Sign up to our expressly international daily newsletter.
As the world moves to renewable energy, demand for lithium has surged. But the race to extract the precious mineral comes with hidden costs for local communities and the environment. So just how green is the energy transition after all?
Lithium mine at Salinas Grandes salt desert Jujuy province, Argentina
We know that the transition to renewable energies is urgent and that fossil fuels must be replaced. But are we making the same mistake if we switch to extracting other resources using the same model?
Since 1997, U.S. company Livent has been extracting lithium, a metal that is crucial for renewable technologies, from the Salar del Hombre Muerto, a salt flat in northern Argentina.
Close by, the local community is recording the deterioration and loss of biodiversity of this sensitive and unique wetland area.
At the Antofagasta de la Sierra, in the Catamarca region of Argentina
Alfredo Morales and Román Guitián belong to the Atacameño indigenous people who live in Antofagasta de la Sierra de Catamarca. It's a large territory located in the north of Argentina, inhabited by more than 1,800 people. The entrance for the extraction of lithium was created there. Lithium is a light metal that has become crucial in recent years for its use in various types of batteries for electronic devices for everyday use, such as computers, tablets and cell phones. It is also a strategic element for the manufacture of electric cars and new technologies.
Located 4,000 meters above sea level, the salt-flat was named by the great-grandfather of Cacique Román Guitián after finding bone remains in that area. But it was not an uninhabited territory waiting to be discovered: its inhabitants descend from the Atacama indigenous communities and embody their history in the present. Today, the silence has been replaced by the noise of the machines and trucks that explore the territory in search of the precious mineral.
Roman recalls that, before the arrival of mining, "life was healthier." And he reflects: “Today we cannot live as before because we have been left without water, we cannot circulate freely and our animals die. Before this company came we lived without any problem. Now we have all been contaminated”.
Alfredo says that for a long time, that territory was inhabited only by his community: "For many years, we lived on the edge of the country preserving the nation, and now that they are interested in what there is here, they want to take us out." In the area of the Andean mountain range and salt flats, what they call "nation" is more complex to define. There, the Argentine Puna constitutes a larger territory together with parts of Chile and Bolivia. Over the last few years, it's become known as the lithium triangle, an area coveted by large corporations because has more than 65% of the world's lithium reserves concentrated in three countries.
This mineral is presented as a salvation in the face of the climate crisis caused by the burning of fossil fuels. As a result, oil is losing the privileged place it held during the 20th century. Lithium could certainly be recycled and recovered from batteries that are already in circulation, which is why it is presented as renewable within the framework of the energy transition process. However, at the moment, it is only extracted from vein deposits or by the evaporation of brine deposits and large-scale reuse processes are unknown.
The energy transition is a process that consists of changing the current energy matrix (mainly based on fossil fuels) towards a diversified system of renewable sources. In this way, it seeks to prevent the planet's temperature from increasing and the effects of the climate crisis from worsening. But that definition is not enough because it is necessary to promote a fair and comprehensive transition. That means an energy transformation that takes into account, for example, territorial, socioeconomic and gender concerns in decision-making. In short, it must consider social and environmental justice.
Although lithium is presented as a key element for "clean energy", the current extraction model implies an over-consumption of water sources, the use of polluting chemicals and the displacement of communities. Is it possible to save the planet from climate change by the mere transition from one energy matrix to another? Does the extraction and use of this "new" mineral contemplate the errors of the outgoing hydrocarbon model? Does the transition necessarily imply the sacrifice of biodiversity, people and territories?
During the last 15 years, the province of Catamarca in northwestern Argentina has occupied a central place in the global mining map. The oldest lithium extraction project in the country operates there, run by the company Livent, which describes itself as making "high-performance lithium products and solutions." In 2018, the company submitted an Environmental Impact Report for the expansion of the “Fénix” Project with the aim of obtaining groundwater from the Los Patos River sub-basin in the Antofagasta area.
