¿Ruso o ucraniano? Así bajo las bombas de Putin la lengua se convierte en un dilema: No nos juzguen El reportaje

In the wake of nearly four years of war, language has become a complex and often contentious issue in Ukraine, particularly in cities such as Odessa, where residents grapple with whether to speak Ukrainian or Russian. The conflict has reshaped linguistic dynamics, turning the choice of language into a symbol of identity, resistance, and belonging. For many Ukrainians, the decision to use one language over another reflects their stance on the ongoing war, while others navigate this shift with mixed feelings rooted in personal history and practical necessity. The debate over language intensified after Russia’s full-scale invasion in 2022, which followed the annexation of Crimea in 2014. In eastern and southern regions, including Odessa, Russian had long been associated with social prestige, whereas Ukrainian was often linked to rural life. This perception began to change as the war progressed. More people have opted to use Ukrainian exclusively, even within families, viewing it as a form of national resistance against Russian influence. Meanwhile, those who fled occupied territories have started learning or using Ukrainian more frequently, recognizing its importance in daily life and public spaces. President Volodymyr Zelenskyy signed legislation in 2026 that removed Russian from the list of protected minority languages under the European Charter for Regional or Minority Languages, though it does not ban the language outright. This move underscores the growing emphasis on Ukrainian as the nation's official and unifying tongue. However, the transition has not been uniform. Some individuals, especially those who grew up speaking Russian, find it difficult to abandon the language entirely, even as they support Ukraine’s sovereignty. For Anastasiia, a 25-year-old from Odessa, Russian remains deeply tied to her childhood and family life. She speaks it at home and among friends, despite facing judgment from some Westerners who associate Russian with loyalty to Russia. “It doesn’t mean I support Russia,” she says. “But we shouldn’t be judged for speaking our native language.” Her perspective highlights the tension between personal heritage and political allegiance, a sentiment shared by many in the south and east of the country. Ihor, a 20-year-old from Donetsk, represents another facet of this linguistic divide. After leaving his hometown, he chose to stop using Russian, which he now associates with the enemy. Yet, he still relies on it within his family, where communication is necessary. “I avoid it outside the house,” he explains, “but I can’t help using it with my mother and sister abroad, it’s just a need.” For Nataliia, a 27-year-old teacher from the east, Ukrainian is a deliberate act of defiance. “I don’t want anything in common with those who killed our people,” she states. “Russian is the language of the aggressors, of those who brought war to our country. I chose to speak only Ukrainian before the invasion because it is part of our history, culture, and identity.” Her commitment to Ukrainian has drawn criticism, with some labeling her a nationalist, but she remains resolute in her belief that language is central to preserving national unity. The situation reflects broader societal shifts, as Ukrainian becomes increasingly dominant in both public and private spheres. Yet, the legacy of Russian remains embedded in the lives of many, creating a nuanced landscape where language choices are shaped by memory, necessity, and evolving identities. As the war continues, these linguistic tensions will likely persist, influencing how Ukrainians define themselves in the face of external pressures and internal divisions.