In the heart of war-weary Kyiv, Ukrainian veterans who endured severe combat injuries are turning an ancient epic into a living testament of resilience, showing that art can heal and stories can be reborn.
In a Moment Where War, Poetry, and Human Spirit Collide
KYIV, Ukraine — Sitting in a circle with drama students the day before opening night, Ukrainian war veterans took turns reading lines from a script that traveled centuries to reach them. The play, an adaptation of Ivan Kotliarevskyi’s 18th-century Eneida—a Ukrainian reimagining of Virgil’s Aeneid—brought together actors ranging from Those Who Fought on the Frontlines to civilian survivors of occupation. Their stage was not just a theater; it was a canvas where myth and memory converged. The director, Olha Semioshkina, transformed the ancient tale of exile and endurance into a story of modern Ukrainian survival.
The performance unfolded under the shadow of the ongoing Russian invasion, now nearing its fourth year. Many of the veterans on stage carried visible scars of war—amputations, burns, lost eyesight—while others bore invisible wounds. Semioshkina’s vision was clear: “Every man on stage is Aeneas. Every woman on stage is Dido.” Aeneas, the mythic wanderer, became a symbol of their collective journey—mutilated, broken, yet still searching for home. The play was not just about survival; it was about rebirth.
The project was ambitious: weeks spent rebuilding bodies and minds. Actors learned to move, fall, and stand again, often without prosthetics. For 51-year-old Semioshkina, the goal was to restore a sense of agency. “Aeneas preserves humor, passion, he falls, he goes through horrors, drinks and parties, but he is human,” she said. “He has a goal—to find his place and preserve his family.”
Among the performers was Yehor Babenko, a veteran of Ukraine’s Border Service who suffered severe burns early in the war. His role in the play was infused with his own experiences. “Feeling burned out at work?” he said on stage. “We have a lot in common.” Later, he recited a monologue about fire stealing his hands, ears, and nose. For him, theater became rehabilitation—both psychological and physical. “I feel my body better, I feel more confident,” he said. “And the story—it’s about searching for your land. For us, that’s very relevant now.”
As the performance approached its climax, the cast broke character—stepping into their own stories. One veteran described losing his leg in a drone strike and using a machine gun as a crutch. A female actor recounted living under Russian occupation with her two children. Andrii Onopriienko, who lost his sight in an artillery strike, narrated much of the performance with a voice that filled the theater. “Let our enemies dig up holes, install crosses, and lie down on their own,” he sang, as the rest joined in.
Even before the curtain rose, the war intruded: an announcement warning audience members to prepare for an air raid or power outage. And when the lights did go out during the performance, the cast adapted—delivering lines in the beam of handheld flashlights. The theater’s power flickered; the story did not. When the performance ended, the audience rose in a standing ovation, voices swelling as the electricity—and hope—returned.
For Semioshkina, the message resonated beyond the stage: “Come out. Don’t close yourself off. Live every single minute.”
As the war continues, art becomes a lens through which Ukraine’s unbroken spirit shines. This story is not just about veterans; it’s about a nation searching for its voice in a world scarred by conflict. And though the darkness of war persists, the light of storytelling—and the courage to keep telling it—carries on.
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