Speaking about Crimea: An Interview with Svitlana Taratorina

TETIANA PETRENKO: From his experience of war, JRR Tolkien created The Lord of the Rings. And the Chornobyl disaster gave rise to a whole body of literature and a cult surrounding the Zone. How does powerful literature emerge from the grim themes of war and catastrophe?

SVITLANA TARATORINA: My colleagues and I have often discussed this and come to the conclusion that regardless of the genres we write in or the types of texts we create, war will inevitably be present in our work. Even if it’s an abstract world of sword-and-sorcery fantasy, something far removed from today’s realities, the author will still unconsciously convey their experiences of war, and readers will pick up on that. Perhaps in other countries, readers will interpret these contexts a bit differently. For them, it might be a struggle between good and evil—but for us, it is a very specific evil and a very specific struggle.

At the last Warsaw Book Fair, there was an interesting panel featuring Mr. Andrzej Sapkowski, where he noted that many works of speculative fiction have been built around the conflict between good and evil, but today Ukrainians have real experience of that confrontation—and no one can argue with them anymore about the truthfulness of its portrayal.

Indeed, many iconic works of speculative fiction grow out of war. Right now, Ukraine is translating Glen Cook, one of the founders of dark military fantasy. He is an author with firsthand combat experience, and his books show us a different perspective on war. His fantasy allows us to view the soldier’s world not through the lens of tragedy and pathos, but through the prism of everyday life.

Another outstanding work, which I consider the Bible of post-apocalyptic fiction, is A Canticle for Leibowitz by Walter M. Miller Jr. He wrote it based on his experience in World War II, when he witnessed the Allied bombing of an Italian monastery. At what point does civilization reach a stage where it craves destruction and annihilates all its own achievements?

I believe that the experience we are now going through can be transformed into truly powerful and unique works. And I want to believe that these works will enter the global literary canon.

In Ukraine, there are ongoing discussions about the fact that the strongest texts right now are poetry and reportage, meaning literature that can capture the essence of our experiences during the war. Prose fiction requires much more time. Is there a risk here that, while we are not able to actively create prose about the war, the world will instead read books about it that were created from a different perspective, particularly from the perspective of Russian authors?

Unfortunately, this is already happening. In purely quantitative terms, it is very difficult for us to compete with authors on our enemies' side. In Russia, there has been state regulation of literature for decades, and close monitoring of what was being created in the genre of science fiction. BBC radio even released an entire audio documentary about the impact of Russian time travel science fiction on the consciousness of citizens, because these books and films are essentially rewriting history. And we see that this mass cultural product was created for the purposes of propaganda.

If previously such books in Russia were written about World War II, today Russians are creating fantasy about the ongoing Russian-Ukrainian war. They have authors in this genre, well-established patterns—their work follows the same design. In the occupied territories, entire fantasy conventions have even taken place, featuring literature contests centered around the theme of war.

Of course, we are living under very different conditions. We are a country defending itself and fighting for its freedom, and many of our authors, including those in the science fiction genre, are now mobilized. For example, Pavlo Derevianko, Artem Chapeye, Ostap Ukrainets, and Vladyslav Ivchenko—none of them are focused on writing actively at the moment. Other writers are also trying to help the army, including through volunteer work. Therefore, we are experiencing a double burden.

A big, reflective novel requires more time than reportage or poetry. It is very telling that books about Crimea, like my novel House of Salt and There is a Land beyond Perekop by Anastasia Levkova, were released simultaneously on the ninth anniversary of the annexation of Crimea. It took that long to process the annexation and create a novel. Perhaps we will need at least as much time for texts of reflection about the present day to emerge.

