“War Will Be Our Routine for a Long Time to Come”—Speech by Olena Styazhkina, Honorary Speaker of the UCU 2026 Graduation Ceremony

“We are no longer catching up with the future. We have accidentally found ourselves among those who are forced to live in it first. What is a subject of modeling for others is lived experience for us. What others theorize about, we experience every day. It is from this vantage point—not the past, or even the present, but the future—that we increasingly speak to the world. Sometimes, this is inconvenient for the world, but it is precisely the strength and uniqueness of the Ukrainian voice today. Your voice now,” said historian Olena Styazhkina.

The honorary speaker for the 2026 graduation ceremony was Olena Styazhkina, a Ukrainian writer, publicist, and Doctor of Historical Sciences and Professor of History. She currently serves as a Senior Research Fellow at the Department of Ukrainian History of the Second Half of the 20th Century at the Institute of Ukrainian History, NASU. Prior to the Russian occupation, Dr. Styazhkina lived in Donetsk, where she worked in the Department of Slavic History at Vasyl Stus Donetsk National University. She is also the founder of the public movement “Deoccupation. Return. Education” and a member of Ukrainian PEN.

Introducing the speaker, UCU Rector Taras Dobko emphasized: “As a native of Donetsk, Ms. Styazhkina understands the spirit of the Ukrainian East well—a region around which many manipulations have accumulated for decades. Ms. Styazhkina understands the East of our country from the inside, recognizing its beauty and rich, complex heritage, as well as the pain of war.”

Speech by Olena Styazhkina: “War Will Be Our Routine for a Long Time to Come”

Dear graduates, thank you for everything. I am deeply honored to speak here, and I am mindful of the trust the Ukrainian Catholic University has placed in me over the past twenty years.

You should know that each of you will eventually have the opportunity to deliver such speeches to your own students, colleagues, and teams. You may wish to take notes. However, when that time comes—whether in one year, ten, twenty, or fifty—I ask that you remember the most important thing: we can afford our whims, our strange emotions, and our minor fears only because of our Ukrainian Defence Forces. Always. We owe this to our soldiers—both the living and the fallen, who remain alive in our memory. We are eternally grateful to them.

I intended to prepare a logical, systematic, and comprehensive address, but the result feels more like a bouquet or a toast. I want to talk to you about bridges and the metaphors we sometimes must discard; about how to cherish the simple act of drinking water; about speaking from the perspective of the future; about the possibility of miracles; and about long-term construction—why it is not such a bad thing, and perhaps even a necessary one.

A Reflection on Bridges

When I asked the rector why he chose me to be the honorary speaker for the 2026 graduation ceremony, he replied that I speak well about bridges and that it is important for a woman’s voice to be heard at such events. Life prepared me for the latter. As for the former, I began to study the subject of bridges more deeply. I discovered that in the Balkans, there is a special word for those who build bridges—neymar or nimar. Historically, these bridges were considered sacred spaces, connecting not only the banks of a river but also different worlds, even bridging life and death. I revisited Ivo Andrić’s The Bridge on the Drina, where he describes a bridge as a “strong stone thought” that connected people in ways the builder never anticipated.

However, something about this architectural metaphor troubled me. I continued reading and realized why: the Albanian writer Ismail Kadare noted that bridges can be extremely dangerous, as they served as the conduits through which the Ottoman Empire entered Albania. Then I turned to Franz Kafka, who warned: “If you, a person, are going to become a bridge, think carefully about it. Sometimes you will look at yourself as a bridge, and you may collapse. Do not do that.”

This reminds us that not all metaphors—or expectations—hold true in our lives. Yet, this is neither a shame nor a sin. Bridges are essential. How can we exist without them? How can we tell our people in the occupied territories that we love them without an invisible, symbolic bridge? Or how can we tell Ukrainians living abroad that they are still one of us without that same connection? Bridges are necessary. But sometimes, to build real, visible bridges between our own people, those through which death and war travel must be destroyed. Our soldiers are doing this work in Chongar and Armyansk, and they will continue to do so. You, too, will have to choose what needs to be restored, and what, perhaps, must never be rebuilt again.

