Tracing Ukrainian Roots: The Hlazun Family's History and Legacy

Introduction

This comprehensive exploration focuses on the story of a Ukrainian family, the Hlazuns, originating from Donbas and later connected to the Odesa region. Their narrative unfolds against the backdrop of 20th-century oppression, Soviet collectivization, and the ongoing identity struggles faced by Ukrainians.

Growing Up in Donbas

The subject grew up speaking Russian in Donbas, initially identifying as Russian due to language and environmental surroundings.
Early identity questions emerged during childhood but did not solidify until late adolescence.
The cultural environment led to complexities in self-identification with Ukrainian nationality.

Political Awakening and Activism

In the early 2010s, grassroots efforts such as stenciling Ukrainian symbols and renaming streets signified local resistance.
Actions culminated in political activism, including protests against language laws perceived as oppressive.
Authorities responded with intimidation, legal action, and personal persecution, forcing activists and their families to relocate.

The Hlazun Family History

The Hlazun family originally hailed from the village of Novoheorhiivka (formerly Mainove) in the Odesa region.
Archival research uncovered that family members were dispossessed twice during the 1920s and 1930s under Soviet policies.
Members faced imprisonment and forced relocation to Siberia.
Their homeland contained traditional houses with thatched roofs, many now abandoned or deteriorated.

Impact of Soviet Policies on Ukrainian Villages

Collectivization in the 1930s led to the destruction of independent peasant farms and the rise of collective farms (kolkhozes).
Forced property seizure and repression caused decline in village populations from thousands to mere hundreds.
Historical events, such as the Ananyiv Uprising and repressions against wealthy peasants (kulaks), demonstrate the targeting of affluent Ukrainians advocating independence.

Current State of Novoheorhiivka and Memory Preservation

The once-thriving village is now marked by empty houses, poor infrastructure, and fading cultural landmarks.
Some locals maintain knowledge of the Hlazun family and broader village history, preserving oral traditions.
Efforts are underway to trace familial links, revive roots, and reconnect descendants with their heritage.

The Importance of Historical Awareness

Understanding family and regional history is essential to preserve Ukrainian identity.
Erasure of collective memory contributes to cultural decline and vulnerability.
Reclaiming surnames and heritage, as exemplified by the desire to revert to "Hlazun," symbolizes resistance to historical oppression.

Conclusion

The story of the Hlazun family reflects a broader Ukrainian experience of repression, identity loss, and cultural resilience. Documenting and honoring such histories fosters national consciousness and counteracts the effects of historical erasure. As these narratives emerge, they offer hope for restoration and renewed pride in Ukrainian roots.

For a complementary perspective on the effects of historic oppression and cultural memory, see The Impact of the Transatlantic Slave Trade on Brazil's Contemporary Society. Additionally, to explore how identity and heritage can unify communities, refer to Unifying Black Identity: Embracing African Roots and Global Solidarity.

Created with the assistance of the Odesa Regional Military Administration Khashchi Greetings, we are back in Donetsk Oblast to discuss an important topic.

But this time, we will not only focus on the Donetsk region, but on Ukraine as a whole. More precisely, the fate of the Ukrainian people: the oppression, abuse, and torture

that the Ukrainian people had to endure throughout the 20th century, and which, unfortunately, they are still enduring in the 21st century. Today, using the example of the family history of one of our friends,

we want to tell you how national memory was erased, Ukrainian families were destroyed, and identity was wiped out. Today we are going on an expedition to find what has been lost —

the connection to our roots, the truth, and the strength that help us establish our own identity. Donetsk region. Ukraine

Was your entire childhood spent in Donbas? You grew up here, in Donbas, and positioned yourself as “I am from Donbas,” right? Do you understand that your native land is Donbas?

— I can't say. You see, that question never arose, probably like for most of the local population.

You live your life, you exist, and that's it. Some kind of self-identification comes later, if it comes to you at all.

But, in essence, until a certain age, until adolescence, 13-15 years old, I didn't give a damn about any kind of identity. I didn't consider myself...

