Володимир Єшкілєв Volodymyr Yeshkiliev

In the early [19]90s, then again, thanks to [Yuriy] Izdryk, who was something of a focal point, a gateway into literature for many people — huge respect and gratitude to him for that — a group of writers from [Ivano-]Frankivsk, a circle of authors, formed, which I christened in [19]92, saying, "This is the Stanislav Phenomenon." And that's how it entered history — as the Stanislav Phenomenon. That was me, Izdryk, [Yuriy] Andrukhovych, Taras Prokhasko, Yaroslav Dovhan, Halyna Petrosanyak, Volodymyr Mulyk, Mariia Mykytsei. We had not just a truly friendly relationship but a relationship of creative exchange. That is, it wasn’t just about joint presentations, performances, trips, tours, and so on, and so forth. It was real life. Almost daily exchanges of ideas, impressions. We polished each other’s aesthetic principles, and beyond that, it was a spirit. I always say that the Stanislav Phenomenon was a spirit — people charging each other with energy. Wanting to be writers, wanting to create. And we felt that we were making history, that nothing like we were doing had ever happened in this city before. The Stanislav Phenomenon was truly something unique, extraordinary. Later generations of [Ivano-]Frankivsk writers tried to recreate it, to repurpose it for themselves, and there were interesting people, but that spirit [was absent], it didn’t happen again. So the Stanislav Phenomenon, as it emerged in the [19]90s, in the early [19]90s, by the late [19]90s… it [came to an end]. We all grew up, went our separate ways. That spirit was gone, the second Lilyk no longer existed — the café [Pid Lilykom], where we gathered, where those wild parties took place. The artists who were with us, who also "phenomenized" and contributed to that spirit, to those events, were gone, too.

That April [April 23–25, 2014], I went to Donetsk with a group of writers. By then, Sloviansk had already been taken by Girkin’s militants, so we had to travel there and back through a city essentially occupied by Russians. There was a festival at the former Izolyatsia plant, which is now a prison, but back then, it was an art center. It was the last free literary festival in Donetsk. And there, I came face to face with the enemy, with war. For real. And I had this feeling that a lot of blood would be spilled there. I remember that at the Izolyatsia plant, the festival was guarded by a private security firm. Young guys dressed in camouflage, in military-style boots. I was always stepping out to smoke. There was a designated smoking area. I had cigarillos, they had some cheap cigarettes. I shared mine with them, and whether out of gratitude or some kind of smoker’s solidarity, they shared some of their thoughts with me. Already then, they said they were ready to fight in a war. To fight for Russia. And they were… I know this type of people — "sovoks" [derogatory term for people uncritically supporting Soviet values or having a Soviet mentality]. People for whom being part of a pack is what matters. Being on the side of strength. And at that moment, they were absolutely convinced that strength was on Putin’s side. So they [were eager] to align their entire pack with the strong, to gain something from this war, to seize, to profit, and so on. It was obvious. I realized they weren’t alone. It wasn’t just one security firm. It wasn’t just those five or six guys sitting there smoking with me. It was a sentiment shared by many.

I knew, I knew this would all happen, so for me, it wasn’t a [surprise] at all. My wife and I woke up to car alarms going off from the explosions at the airport. I looked at my smartphone, Nadya asked what [was happening]… “The war has started,” I said. I said, “Let’s go back to sleep.” She said, “But the war has started!” I said, “Well, the airport is 3.8 km away. The power of a Kalibr missile is 500 kg of explosives. We didn’t even hear it, just the alarms. Let’s sleep.” So we slept a little more. That’s how the war began. Then friends arrived from Kharkiv — one group, then another, then a third. They started telling us about the rockets and everything. It was all… probably the same as for everyone else. Can I say that I have any particularly unique or special experience of what happened at the start of the full-scale invasion? No, I don’t have any unique experience. We tried to volunteer, to provide some exclusive information to Western media. And we did. Then… Then everything just settled into a kind of routine.

[Ivano-]Frankivsk has changed. Frankivsk has become more crowded. And the displaced people, in my opinion, have added character. The thing is, most of these displaced people are city dwellers. And Frankivsk has always lacked a truly urban population with urban tastes and an urban way of life. Many people lived in Frankivsk during the workweek but left for the villages on weekends. There were years, especially in the [19]90s, when the city would practically empty out on weekends because most of its population was first- or second-generation villagers. So, the displaced people brought a new wave of urbanism to Frankivsk. More people started visiting bookstores, for example. I work in the theater, and I noticed that many displaced people attend local theaters. They make up a significant part of the audience. Likewise, I run a literary club, and many of those who attend are displaced people. In other words, they’ve actively integrated into life here. Some have said that they [live] here now, that they’re Frankivites now, that they are going to stay here, they like it here. I see businesses from eastern Ukraine that have relocated to Frankivsk and settled in as they feel comfortable. I also see people who had come to Frankivsk, stayed for a bit, and decided it wasn’t for them, so they moved on. They are mostly IT specialists. Because they are well-off people, and they want a city with a bigger entertainment industry, such as a developed network of nightclubs, let’s just say, more adult entertainment of sorts. For them, Frankivsk is too chaste a city. Of course, we are joking, we consider it ironic when we say, “Frankivsk is a chaste city.” It’s not chaste at all, but it’s boring for IT specialists, yes.