Despite the name change, this company has been extracting since 1997 in the Salar del Hombre Muerto in such a way that, far from being a novelty, it has had multiple impacts on the local territory and the communities there. However, since 2016, this model has gone into overdrive: “Lithium fever”, in the words of biologist Patricia Marconi, a member of the Yuchan Foundation and the High Andean Flamingo Conservation Group. In 2021, the German automaker BMW partnered with Livent and announced its investment of $338 million.
This “lithium rush” is not random. It is directly related to the process of elimination of one of the export taxes in February 2016, during the government of former Argentine President Mauricio Macri. Then Argentina was positively favored by foreign companies. The following year, the National Ministry of Energy and Mining recorded in its report at least "42 projects in brine deposits (salares) and five more in pegmatite deposits (rocks)". Since then, both the national government and the provincial and local governments have accompanied the deployment of international mining projects in the country with public policies.
Argentina´s Salar del Hombre Muerto lithium mining by brine well water evaporation.
The Andean salt flats are true vestiges of ancient lakes (paleolakes) that existed thousands of years ago in the area, so they are irrecoverable common goods from the past. But not only that, they are also a present way of life. Biologist Marconi explains that it is necessary to understand the salt flats as high-altitude wetlands that conserve water both on the surface and in the subterranean, since 98% of the water in the highlands is conserved in this way. The salt flats are true oases of life for the biodiversity, where various species of flamingos, trout, ducks, vicuñas, among others, develop and coexist. Today they are all in danger.
"Without water, there is no life," Cacique (indigenous leader) Guitián says over and over again. And he never tires of repeating it. In recent years, together with his community, he has denounced the death of both domestic and wild animals and the negative change in the vegetation and the landscape. He has also called attention to the effects on the area of drought and the noise of the machines. If the planned projects and investments go ahead, the Andean wetlands could disappear.
Marconi explains that lithium mining "takes extraordinary amounts of water”. When they begin to extract, according to what they've declared, they will use in 14 days the amount of freshwater the population of Antofagasta de la Sierra consumes in a year. This is, says the researcher, according to what they themselves declare in the environmental impact study.
Although Livent has been in the territory for more than 25 years, there are no visible benefits for the community: "What they say is that they are going to generate a lot of resources and work opportunities, but we only see deterioration," explains Guitián. In a territory deprived of access to basic rights such as health, education and work, his colleague Alfredo maintains that the only policy of the municipal state, in coordination with the mining company, is the granting of economic "scholarships" for the youngest in the community. However, he denounces that as just buying silence.
Those who question or oppose mining projects are threatened. Morales says that since 2016, the violence has escalated: "They came to hit us and put together a case saying that we are against police personnel when the violence was the other way around."
Guitián explains that, faced with this situation, the community initiated a legal process: "We filled an appeal for protection, which reached the National Government, then we initiated a precautionary measure, but they did not respond to us as if the laws did not exist."
In the face of the government's silence, the communities advance with dialogues and the construction of networks, and faced with the Regional Seminar on Lithium, explains Guitián, "we are going to do the same thing they do. We are going to get together with communities from other provinces and countries."
While officials and businessmen make toasts on the millionaire investments left by lithium and talk about energy transition, the voices of local communities make them uncomfortable: “Who is going to have those high-end vehicles? Who is the transition intended for? For those who have money. We don't have that money, that's why they don't care about our voices."
*This text was produced with the support of Climate Tracker Latin America.
As the world moves to renewable energy, demand for lithium has surged. But the race to extract the precious mineral comes with hidden costs for local communities and the environment. So just how green is the energy transition after all?
Lithium mine at Salinas Grandes salt desert Jujuy province, Argentina
We know that the transition to renewable energies is urgent and that fossil fuels must be replaced. But are we making the same mistake if we switch to extracting other resources using the same model?
Since 1997, U.S. company Livent has been extracting lithium, a metal that is crucial for renewable technologies, from the Salar del Hombre Muerto, a salt flat in northern Argentina.
Close by, the local community is recording the deterioration and loss of biodiversity of this sensitive and unique wetland area.
