In the common room, the central area of UCM, there is a sense of peace on Monday, 24 February: students are working on their laptops or eating something, one or two are taking an afternoon nap on the sofas. This peace is quite a contrast to the story told at one of the tables by Hanna Slozanska (professor at Ternopil National Pedagogical University) and Larysa Chovnyuk (head of the International Office of the National University of Kyiv). They are part of the delegation of five Ukrainian universities visiting Maastricht, in part to get inspiration from UCM for the liberal arts programmes they’re setting up with EU support.
Bitterness and hope
Inevitably, the main topic of conversation is the war with Russia, which invaded its neighbour exactly three years ago. It feels weird not to be in Ukraine, particularly on this day. Slozanska calls it a mix of bitterness and hope. Bitterness at the ongoing war and at the geopolitical situation: American president Trump called his Ukrainian counterpart Zelensky a dictator and is negotiating peace in Ukraine with Moscow without involving Kyiv. And hope, because she hopes that setting up liberal arts programmes will help build the future of her country. She is convinced that Ukraine will win, and then open-minded people and critical thinkers will be needed to rebuild the country. “A liberal arts programme will help.” Chovnyuk nods in agreement: “Not everybody can take to the battlefield. We are teaching the people who will make a significant impact now and after the war. That’s our contribution to victory.”
Air raid sirens
That teaching is not without its challenges. Right from the start, the war has had a major impact on university life in Ukraine. Universities in the east, in occupied territory, had to move – sometimes more than once, as Russian forces advanced. Government funding is scarce, institutions survive thanks to foreign aid, and recruiting new students is hard, because many young Ukrainians have fled the country. The threat of drones and rocket attacks hangs over the entire country: in Ukraine “nobody is entirely safe”, says Slozanska.
In Kyiv, the air raid sirens sound multiple times a day, says Chovnyuk. As soon as the siren sounds, lectures are halted and students and staff head to the air raid shelters. “Having them is compulsory. We also can’t have more students on campus than we could house in those shelters. That means half the students have online lectures. There is a whole generation now that has never been inside a lecture theatre.” And then there are the staff and students who took up arms and headed to the battlefields. Every Ukrainian university now has a memorial to their own fallen. “Unfortunately, the last page of this story has not yet been written,” says Slozanska.
“Our form of resistance”
The two say that their students have learnt to deal with all of this, however hard it may sometimes be. “They make jokes about the sirens, sing songs in the shelters. You can’t be tense all the time,” says Chovnyuk. Slozanska has noticed that there is a huge desire for contact with others, especially among students who live in student accommodation and don’t see their family much. That has changed her own role: “Not every student is going to talk to a psychologist, so they go to their tutor or another member of staff instead. We are now also psychologists, tutors, emergency responders, parents...”
You’d be forgiven for giving up in the face of all that and wonder what the point is of investing so much time and effort in a new liberal arts programme. Chovnyuk shakes her head, saying with conviction: “The opposite is true. Many universities are more active now, instead of sitting down and complaining. The situation is bleak, but as strange as it sounds, that is also an impetus for change.” “We’re trying to carry on university life as much as possible,” adds Slozanska. “Everybody has their own form of resistance, this is ours.”