I didn't really think about whether I was Ukrainian or what. There was an interesting story that somewhere in the early grades, Maybe in second grade, during English class,

we had to say what nationality we were. And I didn't know what to say. And the teacher said, “Well, Russian.”

— You spoke Russian, right? — Yes, I spoke Russian. So I thought, “Well, logically, I guess so, I'm Russian.”

But with language, in fact, yes, it turns out to be a very interesting case, that my maternal grandmother is from Bilokurakine, they spoke Ukrainian,

and when I was about 7 or 8, they moved to Donbas, and she became Russian-speaking. Well, she still speaks Ukrainian with me, but otherwise she speaks Russian.

— Did everyone in your family speak Russian? — Yes. — Did everyone in your family speak Russian? — Yes.

— You grew up speaking Russian all the time, surrounded by Russian, — Yes. — You grew up speaking Russian all the time, surrounded by Russian, in a Russian-speaking city, Donbas.

In this, you write that you are Russian when they ask you at school who you are. But you became interested when you had to... What to do — ancestry, right?

— Well, that's the first thing, I'm just tracing my ancestry, I don't know, back in school, but for myself, when I became interested, yes, somewhere around the age of 17-18, when some kind of national consciousness had formed.

— You've been into soccer since childhood, right? And then you joined the ultras of Donetsk's Shakhtar. — Yes, but at first I rooted for Dynamo.

— Dynamo? — Yes, and then I went to the Shakhtar sector. — And what about Dynamo — are you a nonconformist and against everyone?

— Yes. — It seems that I had the exact opposite situation in Khmelnytskyi: I supported Shakhtar because everyone else there supported Dynamo.

But then you started supporting Shakhtar, right? — Yes. — Did Ultras influence national consciousness?

Or did you join Ultras precisely because you were conscious? — Well, yes, this sector helped to form a kind of Ukrainian identity. It's not that many people in the sector were directly enthusiastic about nationalism,

but the core was nationalistic. — Are these landscapes familiar to you? — For me, perhaps the strongest association with this region is

the variety of grasses in the steppes in May, when you go out into the ravines and everything is blooming. — Well, and the slag heaps, no matter how hard you try, you can't ignore them.

— Absolutely. — There's nothing to be ashamed of here. It's the identification of a real region.

— Slag heaps, industrial zones, emissions. — A very unique building for Donbas.

It's actually marked on Google Maps. A five-story building, built in 1994, with a trident. A Ukrainian People's Republic trident, you might say, broad and expansive.

And with the inscription “Glory to Ukraine.” It was unusual at the time, but here I want you to tell us about the history of the Yanukovych era

and life in your hometown in Donbas, in Donetsk Oblast. What happened to you with the symbols, what did you do with them? — It all started with some stickers, stencils.

(explosion in the distance in the background) Then it grew into some kind of political and social action. We held Unity Day in 2012.

We renamed Lenin Street to Heroes of the UPA Street. — With a stencil on top, right? — Then it became more and more radical.

When the Kolesnichenko-Kivalov law was passed in 2012, (The Kivalov-Kolesnichenko law REQUIRED the use of minority languages in regions where minorities make up 10% or less of the population) we threw paint at the Party of Regions office,

and left a stencil saying that next time it wouldn't be paint. And they opened a criminal case against us at first. By the way, there was an interesting article about hooliganism at the time.

It seems they wanted to bring in a new one somehow. Something about terrorism, they passed a new law then. — The climax was when the cops and the SBU started coming

to our homes, to our parents, to our relatives... — Sorry, let me interrupt you for a moment. It's absurd for viewers, think about it, especially for foreign viewers.

SBU – Security Service of Ukraine. The 22nd year of Ukraine's independence. The Security Service of Ukraine is persecuting people

(actual anti-Ukrainian activity was commonplace in virtually all of Ukraine's law enforcement agencies before the 2014 revolution) who have pro-Ukrainian sentiments. It just doesn't make sense (in my head).

For calling the street Heroes of Ukraine, they drew tridents there. And the phenomenal story with the red and black flag. How did it turn out?

— On February 23, my friend and I just got together. We gathered in the city center. We wanted to do something, but we didn't have any specific ideas.