At the Antofagasta de la Sierra, in the Catamarca region of Argentina
Alfredo Morales and Román Guitián belong to the Atacameño indigenous people who live in Antofagasta de la Sierra de Catamarca. It's a large territory located in the north of Argentina, inhabited by more than 1,800 people. The entrance for the extraction of lithium was created there. Lithium is a light metal that has become crucial in recent years for its use in various types of batteries for electronic devices for everyday use, such as computers, tablets and cell phones. It is also a strategic element for the manufacture of electric cars and new technologies.
Located 4,000 meters above sea level, the salt-flat was named by the great-grandfather of Cacique Román Guitián after finding bone remains in that area. But it was not an uninhabited territory waiting to be discovered: its inhabitants descend from the Atacama indigenous communities and embody their history in the present. Today, the silence has been replaced by the noise of the machines and trucks that explore the territory in search of the precious mineral.
Roman recalls that, before the arrival of mining, "life was healthier." And he reflects: “Today we cannot live as before because we have been left without water, we cannot circulate freely and our animals die. Before this company came we lived without any problem. Now we have all been contaminated”.
Alfredo says that for a long time, that territory was inhabited only by his community: "For many years, we lived on the edge of the country preserving the nation, and now that they are interested in what there is here, they want to take us out." In the area of the Andean mountain range and salt flats, what they call "nation" is more complex to define. There, the Argentine Puna constitutes a larger territory together with parts of Chile and Bolivia. Over the last few years, it's become known as the lithium triangle, an area coveted by large corporations because has more than 65% of the world's lithium reserves concentrated in three countries.
This mineral is presented as a salvation in the face of the climate crisis caused by the burning of fossil fuels. As a result, oil is losing the privileged place it held during the 20th century. Lithium could certainly be recycled and recovered from batteries that are already in circulation, which is why it is presented as renewable within the framework of the energy transition process. However, at the moment, it is only extracted from vein deposits or by the evaporation of brine deposits and large-scale reuse processes are unknown.
The energy transition is a process that consists of changing the current energy matrix (mainly based on fossil fuels) towards a diversified system of renewable sources. In this way, it seeks to prevent the planet's temperature from increasing and the effects of the climate crisis from worsening. But that definition is not enough because it is necessary to promote a fair and comprehensive transition. That means an energy transformation that takes into account, for example, territorial, socioeconomic and gender concerns in decision-making. In short, it must consider social and environmental justice.
Although lithium is presented as a key element for "clean energy", the current extraction model implies an over-consumption of water sources, the use of polluting chemicals and the displacement of communities. Is it possible to save the planet from climate change by the mere transition from one energy matrix to another? Does the extraction and use of this "new" mineral contemplate the errors of the outgoing hydrocarbon model? Does the transition necessarily imply the sacrifice of biodiversity, people and territories?
During the last 15 years, the province of Catamarca in northwestern Argentina has occupied a central place in the global mining map. The oldest lithium extraction project in the country operates there, run by the company Livent, which describes itself as making "high-performance lithium products and solutions." In 2018, the company submitted an Environmental Impact Report for the expansion of the “Fénix” Project with the aim of obtaining groundwater from the Los Patos River sub-basin in the Antofagasta area.
Despite the name change, this company has been extracting since 1997 in the Salar del Hombre Muerto in such a way that, far from being a novelty, it has had multiple impacts on the local territory and the communities there. However, since 2016, this model has gone into overdrive: “Lithium fever”, in the words of biologist Patricia Marconi, a member of the Yuchan Foundation and the High Andean Flamingo Conservation Group. In 2021, the German automaker BMW partnered with Livent and announced its investment of $338 million.
This “lithium rush” is not random. It is directly related to the process of elimination of one of the export taxes in February 2016, during the government of former Argentine President Mauricio Macri. Then Argentina was positively favored by foreign companies. The following year, the National Ministry of Energy and Mining recorded in its report at least "42 projects in brine deposits (salares) and five more in pegmatite deposits (rocks)". Since then, both the national government and the provincial and local governments have accompanied the deployment of international mining projects in the country with public policies.
Argentina´s Salar del Hombre Muerto lithium mining by brine well water evaporation.