Should we fear that we might miss something? Our reportage is developing strongly—especially The Language of War by Oleksandr Mykhed, along with many other great texts. This is literature that captures the spirit of the time. And it is these texts that future authors of fiction will rely on. Perhaps the great novel about the times of the full-scale invasion will be written not by us, those who are experiencing this moment, but by the next generation. And I want to believe that these authors will have the inspiration to write and reflect on the war, perhaps from a different perspective than we do now. Therefore, I am not too afraid that propaganda will surpass us. I want us to create good texts that will truly outlast both us and this era.

Today, not only journalists but also writers and bloggers are coming to Ukraine, attracted by the war. Some of them are capitalizing on this topic while staying in relatively safe regions of Ukraine. What is the pull of the war for foreigners?

There are different kinds of authors, including those who travel to the front. For example, I had the chance to speak with [Guardian foreign correspondent] Luke Harding, who has been following the situation in Ukraine for a long time and wrote the book Invasion, which has already been published in Ukrainian translation. He is someone involved in the Ukrainian context. In doing his work, he tries to honestly understand what is happening.

It is clear that the topic of the Russian-Ukrainian war remains trendy for now. And it’s fine if authors want to earn social capital from it, as this is how people come to Ukraine and write about their time here. Many organizations support the spread of this accurate information. For instance, Ukrainian PEN, of which I am a member, constantly hosts international delegations of writers and journalists, helping them reach the locations they want to visit. Sometimes people go to more dangerous regions, sometimes to less dangerous ones, but it is always an honest attempt to see Ukraine.

As part of an interview with one of my colleagues, a journalist from Lithuania wrote that Lviv is a city near the front. When you don’t see the real Ukraine and try to make sense of it secondhand, the chances of making mistakes are much higher than when someone travels to relatively safe Lviv and records their impressions. I support the idea of helping foreign authors and journalists who genuinely want to see Ukraine, understand it, and convey their reflections in their texts.

You are the author of thrilling science fiction literature, throughout which you weave in rich historical material. Both Lazarus and House of Salt are texts filled with numerous references. Lazarus presents a panorama of Kyiv at the beginning of the 20th century, while House of Salt delves into Crimean history and culture. Can you tell us how readers interpret the material embedded in your books?

In Lazarus, Kyiv in 1913 is depicted, marking not just the beginning of the 20th century, but also a historical turning point, just before the outbreak of the Great War. For many readers, this historical context was not immediately obvious. But many asked for historical commentary in the book, which we added in the reissue, so now the book aims to broaden the horizons of our understanding of the capital and delve deeper into its history.

At the same time, the full-scale invasion has intensified the painful optics of this novel. Many Ukrainian readers, realizing the historical context, said: “How sad to read that Kyiv in the novel is a colony of a great empire.” On the one hand, we can’t change real history—Kyiv truly was a colony of the [Russian] empire. On the other hand, science fiction allows us to alter history—we can play with time, with facts, and this actually became a moment of reflection for me. Now I’m working on the continuation of Lazarus and trying to take this aspect into account.

As for uncovering unknown pages of history, this is my creative method. For me, it’s a realm of passionate searching, and I want my readers to take away something more from the text than just entertainment. With Lazarus, it was a bit easier because the time period depicted is more or less understandable to us—we can see buildings and streets from the novel in present-day Kyiv, and we are familiar with the names of the historical figures mentioned. However, with House of Salt, it was much more challenging because I used historical circumstances as metaphors, but the historical events themselves often remain unclear to the general public. For example, when playing with the myth of the golden cradle, I encountered the fact that residents of mainland Ukraine often hadn’t heard this tale. Unfortunately, Crimean Tatar folklore didn’t enter the broader cultural circulation of Ukrainian society. Collections of folk tales often don’t include Crimean Tatar material; it wasn’t widely accessible or understood by readers. During book presentations, I explain many names, as I realize they are absent from the readers’ arsenal. But at the same time, I see an interest: people want to understand it, they want to open up a new territory for themselves, to explore another culture. That’s why we added historical commentary in House of Salt from the start. I am happy to bring the history and culture of Crimea to readers, to inspire them to explore Ukraine and those regions that are currently inaccessible. All these searches should undoubtedly enrich us and unite us.