A Reflection on How We Drink Water

I do not know how my thoughts on bridges led me to realize that, at times, the future depends not on massive bridges, walls, the number of people, or even the power of weaponry. Sometimes, it depends entirely on how a man drinks water.

I have a question for you: How do you drink from a spring? If you find a stream in the mountains or water gushing from the ground, how do you drink from it? I never considered this technique critically important until I read the story of Gideon.

When explaining this war to ourselves and to others—especially to those abroad—we strive to find a universal language. It turns out that there is no language more resonant than the Holy Scriptures. At the beginning of the full-scale invasion, our myth of defense and victory was the story of David and Goliath. It remains so today. In Lukyanivka, after a Russian missile strike in late May, everything was razed by fire, yet a massive banner on the wall depicting David and Goliath survived. It continues to provide strength to that devastated place.

However, as the war evolves, it demands new stories of defense and victory—narratives that are universally accessible. It seems we have now entered the parable of Gideon. According to the biblical account—which you may know, but which I wish to recall—when the Israelites suffered under the raids of the Midianites, God called upon Gideon to lead the resistance. Gideon did not consider himself a hero; he claimed to be from the weakest clan and the smallest in his family. He may have even seemed a bit of a draft dodger. Yet, he was the one chosen.

Gideon gathered an army of more than thirty thousand men, but God deemed that number too high. First, the fearful were sent home; then, those who were imprudent were dismissed. The army was reduced to ten thousand. They were then led to the water. Those who fell face-down to drink were separated from those who scooped the water with their palms, remaining vigilant. Those who knew how to stay alert—those who understood not only how to satisfy their needs but also how to monitor their perimeter—amounted to three hundred.

That night, Gideon divided these three hundred men into three detachments. Each warrior was armed with a trumpet, a torch, and a jar in which the torch was concealed. Upon surrounding the Midianite camp, at Gideon’s signal, they shattered the jars, blew their trumpets, and raised their torches. In the darkness, it appeared to the enemy that a massive army was descending upon them. I do not know if they shouted, “For every one of us, there are ten drones,” but I know for certain that panic erupted in the camp. The Midianites fled and even turned their blades upon one another in the dark. What was expected to be a battle of three hundred against countless thousands transformed into the total rout of the enemy.

A Reflection on Sadness

There is another aspect of our character revealed in this story. Had Gideon selected his warriors based on who wanted to join him right there, the majority of his squad would have been women. We women are always on alert, constantly aware of our surroundings—even while tending to our own needs.

However, something even more vital is at play. Throughout history, a recurring paradox exists in social and political transformations: the most significant breakthroughs are achieved by exceptionally small groups. Whether in culture, science, education, technology, or even in war, great progress is rarely the result of massive institutions or the movement of the masses. Instead, it is initiated by small, committed circles of people who are engaged, unafraid, and willing to embrace both the pain and the humor of the human experience. Great changes are not launched by large collectives, but by small nuclei. Today, those small nuclei are you. You represent two of Gideon’s armies and a multitude of these small, powerful centers. This is the source of our strength and our confidence in the future.

Trust in the future must be earned, and in this realization, a significant problem arises: the routinization of war. Our future will be built around this reality. Why? Not simply because we face an enemy at our borders, but because the world teaches history primarily through the lens of conflict. This is a universal malaise, and a vaccine for it has yet to be invented. The notion that peace is the default state is a profound illusion; peace is, in fact, a deliberate, often hellish effort—a continuous preparation to prevent the next attack.

We teach history through wars. Some are horrified by the bloody consequences of humanity’s past; others are fascinated by how war expands borders, and we know their names all too well. Yet, we do not read books solely because of the Hundred Years’ War, the fall of Constantinople, or the Battle of Grunwald. We read because Johannes Gutenberg, a contemporary of those conflicts, was working to change the world.

My generation is the last to bear the mark of a smallpox vaccination on its arm—not because of the Seven Years’ War, the American or French Revolutions, or the Napoleonic Wars, but because of their contemporary, Edward Jenner. His discovery of the smallpox vaccine saved more lives than all the generals of his era could ever take.