The Andean salt flats are true vestiges of ancient lakes (paleolakes) that existed thousands of years ago in the area, so they are irrecoverable common goods from the past. But not only that, they are also a present way of life. Biologist Marconi explains that it is necessary to understand the salt flats as high-altitude wetlands that conserve water both on the surface and in the subterranean, since 98% of the water in the highlands is conserved in this way. The salt flats are true oases of life for the biodiversity, where various species of flamingos, trout, ducks, vicuñas, among others, develop and coexist. Today they are all in danger.
"Without water, there is no life," Cacique (indigenous leader) Guitián says over and over again. And he never tires of repeating it. In recent years, together with his community, he has denounced the death of both domestic and wild animals and the negative change in the vegetation and the landscape. He has also called attention to the effects on the area of drought and the noise of the machines. If the planned projects and investments go ahead, the Andean wetlands could disappear.
Marconi explains that lithium mining "takes extraordinary amounts of water”. When they begin to extract, according to what they've declared, they will use in 14 days the amount of freshwater the population of Antofagasta de la Sierra consumes in a year. This is, says the researcher, according to what they themselves declare in the environmental impact study.
Although Livent has been in the territory for more than 25 years, there are no visible benefits for the community: "What they say is that they are going to generate a lot of resources and work opportunities, but we only see deterioration," explains Guitián. In a territory deprived of access to basic rights such as health, education and work, his colleague Alfredo maintains that the only policy of the municipal state, in coordination with the mining company, is the granting of economic "scholarships" for the youngest in the community. However, he denounces that as just buying silence.
Those who question or oppose mining projects are threatened. Morales says that since 2016, the violence has escalated: "They came to hit us and put together a case saying that we are against police personnel when the violence was the other way around."
Guitián explains that, faced with this situation, the community initiated a legal process: "We filled an appeal for protection, which reached the National Government, then we initiated a precautionary measure, but they did not respond to us as if the laws did not exist."
In the face of the government's silence, the communities advance with dialogues and the construction of networks, and faced with the Regional Seminar on Lithium, explains Guitián, "we are going to do the same thing they do. We are going to get together with communities from other provinces and countries."
While officials and businessmen make toasts on the millionaire investments left by lithium and talk about energy transition, the voices of local communities make them uncomfortable: “Who is going to have those high-end vehicles? Who is the transition intended for? For those who have money. We don't have that money, that's why they don't care about our voices."
*This text was produced with the support of Climate Tracker Latin America.
The breakaway republic of Transnistria declared its independence 30 years ago, but not even Russia recognizes it as a country. Transnistria is both nostalgic for the Soviet era and prosperous thanks to Russian funds. And a trip there is the closest you can get to visiting the USSR.
Two women walk past a billboard advertising the presidential election campaigns in Tiraspol, Transnistria.
“It’s like North Korea here — we can’t leave the country.” Dimitri, around 30 years old, takes a passport out of his pocket. Delivered by Transnistria — a “country” recognized by no state, not even Russia — the document allows him to travel to only two places in the world: South Ossetia and Abkhazia, two Georgian enclaves also claiming their allegiance to the Kremlin. Only one issue: There is no airport in Transnistria, so escaping is only an imagined possibility.
Stay up-to-date with the latest on the Russia-Ukraine war, with our exclusive international coverage.
The young man could ask for a Moldavian passport: After all Transnistria, which borders Ukraine along 450km like a snake, is officially part of the country. But the procedure is long and costly. “The government does not want to give us documents that would allow us to vote. They’re scared of who we would put in power!” He smiles. Here, Moscow fascinates while Europe repels, and Western journalists are banned from staying.
Transnistria was built through historical wars and ethnic mixing — it was invaded by Greeks, Romans, Tatars, Ottomans and Romanians. Now, they talk, eat and dream in Russian. The 500,000 inhabitants believe they were shackled at the beginning of the 1990s when Moldova, which speaks Romanian, forbade them to speak Russian. After that, the distrust never stopped: In a 2009 referendum, 97% of Transnistrians voted once again to be reattached to Russia.