It just so happened that I had a yellow and blue flag, he had a red and black one, the city council, a flagpole. Somehow, it all just came together instantly.

We raised it and took a photo. Then we posted photos online, and by evening it had spread so much

that it was all over the news. — And what was the most interesting thing that came of it? — What came of it was that they simply dispersed a rally

of factory workers and drove people out of the mines.  — On Defender of the Fatherland Day, they   raised the UPA flag in the city center.   — It's a disgrace. 

 — They offended (something)...   — We won't let anyone   disgrace us like that.  — Another remark, because we have a lot of foreign viewers, we need to provide some context here.

This is a classic situation for this eastern region of Ukraine, when people... This is an industrial area, and here people are very often forcibly brought from factories and mines to all kinds of rallies.

The mine manager would come and say, “Everyone on the bus, we're going to the rally.” — Or they would be fired from their jobs, yes. There were several attempts on my life.

The mayor paid $1,000 to have me severely beaten. — So you really suffered serious injuries there, right? — Yes, I had to stay in the hospital for several weeks.

— What about your family after all this persecution? — Well, we had to leave. They tried to settle in four different places in Ukraine,

but it didn't work out. Well, and then I managed to get them out of the country. — Then Maidan, I remember that we already knew each other back then,

active participation in Maidan, right? — Yes, I was on Maidan from December 1 (2013), it was, of course, such an unforgettable moment. — So, apart from today, apart from 2024, when was the last time you were here in Donbas?

In Donetsk Oblast, to be precise. — I was mobilized, spent 10 days at the training ground, and was sent to Severodonetsk, which was under partial siege. (Severodonetsk, and since 2024 — Siversk; completely occupied since the end of June 2022)

— All the battles for Severodonetsk, right? — Yes. — Rotation, and then you were sent to other positions when your unit was withdrawn.

It was purely symbolic. You literally fought near your hometown. — I was 18 kilometers from home.

And I was, in fact, wounded by the sight of the slag heap, which I often saw as a child, though from the other side. — Here come some local women, we'll ask them now

who did it in 1994, when, and why. I have a hunch that the builders might have been from somewhere in western Ukraine. Or maybe there was some local activism here back in 1994.

(another explosion in the background) Good afternoon. — Good afternoon.

— May I ask you to tell me who built this building here in 1994? — We had the Rudynska mine here, these are its slag heaps. It is no longer there.

These are them... — And what about at that time... Well, was it not popular at that time? — Why is it not popular?

— Or the opposite? — Why wasn't it popular? Do you think that because it's Donbas, it's not popular? — Or the opposite? (inscription in Russian “glory to the miners”)

— Why wasn't it popular? Do you think that because it's Donbas, it's not popular? — Well, it's a rare building. — No, I don't know, we've always supported Ukraine.

They disparage us here, saying that we are “some kind of people” here. We love Ukraine. I don't know.

And we built ours, ours. — And we assumed that someone from Lviv region built it somewhere. No, did the locals build it?

— No, the locals, these guys who worked at the mine, there was a construction crew there. So you're wrong to blame the people from Donetsk. — No, no, we're not blaming them.

— Well, look, because... yes, yes, yes. I don't know, it will stand. No one touches our Rudynska, because they've been insulting us all our lives.

There were two mines, and you see what our town is like? No one invested (in it). Everything went to Pokrovsk, everything went to Pokrovsk.

— It all looks so poor. — Of course, yes. Because they didn't invest money.

And there were two mines, two. Imagine: (we) fed Kyiv, fed Pokrovsk, and Lviv region, and Chernihiv region, and everyone. (news that Donbas was actually a subsidized region)

— It's quite reminiscent of how we used to walk as children. We had more or less the same walks. For me, on both sides of the family,

one generation is enough. It's not that one generation is enough for it to pass. But when a person is a child and finds themselves in a Russian-speaking environment,

they pick up the Russian language and it becomes, well, their native language. It's not like people understand whether they were really Russian-speaking.

That is, only a few actually understand that it is their native language. And how did it become their native language? It's just years of repression.

— And no one is interested in history. This is about the importance of being interested in history, which we always, repeat. Information, history, knowledge.

