccaccio, resuming his course "Books on which the world rests". Some say that there were sirens during the talk. Regardless, it didn’t stop. Such actions and work in such extreme environments act as an anchor point—they bring an understanding that everything is cruelly and unjustly interrupted, but something usual still remains. We hold onto those tiny straws. Writing this text right now is partly an act of remembering what has been lost, groping for what is unavailable. Surprisingly, this gives me hope that we will return to a normal and peaceful life one day.
Translated from Ukrainian by Daria Anosova