This publication is part of Ukrainian Voices, a Carnegie Europe project that sheds light on Ukraine’s political and social dynamics by highlighting the perspectives of local experts.
Tetiana Krivosheya is a sociologist from the Ukrainian Black Sea port city of Odesa. She works for the National University and the NGO Promotion of Intercultural Cooperation. Tetiana and Thomas collaborated on a Carnegie Europe project on the multiethnic southern region of Bessarabia in 2017-18. In April this year, he found her in very different circumstances. She told him about what it means to be a sociologist in wartime, what has changed in Odesa and how the conflict has affected her not just professionally but personally.
The conversation took place in Odesa in April 2023 and has been translated and condensed for clarity.
Thomas de Waal: Let’s start with challenges of being a sociologist, both in Ukraine and at the time of war. These are two great challenges. How possible is it to conduct a serious poll?
Tetiana Krivosheya: Even before the war, we were in a difficult situation because the last census [in Ukraine] was taken back in 2001. It’s been twenty-two years already. We were already quite disoriented, although we tried to rely on statistical data: on regional statistical bureaus, on voter data. That’s how it worked, as far as quantitative research was concerned.
But now the situation has deteriorated to the point where I don’t believe in quantitative surveys. It’s not just me—many of my colleagues say the same thing. So we don’t conduct surveys like that anymore. We use qualitative methods. They’ve been used quite frequently and successfully [in the past], and I believe they are fit for purpose today, especially when we are at war. We can’t get credible data otherwise. It’s also hard for us emotionally, as human beings. On the one hand, we’re sociologists and we need to be objective. On the other hand, it’s not just that our society has changed—we’ve changed as well . . .
Last year [in March 2022] we ran a poll electronically, with the help of gadgets . . .
Thomas de Waal: By gadgets you mean . . . ?
Tetiana Krivosheya: Smartphones. We sent links, had chatbots—that’s also a method. We found respondents in Odesa—people who said that as Odesans, they were willing to take part in the study. We got 5,000 people, and then from that database, we pulled 1,000 who we believed to be representative to draw conclusions. It was difficult, but it worked.
Thomas de Waal: Then tell me about this poll. Was it public?
Tetiana Krivosheya: Yes, it was public. We adopted this chatbot method from our Kyiv colleagues. They created a questionnaire. In parallel, the Odesa mayor’s office, through their calling center, independently polled 1,000 people. We compared the results, and they were very close. They did a telephone poll, and we used smartphones. So it wasn’t a street poll. We were actually willing to go out into the streets, but the SBU [Ukrainian security service] prohibited us from doing that, as it wasn’t safe for the interviewer. The war had just started then, and many of us didn’t know what to do.
Thomas de Waal: I want to ask about the result of that poll, but first, let’s talk about another enormous challenge for you. There is no census, and then there are big demographic changes because a large segment of the population left at one point.
Tetiana Krivosheya: Yes, this is a colossal challenge, and we still don’t know what to do about it. That’s why nowadays we can’t conduct a classical representative poll in Odesa. If I’m paid and deliver results whose accuracy I can’t guarantee 100 percent, that will be unprofessional. We refuse to do a poll like that. The poll from last year I was talking about was more of an experiment—more so we could tell the media that Odesa is not a Russian city than it was about collecting fully accurate data. Many in Russia were saying that Odesa is waiting for Putin, the invasion, and a landing from the sea under the Russian flag. It was part of the propaganda war. It was our contribution, and we even did it for free. We didn’t charge for our work as sociologists. We just paid IT specialists. They worked for two days, day and night. We gained enormous experience. So I said, “We won’t charge for that. This is our contribution as Odesa women. We worked together. That’s patriotism.”
It makes no sense now to just ask people questions. We are preoccupied with one thing now: we want victory. The war has to end. We need to stop going to funerals, stop going crazy, stop being afraid of missiles. So, to study something, we have to understand how much it has changed. Also, you understand that now [half the donors who fund projects] are dealing with migrants, those who left for Europe or somewhere else and those who are still here.
We have been conducting in-depth interviews and focus groups. They are hard to do, especially when someone is suffering from serious trauma or has lost loved ones. People from Bucha were telling us in the focus groups about how they passed their children out through windows with missiles and tanks around. You understand that you’re a sociologist, and you’re alive, but you can’t hold yourself back and you start crying with them. Last year we had twenty focus groups with those resettled people in Volyn, and we were saying right from the get-go that everyone would start crying when we got to the second question. And they did cry—you have to remember that the groups mostly consisted of women.
Thomas de Waal: What was the second question?
Tetiana Krivosheya: We asked them to tell the story of how they left their communities. They were telling us about who was killed, not sparing any details. It’s not even quite sociology [that you are observing]—it is more like a mass psychotherapy session. Then you sit down to write your report, and you’re kind of confused. I’m talking about this time of transformation. We probably have no other options in our situation. We accept it and work, although of course we make many mistakes.
Thomas de Waal: You were saying that there were some stereotypes about public opinion here, probably because there are more Russian-language speakers in the region. I would like to hear whether these stereotypes were wrong even before [the war]? How much did the Russian aggression change popular opinion here?
Tetiana Krivosheya: You know, there is a saying, “This is a Russian-speaking region.” Yes, it’s well-known that we’re Russian-speaking and multicultural. Since 2014, we find more Ukrainian speakers among those who answer the poll question “Who do you consider yourself to be?” But we know that some people in Odesa used to like to say, “I’m a citizen of the world.” It clearly meant that a person was either leaning toward Russia or simply didn’t care much about these issues.
Now young people especially started saying, “I’m a citizen of Ukraine” more often. So a different self-identification has emerged. It’s changing across all focus groups.