Information and knowledge of history are extremely important. — I knew that the family... (explosion in the distance)

— Oh, sorry, there are explosions somewhere. There was a loud bang just now... — My father's family was dispossessed and sent somewhere to Siberia.

And that's basically it. I had the name of the village they came from, but it's a fairly common name.

There were quite a few villages with that name in Ukraine. — What's the name? — Novoheorhiivka.

— And where did you find this village? — I know that the village is in the Odesa region, but I don't know exactly where.

But recently, a few years ago, I came across an archive file, an archive file number. And maybe we'll be able to find something.

— As a non-governmental organization that constantly researches historical materials, we cooperate with various foundations. And there are many, many interesting things to find.

I think we'll try to find something for you now. Archive. City of Kyiv, Ukraine. — Nitrativka, Nobelivka, Novo...

— Novo, Novo, Novo, Novo... Here it is, “-ovo,” look. Novoheorhiivka, here it is.

Practically all cases of dispossession have been preserved. That's what makes it interesting. — We have a case here, Hryhorii Dmytrovych Hlazun.

Own land: 6.75 dessiatines leased, (a dessiatine is approximately 1.12 hectares of land; here it is 7.56 hectares) 2 horses, 1 cow, up to 5 pigs, up to 5 sheep.

Sentenced to 10 years. — Listen, the most important thing here is — Then it was expropriated for the second time.

I see that before that, in the 1920s, his property was taken away for the first time. And in 1930, it was already the remains of his property. Wow, that's twice. The first time, by some miracle, he wasn't imprisoned.

But why isn't the year specified here? Is it unclear? 1924? Or 1926?

— Or 1928. — Something like that. And 1930 was the second dispossession.

Family composition. Serhiy, Mykola, Heorhiy, Volodymyr — he had four children. — Wife — Yefrosyniya Ignativna...

— And what is her surname? — Krushanivska. — Krushanivska, yeah.

So we can already start looking for options. Or, if there are no Hlazuns there, then look for Krushanivska. Well, man, that's great, everything is ready.

Now the thing is that our path lies in the Odesa region. And this is also northern Odesa region, a land of houses with thatched roofs. Novoheorhiivka village, Odesa region, Ukraine

— Oh, a sign, stop, I'll take a picture. I'll send it to my dad. (Welcome to Novoheorhiivka village)

— Now we need to look for Hlazun. Let's drive down and walk there, I think, somewhere further. And now to ask,

where do you think we should start, with people right away or with the cemetery? We now have the opportunity to explore what our project is about — researching villages, these disappearing Ukrainian villages.

And now we will combine this with research into your family, which at one point seemed to have disappeared — the Hlazun family. Because you “became” Hlazunov.

Now we will figure out how you went from being Hlazun to Hlazunov. We are looking for someone with the surname Hlazun or Hlazun in your village. — I don't know anyone like that.

Unless it's someone who is a native here. — You're not from here, are you?

Does anyone live in these houses under the (straw) roof? Are they empty? Does anyone live there? — No.

Not in these ones under the thatched roofs. All the houses here are empty. — It's empty, right? Is the village dying out?

Are there any people in the village with the surname Hlazun? Is there anyone? — I haven't heard of that. I did it myself and it's difficult.

Where do you live now? — I live in Kyiv now. — We came from Kyiv, looking for his roots.

— I'm not going to say anything. — Are you saying that now? — I already said it. I'm afraid.

I know who you are. Do you want to kill me? — Don't be afraid, we're not bandits or swindlers.

— How do I know? Is it written on your foreheads? — We went there, walked around the graves, looked, and saw that there were no Hlazuns. We didn't find that surname on the monuments.

— There were. There used to be, when I was younger. — And your village used to be called Mainove?

— Yes, Mainove. — Was that a long time ago? — A long time ago.

Grandpa bought Grandma some slippers. But they were too short in the toes. (excerpt from the song “A Grandpa Sews a Sheepskin Coat for Grandma,” a somewhat cruel song)

— Oh, someone is coming, maybe they will know. — Maybe. — Just step out of the way.

