Freedom of the Press in Ukraine

One day, when peace comes, I’ll write a book and call it How Provincial Newspapers Survive the War. There, I will describe what it is like to write editorials for three years straight, amid blackouts and air raid sirens; how to edit texts under the dim light of a lamp powered by a mini-generator while hearing explosions; how to do layout while using a power bank; or how to pass drafts through the phone. I will share the experience of conducting interviews while cooking or crouching in a bomb shelter, and how to run the newsroom around the clock despite nightly curfews and halted public transportation. I will recount working for months without salaries, splitting equally any funds that eventually come in. I will tell everyone how my journalists brought groceries and supplies from home and how, right in the newsroom, we shipped them to the front lines or handed them over to local refugees.

There will also be a special chapter on one of our lead journalists, Senior Sergeant Gennadyi Rybchenkov, who, during breaks between combat duties, would dictate his articles from trenches covered with snow and shrapnel. A whole chapter will be dedicated to what it was like, for millions of Ukrainians, to sit glued to their TVs, and watch the reception our president, Volodymyr Zelensky received in the White House from the Trump administration. To sit there, full of hope, and to watch, in shock, our hopes vanish in the televised air.

Today, however, I am writing about the state of free press in Ukraine. From the first day of the war, the Ukrainian government centralized media, merging the major television channels into a single “United News Telemarathon,” or, as we call it, the Marathon. This was a logical step designed to prevent the proliferation of fake news, disinformation, and panic. The Marathon is supported by the state, while all of the provincial media was left to its own devices. This was a death sentence for more than a few TV channels and newspapers. Many closed down immediately, with some journalists joining the army, while others—especially those with young children—used their credentials to escape abroad.

Within the first year of the war, the demand for marketing and advertising rapidly vanished. We then experienced severe shortages of newsprint. Electricity itself became scarce, severely impacting logistics and transportation. Our population’s disposable income was the next to go. Finally, our homes became dark and cold for significant portions of the day. Such are the realities of Ukrainian provincial life.

Despite all these challenges, our weekly Ukrayina-Tsentr did not skip a single issue nor miss a single deadline. We did not pause, not even in the first and heaviest days of the war. Back then, we gave out copies of the newspaper on the street at no cost. At times, a crowd would form around us, and the distribution would turn into public conversations with distraught and grieving citizens. In a town like Kropyvnytskyi, where I live, people recognize their journalists on the street and treat them like oracles. That’s how we continue to work today, though our strength and resilience are starting to splinter.

Our newspaper’s mission is the same as the mission of the democratic press anywhere in the world: to provide objective and broad-ranging information about the situation in Ukraine and the adjacent region.

However, at this point, I am certain that the government’s Marathon is causing more harm than benefit. Their continued attempts to put a positive spin on the situation have reached the point of absurdity, covering up the true reality of the country at war. Writing about military operations, shifting borders, corruption within the army, and the bureaucracy of local officials is a hard and often dangerous task. Any journalist who has lived and written through this war will confirm that. Yet it must be done—especially now, here, left of the center of Europe, where the embers of the Third World War could easily catch and spread throughout the world.

Another key commitment of our newspaper is to honor our local, recently fallen soldiers in every issue. Screens come and go, but the slowly fading newspaper cutouts remain in family archives for generations. The regularity of this work over the past three years has become almost mechanical, but such is our duty.

Imagine what it is like to speak with young widows, fathers, and mothers who have lost a son or a daughter—some of these folks we know personally. Recently, I wrote about a young woman who, in honor of her recently killed husband, built a playground for disabled children. Then there was a woman who first lost her son, then her husband, and then purchased laparoscopic equipment for a local hospital. Just the other day, I wrote about Anatoliy Shapovalov, a world-renowned painter from our province, whose work is exhibited in galleries in New York and London, Kyiv, and Odessa. His grandson has been in a hospital in Germany for over a year, and the master paints constantly to help pay for his grandson’s recovery.

We write seldom-heard and unique stories about refugees—those who escaped the war with nothing but a single suitcase and a cat. We continue to share agency names and contact phone numbers, along with detailed instructions on what to do and where to go if you lose your home. We tell the stories of locals who are local no longer—parents who left to ensure their children’s safety and are now struggling to make ends meet across the globe. They read our work to stay connected to their home, to each other, and, to be honest, to themselves. You won’t find stories about your former classmates, colleagues, or neighbors in centralized, government-controlled media; for that, you need a local, provincial newspaper.

We remain in close contact with volunteers worldwide—those leading projects to assist our country and, more specifically, our city. At times, we see American and European media criticizing Ukrainians for not being sufficiently grateful for the aid they receive. Believe me, our people are deeply grateful. We document these efforts because they uplift the spirits of our citizens. We write because, after the war, these stories will become history and continue to inspire us.

We can endlessly search for the reasons behind the conflict, analyze blow-by-blow chains of events, and debate possible scenarios for its resolution. But Ukraine and its people have no time for this. The clock is ticking, and the grand finale is only months—if not weeks—away. Withdrawal of U.S. support is hitting the free press very hard in a time when it is so vital to the survival of the nation’s dignity and self-determination.

I recall when, back in 2009, the U.S. Department of State invited me, along with a small group of other independent Ukrainian journalists, to visit 14 universities across America. Despite the many translators accompanying us, we spoke a single, universal language: the language of freedom of speech. I believe the United States and the rest of the civilized world will not allow this freedom to be silenced in Ukraine.

Translated from the Ukrainian by Jake Marmer.

Efim Marmer is the Editor-in-Chief of Ukrayina-Tsentr, a weekly newspaper based in Kropyvnytskyi, Ukraine. His recent editorials have appeared in The Wall Street Journal and Tablet Magazine.