They even display a clear nostalgia for the USSR. Here, there are no bell towers in the middle of villages but Lenin statues and cultural centers celebrating a time when equality was not a vain word. More than a trip to the fringes of Europe, Transnistria offers a trip down memory lane like few that exist in the world.
“Stop saying we are in the USSR! Back then, we only needed one job to make a living, now it’s two,” says our driver ironically, who is also an accountant making barely €500 a month. “At the time, we could also drive only two hours to go swim in the Black Sea. Since then, Ukraine has taken up all the seafront, and Moldova does not have access to the sea anymore. Men from Transnistria are not allowed to go. The Ukrainians are afraid we are Russian spies,” he says.
Nostalgia peaks when locals meet at the “Back to the USSR” café to eat cabbage salad or bortsch, a beet soup with some floating pieces of meat. The atmosphere is decidedly kitsch and even looks like a theme park: A phone identical to the one used by Winston Churchill to call Joseph Stalin is hung in the entrance, pictures of Lenin overlook the large staircase while an old piano and gramophones set the musical mood.
In the countryside, the trip back in time is even more spectacular. At the entrance of the villages of Sucleia and Slobozia, mosaics celebrate the bravery of communist workers. “Old people are extremely nostalgic for the 1960s. Moldova was a small paradise back in the days, some kind of Soviet Saint-Tropez. We were richer and it was warmer than in the rest of the USSR,” says Dimitri.
A collector's USSR memorabilia in Tiraspol.
In Kuchurgan, in the south, locals are getting ready to celebrate the 60th anniversary of the town. In the cultural center, the theater’s stage is decorated with large draped fabrics to welcome traditional dances, children’s poems and speeches. The festivities are in 48 hours and a singer takes the microphone to practice a nostalgic lament: “I want to get my old village back. We knew neither jealousy nor hate. We went to the neighbors’ without being invited.”
Gratitude for Russia is on everyone’s lips and appears completely rational: It funded the electric plant responsible for the city’s wealth and supplies all of Moldova. Up until today, it provides them with free electricity … or almost: The bill is sent to Moldova, which refuses to pledge allegiance to the Kremlin and has been displaying a visible European inclination since Maia Sandu was elected president of Moldova last year.
This free electricity makes Transnistrians much richer than other Moldovans. Most factories in the country (metalwork, fabric …) were set up by Russians, as they did in the enclaves of Ossetia (in Georgia) and Donbas (in Ukraine). It was a strategy to ensure the Kremlin’s influence in the Soviet republics of the past. More capitalist Bitcoin miners have also settled there in the past few years to take advantage of some of the cheapest electricity in the world.
The capital city, Tiraspol, seems more prosperous than Moldova’s Chisinau. In the center, a “hipster” café opened for the rare Western people who have ventured here. They spend hours in flea markets, looking for Soviet era relics: Lenin busts, hats and jackets from the Stalinist period. Stalin is not far, in a big building at the entrance of the capital. In front of him, a statue of Lenin, bigger than any other, surrounded by the Russian and Transnistrian flags — the latter also adorned with the hammer and sickle. It is here that the President of Transnistira Vadim Krasnoselsky is based.
The “country” also has its Constitution, its Parliament, its central bank and currency — the Transnistrian rouble, whose faded square and triangular plastic coins look like they’re out of a board game. A few hundred meters away sits the Soviets’ house, now city hall.
The Sheriff’s name — the “boss” of the region — is displayed at every street corner. Cigarettes, alcohol, newspapers, mobile phones, constructions: Nothing gets past him. An estimated one out of five residents work for his conglomerate. The oligarch, a former KGB spy, also built a gas station, a brand new supermarket and the biggest football stadium in the country. It's been a source of pride for Transnistrians who saw their team — the Sheriff’s Tiraspol — win against Real Madrid in last year’s Champions League.
But it is hard to ignore the checkpoints and sand bags at the entrance of villages. They were put there at the end of April, and no one knows if they were launched by Russians or Ukrainians. Since then, Russian soldiers inspect passing cars, guns in hand. There are 1,500 Russian soldiers in Transnistria, but it is not to be seen as an interference from Moscow: “Russians are not here to invade us, but to keep the peace,” says Dimitri.