Good afternoon. — What is it? — We were arrested.

— Good afternoon, maybe you can help us? We are looking for information about the village. People - Hlazun, is there anyone in the village with the surname Hlazun?

There aren't any? — There used to be. — How come you don't remember, but I do?

— We're making a movie about a guy. He's from Donbas himself, but he started researching his family, and in the 1930s, his family came from your village.

But in the 1930s, the Soviet authorities evicted them from here. We went to this cemetery, looked around, and searched for monuments to see if there was anyone with the surname Hlazun.

— There is another cemetery at the end of the village. They may be buried there. — You have a very, very long village.

— Yes, it's a long village, but it's a good village. — There are few (people) left. — We can see that there are already many empty houses.

— Yes, it's a very good village, there used to be a lot of people here. — Well, good luck to you. — Thank you, have a nice day.

— Oh, so they'll put us on the internet. — Well, it will be on TV a little bit too. — Oh, God, I'm bent over with my kowinka.

(kowinka — a stick with a curved end) And cut me out (of the film). — Okay, we'll do that.

— Did you hear that? — Yes. — Oh, that's funny.

— What is now called Novoheorhiivka is one of the largest villages in the former Ananyiv district, now the Ananyiv territorial community, in the Podilskyi district of the Odesa region.

And it was one of the largest villages in this district. And officially, Wikipedia now lists 1,200+ residents here. But in fact, when we went down to this village

and searched for traces of the Hlazun family, most of the houses here look like this. Just empty, empty houses.

What's interesting is that 25% of the village, probably, These are houses with thatched roofs, houses with reed roofs, just like most of the northern part of the Odesa region.

Remember our video from the former Lyubashivsky district about houses with thatched roofs? Similarly, the former Ananyivsky district is very attractive from a tourist point of view,

as there are countless houses with thatched roofs here. They are picturesque, they are beautiful, but, unfortunately, these villages are declining very, very rapidly.

And now we need to extract this history from these declining villages bit by bit and collect it, because it will soon disappear into oblivion. Good afternoon!

— (distant) What are you filming there? — Good afternoon! — Your beautiful house.

— What? — Your very beautiful house. — I can't hear you, say it again.

— You have a very beautiful house. — Yes, come on, hurry up, don't film anything, or I'll kick your ass! — Why are you acting like that?

— What kind of television is this? We didn't invite you. — We are journalists from Kyiv. — What kind of television is this? We didn't invite you. — We are journalists from Kyiv.

We are filming, may we ask for your permission? You see, this war veteran, Dmytro, is researching his family tree.

It turns out that his family is from your village. They were once dispossessed — the Hlazuns. — I've never heard the name Hlazun.

I don't have time. My brother was wounded after the war. He came from Ananyiv, went to the military registration office, and they didn't pay him a penny. I'm so upset, there's nothing to eat.

I've already sold my gold, my earrings, and I think I'll have to sell my ring too. Because they (the cattle) have nothing to eat. Maybe this isn't the time for this visit, but I'm having a very hard time.

He just arrived on his motorcycle. I went to the military registration office for three days and froze. He says, “Vira, I'm going to lie down and rest a little.”

There's no light yet. I have a cow, and I have to go thresh (grain). And when the light comes on at 5 o'clock, she won't be threshing anymore.

I have this problem, and I have nothing to feed her with. And while I was getting the grain, I dragged those sacks... Well, in short, a village is a village.

— Life is hard. — Very hard. I say, like these people, I worked in Odesa for 35 years.

I lived outside Odesa for 5 years. I want to say that you know how... I have never seen such hard work.

— A classic story of a village, written about in every library. Glorification of socialism, 1907, 1905, the first attempts at revolution. And then the 1930s are mentioned with such bravado about

how collective farms were established here, the names of these collective farms, the first heads of the collective farms, how the peasants happily joined these collective farms, how they gave up their property, how they volunteered...

to work for the benefit of the Soviet government. — The old-timers told us that they put up (a sign), and this owner, because he did not want to join the collective farm,

and they wrote “Enemy of the People” on the shield, and you had to take it out in the morning and bring it back into the house in the evening so that it wouldn't be stolen, because if it was stolen, they would be punished for it.