Recently, I was discussing with [Crimean cultural figures] Alim Aliyev and Akhtem Seitablaev that we all began to think more actively about Crimea when we lost it. My regional Crimean identity began to revive from 2014, and the result of this search is the book House of Salt. While writing my novel, I read works on the history of Crimea, created a thematic library, and looked for a community capable of telling these stories. Unfortunately, there are not many such people. I try to speak about Crimea at every opportunity, and currently, together with Crimean Tatar historian Gulnara Abdulayeva, we have prepared a comic script titled A Short History of Crimea, which is already being illustrated and will be published by Vydavnytstvo publishing house. This is also a step toward making more information about Crimea available.

Both of your books feature mutations and transformations of characters and fantastic creatures. The audience perceives this in different ways—I’ve seen reviews where readers take offense at how you portrayed the inhabitants of Crimea as mutants. What meaning did you intend by depicting the external changes of your characters?

If we’re talking about Lazarus, everything is based on specific historical realities. The Border in the novel—an administrative unit where both humans and supernatural beings live—is an allusion to the Pale of Settlement, the area of the Russian Empire where Jews could reside. What I most wanted to address in this book was the empire’s attitude toward the subjugated peoples. As I mentioned earlier, Kyiv at that time was a multicultural and very diverse city. So, in Lazarus, I aimed to challenge the perception of Kyiv at the beginning of the 20th century as a mono-ethnic (with the titular nation at the helm) imperial provincial city. For my generation, the canonical image of Kyiv in that era was largely shaped by Bulgakov. Later, I read extensively about the demographic composition of Kyiv in the early 1900s, and I was most surprised to learn that Ukrainians and Russians were about equally represented, with Poles, Jews, and Czechs occupying the second, third, and fourth positions. But the empire always sought to limit national communities and silence their voices. For example, the Poles had their own church and adhered to the Catholic faith and traditions, yet the empire viewed them with great suspicion. The Polish residents of Kyiv were treated as people who had staged uprisings against the empire twice during the 19th century. In contrast, Jews were at one point prohibited from living in Kyiv, or could only do so under certain conditions—such as only wealthy Jewish merchants being allowed to settle in the Lipki district. In the collective image of the supernatural beings in the novel, I tried to show this diversity in Kyiv and the struggles of these characters to find ways to understand each other and coexist.

As for House of Salt, it’s simpler: in this novel, everyone undergoes mutations. The journey to these characters was much more personally dramatic for me. The last time I visited Crimea was in the summer of 2014, and I was deeply struck by the moments of euphoria among the people of the peninsula—how they were swept up by Russian propaganda. Many were happy about the annexation, saying, “It’s good that we don’t have a war.” At the time, I couldn’t understand why they so easily accepted the annexation. Only after the full-scale invasion began did I realize that when the enemy invades, it doesn’t matter whether people welcome them, are happy, or vote for them. The enemy simply comes and takes. So, my “salted” characters in the novel are victims of propaganda who stayed in this territory but chose not to think about events or analyze their causes.

At the same time, just like Kyiv in Lazarus, Desht in House of Salt is a fully realized character because he is the one who transforms them—he has a very different effect on each one, depending on their fundamental wiring. Therefore, everyone submits to the mutagenic factor in House of Salt. Despite this, readers have said that they feel I have affection for these salted characters. And I wanted to explore this metaphor. Because despite our perceptions of people on annexed territory—our condemnation or the idea of them as collaborators—one day we will be forced to seek understanding.

Your House of Salt invites comparisons to Frank Herbert’s Dune—an oppressed people, a desert territory, a fight against an empire. Is this a coincidence, or a conscious parallel?