Here, they do not scare anyone. “These Russian troops get themselves talked about a lot, but in reality they mostly recruit here,” says Claus Neukirch, a German in charge of Moldovan operations for the Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe (OSCE). “Even if it wanted to, Russia has no way of increasing the quota. It would mean having soldiers leave Russia and fly above Ukraine, which is totally impossible.” These troops have very little military equipment, a few T62 tanks at most. “We cannot really talk about a military power,” says Neukirch.
Women arrive at a polling station as part of Transnistria's presidential elections on Dec. 12, 2021.
Diego Herrera/SOPA Images/ZUMA
Transnistria is much less belligerent than a lot of people would like to believe. It displays some kind of neutrality in the Ukrainian conflict and for good reason: Most of its exports go to the European Union and trade with Russia keep decreasing. Even though he is close to Moscow, the president released a statement in which he neither condones nor condemns the war in Ukraine. His position is in stark contrast to that of other enclaves such as Abkhasia and South Ossetia in Georgia, which have clearly stated their support to Vladimir Putin.
Transnistria is being pragmatic: Although it claims its independence, its football club plays in the Moldovan championship. The coach, Yuri Vernydub, left the team in February 2022 to enlist in the Ukrainian army.
What is more worrying is the amount of ammunition stored in the north of Transnistria, in Cobasna. Regarded as the most important stock in all of eastern Europe, it is only a stone-throw away from the Ukrainian border and could contain about 20,000 tons of munitions, grenades and rockets: “It’s an extremely old warehouse and no one knows exactly where it is,” says Neukirch.
Shots were heard near it in the spring. If the site was to catch on fire, it would cause an explosion at least equivalent to Beirut’s port two years ago. A dormant volcano in short, much like this sleeping “republic” which refuses to lend an ear to the sound of bombs and wallows in a glorified past.
The breakaway republic of Transnistria declared its independence 30 years ago, but not even Russia recognizes it as a country. Transnistria is both nostalgic for the Soviet era and prosperous thanks to Russian funds. And a trip there is the closest you can get to visiting the USSR.
After withdrawing from Afghanistan, the U.S. left a power vacuum. The Taliban regime is officially isolated internationally, but the country has vast mineral resources — on which Beijing is keeping a close eye.
Central to the tragic absurdity of this war is the question of language. Vladimir Putin has repeated that protecting ethnic Russians and the Russian-speaking populations of Ukraine was a driving motivation for his invasion.
Yet one month on, a quick look at the map shows that many of the worst-hit cities are those where Russian is the predominant language: Kharkiv, Odesa, Kherson.
Then there is Mariupol, under siege and symbol of Putin’s cruelty. In the largest city on the Azov Sea, with a population of half a million people, Ukrainians make up slightly less than half of the city's population, and Mariupol's second-largest national ethnicity is Russians. As of 2001, when the last census was conducted, 89.5% of the city's population identified Russian as their mother tongue.
Between 2018 and 2019, I spent several months in Mariupol. It is a rugged but beautiful city dotted with Soviet-era architecture, featuring wide avenues and hillside parks, and an extensive industrial zone stretching along the shoreline. There was a vibrant youth culture and art scene, with students developing projects to turn their city into a regional cultural center with an international photography festival.
There were also many offices of international NGOs and human rights organizations, a consequence of the fact that Mariupol was the last major city before entering the occupied zone of Donbas. Many natives of the contested regions of Luhansk and Donetsk had moved there, taking jobs in restaurants and hospitals. I had fond memories of the welcoming from locals who were quicker to smile than in some other parts of Ukraine. All of this is gone.
According to the latest data from the local authorities, 80% of the port city has been destroyed by Russian bombs, artillery fire and missile attacks, with particularly egregious targeting of civilians, including a maternity hospital, a theater where more than 1,000 people had taken shelter and a school where some 400 others were hiding.
The official civilian death toll of Mariupol is estimated at more than 3,000. There are no language or ethnic-based statistics of the victims, but it’s likely the majority were Russian speakers.