— So this person, who was an “enemy of the people,” still had to guard it? — Yes, this sign. What is very telling here

is that 1930, collectivization, then 1932, 1933, 1937 — everything is omitted, and the next stage of history — 1941, when “the fascists attacked.”

We were sent to you because they say that you remember something about the dispossession, about the people who were dispossessed in your village.

Can you tell us anything? — I don't know anything like that. — Nothing at all?

Do you remember the Hlazuns? Have you heard anything about the Hlazuns? — I've heard, but I don't remember either. But what can I do, I'm an old woman?

I'm 78, of course. — And where was the Hlazun family's house? — I don't know, they lived on that street,

on that street, at the end of the village. On that side of the street, somewhere at the end (of the village). — That's how it is, thread by thread, drop by drop,

wandering through Ukrainian villages, you can not only explore the history of these villages, but you can explore the history of entire Ukrainian families who came from here,

and who were repressed by the Soviet authorities and only thanks to the interest of people who are beginning to take an interest in their history.

As, for example, with Dmytro, you can return to the past. It's not a very easy process, but I'll tell you, it's the most interesting process. You are putting together the puzzle of your life.

It is very important, because the history of each family makes up the overall history of our state. The history of our nation and people. If we do not remember the history of our family,

then what history of the state and people will we talk about? We will then become, once again, a nation of mankurts. (A mankurt is a slave who is completely submissive to his master.)

A nation that is indifferent to its roots, its language, its origins, and ultimately its statehood. Please tell us, we are looking for people with the surname Hlazun.

— We don't have anyone here. — I don't know anyone with that name. — You don't know?

— Could they be strangers? — Could they be strangers? — No, what about older people? A long time ago.

Weren't there any older people with that name? — We've never had any Hlazuns here. Before the revolution (1917), there was a Hlazun who lived here.

Before the revolution, (but then) he was repressed. — That's what we're looking for. — They lived here, where the smithy is, there is still a hut.

— Is their hut still there? — The hut is still there, that's where they lived. — And what did you hear about them, that they were repressed?

— Well, back then they repressed the middle class, those who lived better. That's all. They were landlords.

Well, real landlords. And what happened after the revolution? He (the communist) removed all the landlords and educated people.

He left the lazy and loudmouths, the ones who destroyed people and everything. — Did you hear this from your mother, from your parents?

— Of course, from them. — And this story remained so that there would be those? — Well, yes. And all the time: whose house is it — Hlazun's.

— Do older people still say that? — That's how it is. — The grapes belonged to the Hlazuns.

— They kept the grapes there. — Is it far away? — Right here, at the crossroads.

— Where the store is, right? — No, no, no, right here. — Are you going there?

— Yes, yes. — Maybe we can walk there together, you can show me. — Let's go.

— Is there anyone left with that surname? — No, there aren't any left. Maybe sometime after the revolution,

I was already here, I don't know. — Do you people still remember them... — Who are you, relatives?

— I am, apparently, Hlazun's great-great-grandson. — You see, almost 100 years have passed, and he became interested in his family. He's looking for his roots.

— That's right, there are many like that now. — His native village. — Someday, they'll probably be looking for us too.

— We won't go down in history. I was born in 1943. I was born during the famine.

Then they made another famine in 1947. (The famine of 1946-1947 was caused by the expropriation of grain in the Ukrainian SSR and its transportation to new socialist regimes). May God have mercy.

We were little, we went to gather ears of grain, and the guard beat us with a whip from above. (guard - one who patrols the land, guards it)

Oh, God. — You still remember well. — I went through that school (of life), I went through it.

— Did people die of hunger back then? — They did, God. They died so much that it was terrifying.

They were so weak, but they still forced (people) to work. A neighbor lived across the road. We were little.

We were playing, and their mother died. We were jumping on her, playing. And they came home from work.

They took her and dragged her to the cemetery, where they buried her. May God have mercy. — Without a coffin?

— What coffin? There was nothing to heat (the house). May God have mercy. My grandmother died, she didn't know what a pension was.