I can’t say that this parallel was intentional, although I do love Herbert’s series and I appreciate the comparison. In reality, all authors, especially those in genre literature, are somehow bound by the conventions of their genre. But the true reason is this: I was writing a novel about my Crimea. It’s a steppe region in the southwest, the coastline of the Karkinit Bay—an area of salt marshes and not very fertile land. And now, with less and less fresh water there, this desert-like quality is becoming more and more apparent. I remember that in my childhood, the water from the tap had a slightly salty, bitter taste. The canal is also part of my personal history, because my grandmother witnessed, around 1967, when the canal reached our area for the first time. And she also saw in 2014 how the canal ceased to exist. The canal was very important because we’re talking about a dry, steppe region where, before the water was brought into these areas, only livestock farming existed—pastures for certain breeds of sheep who could survive in this harsh, arid climate.

In Herbert’s Dune, as is well known, the author wrote about an ecological problem, about the lack of water. For me, this is a very familiar story, precisely because I come from the steppe region of Crimea. But the aesthetic coincidence is also clear. The steppe and arid territories naturally suggest a certain lifestyle. Historically, in my region, during the time of the Crimean Khanate, the Nogais, a sub-ethnic group of Crimean Tatars, lived there. They were nomads who, of all the Crimean Tatar ethnic groups, lived the longest in Crimea while maintaining a nomadic way of life. So I was describing realities that relate to my region, which I know well. I really wanted to depict steppe Crimea because little is written about it—most focus on the landscape of the southern coast or central Crimea, like Bakhchysarai.

The image of Crimea and its associations have changed significantly over the past decade. Once, the school curriculum created an image of Crimea as a place where Cossacks liberated Ukrainian captives and where girls were sold into harems. The main Ukrainian texts about Crimea were the slave ballads and Roxolana by Pavlo Zahrebelnyi.

I remember the conflicts that the slave ballads provoked in school. Half of my class were Crimean Tatars, and half were not. When we studied the slave ballads, we would divide the characters into “us” and “them,” turning the Cossack victories over the Tatars into personal jokes, which were not very pleasant. I really wish that teachers would pay attention to this and explain to students how and why this happened. One of the important layers of House of Salt is the relationship between Crimeans and Ukrainians from the mainland. Throughout history, these relations have been very different: sometimes they were in conflict, sometimes allied, but it was always a relationship of equals. Neither the Zaporizhzhian Cossack Army nor the Crimean Khanate sought to conquer each other’s territory. The only one who wanted to conquer both was the Russian Empire, our common enemy.

What texts about Crimea are the most important to you today?

I really like Fifty Years of Resistance by Gulnara Bekirova, a book about the Crimean Tatars’ journey to return home (after forced exile). It’s a thorough and really impressive work that is inspiring. The Crimean Tatars fought for sixty years to return home. In the end, it was mostly those born in exile who came back to barren land, where no one was waiting for them. If the Crimean Tatars spent sixty years on their way back to their land and eventually returned home, we will definitely return all our regions.

Other important texts include the collection Our Crimea, compiled by the Ukrainian Institute of National Memory right after the annexation. It’s a collection of essays by various authors that describe and debunk myths about Crimea, particularly Russian-Soviet ones. There’s also Crimean Tatars: From Ethnogenesis to Statehood by Gulnara Abdulaeva. It’s a book that helps understand the immense cultural heritage that was destroyed during the first annexation of Crimea. Another book is The Wild West of Eastern Europe by Pavlo Kazarin. It’s not entirely focused on Crimea, but since Pavlo is from Simferopol, his book has many poignant moments of reflecting on one’s own identity, like growing up as a Crimean with a post-Soviet mindset, and eventually coming to understand the connection between Crimea and Ukraine.

What should non-Ukrainians start watching and reading about Crimea to understand it?

I think it’s definitely worth recommending Haytarma by Akhtem Seitablaev. This film is about the deportation of the Crimean Tatars and is visually stunning, as it was filmed on the territory of Crimea. Mamay by Oles Sanin is a very metaphorical film about the relationship between Crimean Tatars and Ukrainians. Of course, Home by Nariman Aliyev and possibly Foreign Prayer by Seitablaev.