So let’s be clear, Putin is bombing the very people he has claimed to want to rescue.
Putin’s Public Enemy No. 1, Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky, is a mother-tongue Russian speaker who’d made a successful acting and comedy career in Russian-language broadcasting, having extensively toured Russian cities for years.
Rescuers carry a person injured during a shelling by Russian troops of Kharkiv, northeastern Ukraine.
Vyacheslav Madiyevskyy/Ukrinform via ZUMA Press Wire
Yes, the official language of Ukraine is Ukrainian, and a 2019 law aimed to ensure that it is used in public discourse, but no one has ever sought to abolish the Russian language in everyday life. In none of the cities that are now being bombed by the Russian army to supposedly liberate them has the Russian language been suppressed or have the Russian-speaking population been discriminated against.
Sociologist Mikhail Mishchenko explains that studies have found that the vast majority of Ukrainians don’t consider language a political issue. For reasons of history, culture and the similarities of the two languages, Ukraine is effectively a bilingual nation.
"The overwhelming majority of the population speaks both languages, Russian and Ukrainian,” Mishchenko explains. “Those who say they understand Russian poorly and have difficulty communicating in it are just over 4% percent. Approximately the same number of people say the same about Ukrainian.”
In general, there is no problem of communication and understanding. Often there will be conversations where one person speaks Ukrainian, and the other responds in Russian. Geographically, the Russian language is more dominant in the eastern and central parts of Ukraine, and Ukrainian in the west.
Like most central Ukrainians I am perfectly bilingual: for me, Ukrainian and Russian are both native languages that I have used since childhood in Kyiv. My generation grew up on Russian rock, post-Soviet cinema, and translations of foreign literature into Russian. I communicate in Russian with my sister, and with my mother and daughter in Ukrainian. I write professionally in three languages: Ukrainian, Russian and English, and can also speak Polish, French, and a bit Japanese. My mother taught me that the more languages I know the more human I am.
At the same time, I am not Russian — nor British or Polish. I am Ukrainian. Ours is a nation with a long history and culture of its own, which has always included a multi-ethnic population: Russians, Belarusians, Moldovans, Crimean Tatars, Bulgarians, Romanians, Hungarians, Poles, Jews, Greeks. We all, they all, have found our place on Ukrainian soil. We speak different languages, pray in different churches, we have different traditions, clothes, and cuisine.
Like in other countries, these differences have been the source of conflict in our past. But it is who we are and will always be, and real progress has been made over the past three decades to embrace our multitudes. Our Jewish, Russian-speaking president is the most visible proof of that — and is in fact part of what our soldiers are fighting for.
Many in Moscow were convinced that Russian troops would be welcomed in Ukraine as liberating heroes by Russian speakers. Instead, young soldiers are forced to shoot at people who scream in their native language.
Starving people ina street of Kharkiv in 1933, during the famine
Diocesan Archive of Vienna (Diözesanarchiv Wien)/BA Innitzer
Putin has tried to rally the troops by warning that in Ukraine a “genocide” of ethnic Russians is being carried out by a government that must be “de-nazified.”
These are, of course, words with specific definitions that carry the full weight of history. The Ukrainian people know what genocide is not from books. In my hometown of Kyiv, German soldiers massacred Jews en masse. My grandfather survived the Buchenwald concentration camp, liberated by the U.S. army. My great-grandmother, who died at the age of 95, survived the 1932-33 famine when the Red Army carried out the genocide of the Ukrainian middle class, and her sister disappeared in the camps of Siberia, convicted for defying rationing to try to feed her children during the famine.
On Tuesday, came a notable report of one of the latest civilian deaths in the besieged Russian-speaking city of Kharkiv: a 96-year-old had been killed when shelling hit his apartment building. The victim’s name was Boris Romanchenko; he had survived Buchenwald and two other Nazi concentration camps during World War II. As President Zelensky noted: Hitler didn’t manage to kill him, but Putin did.
Genocide has returned to Ukraine, from Kharkiv to Kherson to Mariupol, as Vladimir Putin had warned. But it is his own genocide against the Russian-speaking population of Ukraine.