Humanity, however, has not yet come close to renegotiating the social contract to determine what we value more: to be healthy, alive, and enlightened, or to fight and kill. Consequently, war will remain our routine for a long time to come. The act of “cleaning machine guns” will simply evolve into “programming combat robots”—a field in which the Ukrainian Catholic University already has some experience. We would, of course, like to update our history curricula, and it is worth the effort to do both. It is possible.

A Reflection on Love and Vulnerability

The paradox of our current situation is that we are no longer catching up with the future; we have accidentally found ourselves among those forced to live in it first. What for others remains a subject of theoretical modeling, for us is lived experience. What others merely debate, we confront every day. It is from this vantage point—not the past or even the present, but the future—that we increasingly speak to the world. Sometimes this perspective is inconvenient for the world, as it challenges established paradigms. Yet, this is precisely the strength and uniqueness of the Ukrainian voice today. It is your voice now.

We cannot and will not popularize fear. No one would buy it, though perhaps a touch of fear would help Europe wake up a bit faster. Instead, we popularize forgotten European values and virtues, demonstrating the effectiveness and resilience of an “imperfect victim” that fights back. We champion resilience and technological advancement. I believe you can become the true promoters of happiness and love.

After all, we are already testing a unique definition of happiness: the joy of living when even the simple act of washing your hair becomes contingent upon the availability of water, electricity, or whether one will simply be alive in the morning.

A Reflection on Love and Vulnerability

I am joined here by Ihor Kozlovsky, C.S. Lewis, and Krzysztof Czyżewski.

Ihor Kozlovsky once said that when the world truly touches us, we cannot help but feel it. To feel is to lose our balance, our calm, and our indifference; it is to silence the inner critic. When love touches us, we become vulnerable. Death, too, renders us vulnerable.

C.S. Lewis noted that grief feels much like fear, loneliness, or a sense of falling, but he added, “I realized that to love is always to agree to future pain. The alternative to love is hell. The only place where you can be protected from all the dangers and disturbances of love is hell.”

Everything that renders us vulnerable possesses meaning. In moments of vulnerability, finding the words to bear witness to that presence can be difficult. At UCU, however, you are trained to find those words. I urge you to share them with those who, like me, need them.

The first time I dared to feel this presence was while reading a brilliant text. The second time was when I heard the voice, the intonation, and the words spoken in February 2022 on Zmiiniy Island (Snake Island). Returning to other various, unnamed vulnerabilities, I know there were many more; yet, these two instances left me with no choice, preventing me from hiding behind atheistic objections.

Finally, consider the words of Krzysztof Czyżewski: “A person takes root primarily through work on imagination, memory, and language, establishing friendly and loving ties.” We discuss imagination, memory, and language frequently, but we rarely speak of friendship and love—except here at UCU. Here, you discuss and enact friendship and love. You know that without them, one cannot truly take root. You must have those to whom you wish to say, “Look what I found… Hear what I heard. Do you see and hear the same as I do?” Without the opportunity to share the wonder of discovery, it is impossible to build a home in space and time or to accept the miracle.

I hope that in a future where war is a routine and security the foundation for technological breakthroughs, we will still allow ourselves to be vulnerable. I hope we remain present with one another when something important and good occurs—something that must be shared. I hope we stay with each other, just as we are now.

A Reflection on Long-Term Construction

In the final part of my speech, I would like to announce that deadlines have been canceled, but I cannot. Deadlines will remain, but we must allow “long-term construction” into our lives alongside them.

“Long-term construction” is a forgotten term often burdened with negative connotations. We must reappropriate it, give it new meaning, and transform it into a positive ambition. We must welcome it into our lives without fear—even if we do not live to see the final results, and even if our contemporaries or immediate descendants cannot fully appreciate everything we have done. We must embrace the work, knowing that not everything will succeed on the first attempt.

The Ukrainian Catholic University (UCU), which graduates you today, was born as both an idea and an institution in 1928. Similarly, the Ukrainian Research Institute at Harvard University, founded by Ukrainian-American scientist Omelyan Pritsak, initially seemed like a mere figment of the imagination—a daring endeavor that not everyone fully understood. When linguist and historian Yuriy Shevelyov bequeathed his library to Hokkaido University, he planted a seed; perhaps we, or our grandchildren, will witness a new international union between Ukraine and Japan growing from those pages.