As for books, I would translate everything. It’s great that the book The Wild West of Eastern Europe by Pavlo Kazarin is set to be released in Polish, English, and German. This book provides many answers to the questions of what happened to Crimea in 2014 and shows how a Crimean’s consciousness can change when they start asking the right questions.

Today, there is a lot of fascination with ethnography, especially regarding Crimea. Doesn’t this interest remind you of the romantic missions of the 19th century, when people became enchanted by embroidered shirts and Ukrainian folk songs?

Ethnography is the path we need to take. I am passionate about ensuring that Crimean Tatar folklore, the real myths and legends of the peninsula (and not the ones that were once sold to us as souvenirs in Crimea), are translated into Ukrainian and published. Only then can we begin to understand Crimean culture on a basic level, and from there, build upon it. Some of this is already being done. For example, in 2019, the “Amazing Stories of Crimea” exhibition was held at Art Arsenal, which tried to tell the story of all the known historical periods, peoples, and civilizations that lived on the territory of Crimea. This is a great angle because Crimea is more than the history of individual peoples. Undoubtedly, Crimean Tatars deserve a lot of attention, but within Crimean culture, we can talk about an incredibly broad context.

I care about all aspects of the conversation about Crimea. However, I wouldn’t want us to fall into the trap of becoming people who are simply fascinated by the ethnographic exoticism of the Other. That said, the risks are smaller for us because we are trying to build relationships with Crimean Tatars in a respectful and meaningful way. We are their partners and neighbors, allies in the fight against one common enemy. They are a small people, and Ukrainians should help them develop their culture, which is impossible without a genuine interest in that culture. I advocate for widespread study of the Crimean Tatar language and deeply regret not having learned it in my childhood. In our schools, neither Crimean Tatar nor Ukrainian were mandatory for all students. It was an elective that mostly Crimean Tatars attended. I believe that at least in Crimea, learning this language should be mandatory for everyone, as it is a matter of belonging. If you live in Crimea, you should learn Crimean Tatar.

Are you ready to write a science fiction book that describes the current war?

Not doing it was never an option. I don’t understand how it’s possible to write anything today without including the context of war. Recently, I read a short post-apocalyptic text to an audience. It describes a world after the war, in which only women remain. The main character comes into possession of an artifact with a secret that can determine the future and reveal the mystery of the past. It might seem like a situation completely detached from reality, but I believe that any Ukrainian reading it will understand that it’s, among other things, about our war. This story was published in the Polish journal Nowa Fantastyka, and from the feedback, I saw that Polish readers focused on a different theme, the theme of gender. But at the same time, they also felt that this was a work about the Ukrainian experience of war.

Because of this difference in perception, foreign authors may not realize how triggering it can be to include Russian characters in their texts. This is an important reason to talk about it abroad, to not be afraid to share the traumas we are living through. The world should take our feelings into account.

Interview by Tetiana Petrenko; Translated by Kate Tsurkan; Photo of Svitlana Taratorina provided by the author from her personal archive.

The article was first published in Ukrainian and Polish and came out of the collaboration between the IWM and the Polish online magazine Dwutygodnik.

Tetiana Petrenko

Literary critic, editor of the criticism section of Chytomo magazine, radio presenter at Hromadske Radio. Researcher of mythology and ancient literature. She writes for the portals Bukmol, LitAkcent, Korydor.

Svitlana Taratorina

Ukrainian writer, fantasy author from Crimea, co-author of the YouTube channel Fantastic talk(s). She made her debut with the novel Lazarus in 2018, which was longlisted for BBC Book of the Year in 2019. In the same year, Taratorina received the Chrysalis Awards, awarded by the European Society of Science Fiction for best debut, and was named one of the top 25 writers from Ukraine by Focus magazine.