We regularly ask this question, and others do too. When it comes to religion, people say, “Relax, everyone, there are many other problems in the country.” On language issues, 80 percent say, “Yes, it’s important that the only official language in the country is Ukrainian, but don’t push it. Do it gradually.” For now, schools, kindergartens, everyone else won’t start speaking Ukrainian [right away].
Officially, we all switched to Ukrainian. Our documents, communication, conferences are all in Ukrainian. But if someone doesn’t feel comfortable, or a person says, “It’s hard for me, but I’m trying,” why should you stumble over your speech? So speak a language you are comfortable with. These conflicts are overblown. You probably see news on Telegram about another language scandal in Odesa—for example, a taxi driver speaks Russian, or they speak Russian at a café. Or Russian music causes a scandal, so someone can grab some attention. This is so petty—
Thomas de Waal: It’s not serious.
Tetiana Krivosheya: It’s not serious and not nice. There is a war going on. For example, two men from my family are at war, and they are Russian-speaking. My close friend who was killed in this war was Russian-speaking. His parents are originally from Russia. His family is here in Odesa. His dad died here, but his mum is alive. This is the mixed identity that has always been our strong side.
There is a phrase [she begins in Russian and ends in Ukrainian], “We went to bed on February 23, and woke up on the 24th of Luty [the Ukrainian word for February].” I’m going to cry now. We’ll never forget . . .
There are those who are Putin fans or whatever. Naturally, we all have friends like this, acquaintances—I think many of them left. There are those who moved to Russia, those who went to the West, those who simply did not accept the war and gathered their families on the first day while it was possible to leave, [and left]. Men left.
Thomas de Waal: For Russia, right?
Tetiana Krivosheya: Of course.
I know for sure that among those who stayed—even among my acquaintances with whom I worked in the electoral field—there are those who used to be on Putin’s and Russia’s side [before 2014]. I guess you can say that they’re upset or hurt. They didn’t expect a full-scale invasion to start. Of course, when they see what’s happening, their attitudes change. It’s as though their ideal failed. Failure, disappointment, disenchantment, you name it—that’s what it is.
You know how Odesa is: only 30 percent of us vote in elections. We are totally indifferent, brash residents of this wonderful city. And all this talk that Odesa will stomach anything . . . it won’t, of course. We pay for it with blood and pain. Some are saying, “We are OK,” but we are not. We just smile more because we have more sun.
Thomas de Waal: So the attitude certainly changed, is that right?
Tetiana Krivosheya: Of course it did, radically. It changed forever. I thought I was the most tolerant and peaceful person in this city and country, but no.
We severed all ties with relatives in Moscow, unfortunately. My mother-in-law has a sister in Moscow, and my husband has a brother—we don’t communicate [with them anymore]. They told us, “You made this all up. All these pictures are photoshopped.” They believe in their own thing. They have their own constructions of reality. So, I say, “Let’s say goodbye for now.” They don’t even try . . . they wrote once, “We can’t get through on the phone; the lines are bad.”
These conflicts destroy families. But this also happened after 2014.
Thomas de Waal: In the first poll you mentioned, the one in March, the main result was that over 90 percent [support Ukraine], right? Tell me more about it.
Tetiana Krivosheya: We were asking whether Odesa is a Ukrainian city. . . . The main result was that Odesa was not willing to be part of Russia—93 or 94 percent of Odesans responded that Odesa is Ukraine. That’s what we wanted to demonstrate to the entire world, and we were trying to do it with the help of international media: you are saying that Odesa is special, but what’s so special about us?
Thomas de Waal: So it’s a myth, then?
Tetiana Krivosheya: There are so many myths that . . . You know, we now accept every myth convenient for us. We are all experts. Before we were COVID experts. Now we are war experts. Someone said that Odesa has better air defenses than other cities. For some reason, I decided that it’s true and told everyone that. And then Tim Judah [of the Economist] was here, and he told me, “Five people told me similar things: Kyiv has better air defenses, Kharkiv has better air defenses.” So it’s not what you think.
It’s true that we repel attacks in Odesa, but, of course, there were a few serous hits—on oil refineries, on Tiras [apartment blocks], and in Serhiivka. You are asking how we change . . . I was very angry . . . I couldn’t believe in the first days that it happened. Neither could many in my family.
I understood everything when a building in Serhiivka was hit. My student was killed there. He was not much younger than me. He studied in the university a while ago. He was head of a football club and everyone knew him. His name was Aleksandr Shishkov. When I heard that Serhiivka was hit, I messaged him asking, “How are you?” There was no answer. And in the morning, they wrote that his body had been found. And when the first person from your circle dies, then you understand that this is a point of no return. That’s why it will be very difficult to generalize. Everyone has [their own story] that catches up with them. That’s for the ones that are here.
As for those who left, it’s probably even harder for them. It’s a slender connection for them. They are even more worried there than we are here. When there is an air raid here, if you hear it or see the missile, you feel relieved once it flies by. You survived—fine. You call another area of the city, and everyone’s fine—good! It fell, it flew by, all right. And we carry on sleeping under our blankets. But they are looking at the alarm map and think, “Oh my God, Odesa is about to be blown to smithereens!”
In the first few days [of the war], my sister left with my nephew, and I went to visit them two weeks later. I surprised them. We cried. And at night, Odesa was shelled. I called my husband, Mum, everyone I could, and they told me, “Tanya, calm down. You worry more about it there than you do here.” Psychologists and psychotherapists will have a lot of work here. They’ll keep on treating us. That’s how it is.
Thomas de Waal traveled to Odesa thanks to the Europe’s Futures program of the Institute for Human Sciences (IWM).
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