This is how truly significant projects—those oriented toward long-term growth—have always functioned. Consider the Notre Dame de Paris, which took 182 years to build, or the Santa Maria del Fiore in Florence, which took 140 years. The Cologne Cathedral holds the absolute record, having taken 632 years to complete. Construction was repeatedly suspended due to corruption, religious wars, and financial instability; yet, it was finished according to its original 1880 plans only recently.

I reflect on these examples within the context of the “routinization of war”—the reality that we have always possessed the time necessary to fight evil, and that time has never been wasted in this endeavor. For our ancestors, centuries-long construction was not a cause for disappointment. An unfinished cathedral was never a space hidden behind a fence, nor was it a dormant construction site. It was an inhabited space. In much the same way, the Ukrainian Catholic University is being built. Citizens inhabit the space of a temple even before its completion; students settle into the spirit of UCU long before all its buildings are finished. While masons’ hammers struck outside for generations, a full-fledged spiritual life thrived within; for those living at the time, the temple was already ready.

Is this not how we live now? We are already engaged in a project of “long-term construction.” We are sometimes afraid to admit it—afraid of not living to see the results of our labor—but there is nothing to fear.

A military chaplain recently deepened this thought while discussing the traditions of our predecessors. He remarked, “All people are made in the image of the Creator, and are therefore creators themselves. What they create does not necessarily have to be great, extraordinary, or even noticeable. It must simply be sufficient for themselves, for their community, and for a sense of belonging.”

I find this idea profound, as it speaks both to the blessing of long-term construction and to the secret of our stability. It is enough to know that our small acts of creation guarantee our presence in a plane of existence invisible to those in Moscow or elsewhere in Europe. They cannot perceive the wonderful things our people are accomplishing because our people feel like creators. From the perspective of outside observers, these efforts are invisible. That is why our allies often cannot grasp what we are doing, and why our enemies cannot destroy it. They have never been able to; to them, this scale of creation appeared insignificant and lifeless.

A Reflection on the Scale of Achievement

As we explore the memories and achievements of our local communities, we are repeatedly confronted by the true dimensions of this scale. Consider Halshka Hulevychivna, the founder of the Kyiv Brotherhood Monastery and the Brotherhood School, from which the Kyiv-Mohyla Academy originated; Athanasius Slastion, who constructed schools of incredible beauty in the Poltava region; the Faltz-Fein family, who created what is now the occupied Askania-Nova; the Symyrenko and Khanenko families; or Oleksa Tykhy, who never ceased teaching Ukraine—in every sense of the word—in the Donetsk region. Throughout our history, these creators have produced works that were sufficient in their own right.

Their sufficiency was determined not by the acclaim of contemporary masters, but by the public’s ability to appreciate the beauty, harmony, and light they brought forth. Popularity after death is always a somber realization, yet it is almost always a fair one—it serves as evidence that society has finally matured enough to perceive the true scale of a “sufficient long-term construction.”

A Final Toast

I offer a toast from a young girl from Donetsk—someone who is surely too young to be delivering toasts, yet such is our reality. In 2014, she was five years old. She was too young not only for toasts, but also for war. Such is our wretched neighbor, and such are we, the adults who failed to look ahead and invest in the protection required to keep her safe. For this, I ask for forgiveness.

And yet, here is the toast. She says: “I wish for you to see. Behind all these skylines and skyscrapers, between roads and stations, amidst crowds and lonely evenings, I wish for you to see your own. Do not forget! And if you do, recognize it instantly. Your own will always reach out to you—with a word or a touch—in a way that you will never mistake. See your own. It will never let you go; it alone can give us strength when it seems that everything has reached a tragic end.”

I must confess, I have softened the language slightly; the original finale contained a word that was far from academic. But this, too, is part of our journey: we teach ourselves, and we censor ourselves.

We censor, but we also learn, my dear graduates. We will continue to learn from you—those of you who already understand that to see your own means to be strong and, at the same time, vulnerable—to be full of love. Continue to be exactly that.

We will win! Glory to Ukraine!

Read also: You are small nuclei that launch big changes – graduation ceremonies were held at UCU