She was already working. She couldn't walk at all, but she still baked bread for the collective farm. In the town, they paid some kind of pension, but in the village they didn't.

Nothing. In 1975, I delivered the mail, they started giving pensions.

At first, they gave 12 rubles.  “Everyone is putting all their   energy into the common cause.”  — Good afternoon.

— What is this? — Good afternoon. — They're filming us.

— We're journalists. — We're going after this pension. — I'm ashamed of your pension, they give you 20 hryvnia.

— No, not 20, but 60. — Call me, and I'll come over. — It (the hut) was pretty.

It stood on the collective farm, we plastered it (with clay). It was a brigade office. — And what was that Hlazun's, you say?

What did he have here? — It was his. There were barns here and, in general, everything.

The collective farm has already destroyed it. They built a bathhouse here. And this is a workshop, and this was a smithy.

And this was his, there's a hill there. There was a barn where the hill is. This was his obiystya.

(obiystya - homestead, yard) This is what's left, this house. It was a big house.

And then there was a small one. It stood there nicely. When it fell apart, no one repaired it (with clay).

That's how it was. — So it's over 100 years old? — More, of course.

I'm over 80 now. When they built with reeds, all of this, that was the time, that's how they built.

But it was stronger than the stone one now, which crumbles at the slightest touch. It was so beautiful. We plastered it with blue corners.

— Well, but I'm surprised, of course, that it's still standing. I don't know, I didn't expect to see anything but the foundation, to be honest.

There's almost a house standing here, well, not whole, but at least there's some image of it. And it's really unexpected.

— Another 100% by the hands of your... Grigory, it was molded. This is a very rich house.

For having such a house, such a farm, some livestock, the Soviet authorities, the “valiant” ones, considered you an enemy of the people. For simply working.

And because you are an “enemy of the people,” you are being taken away in handcuffs. — But yes, in fact, the case file says 6 dessiatines of your own land and 6 leased. A horse, a couple of sheep - 10 years in prison.

— Oh, don't be afraid of us, because some people were already afraid of us. We're journalists, we're looking for you. — I saw your programs.

— Oh, really? — Yes. — Did you actually see us on TV?

— I saw you. — We came to your village specifically to look for people with the surname Hlazun, someone with that surname.

— I was born in 1966, but I don't remember anyone with that surname in our village. — Maybe there are older people who could recommend someone? People around 90 years old who could talk to us.

— My great-grandfather was Hlazun, and his wife was Krushanivska. — Oh, Krushanivska, we had that surname. The Krushanivskas' daughter lives here, turn here,

and then straight ahead, you'll be driving downhill. — No, what's her name? — Nina Kukharenko.

— Nina Kukharenko. — That's her husband's name, but her maiden name is Krushanivska. — Krushanivska, right?

— Yes, ask her, she should know about the Krushanivskys. So go to Ninka, Ninka should know about the Krushanivskys. She knows about everyone.

— She knows about her great-grandfathers. — Good afternoon. — Are you Nina Kukharenko?

— Yes, I am Nina Kukharenko. — And your maiden name is Krushanivska, correct? — Yes, my maiden name is Krushanivska.

— We are looking for... My great-grandfather was Hlazun, and his wife was Krushanivska, Yefrosinya Hnativna.

Have you heard of her? — My grandfather, Stepan Krushanivsky, and Yefrosinya, her maiden name is Krushanivska, they are relatives.

The thing is, I know Yefrosinya by her passport name, but we called her “Dusya.” So I know her.

— It turns out we're relatives. Are there any other relatives here? — Well, I have a brother in Ananyiv, Oleksiy Krushanivsky.

So that's us, that... — Maybe you or your brother Oleksiy could show us where the Hlazun farms were? — Well, you'll ask Oleksiy,

I'll call him, ask him, he'll take you there. Oleksiy knows a lot because he communicated with my father more, he's more of an old-timer.

Well, we had some second uncles there, he communicated with them. Oleksiy's house. The town of Ananyiv, Odesa region, Ukraine. — Good afternoon.

— Good afternoon. — It turns out that you are a relative, as we were told in the village, right? The closest one left to the Hlazun family?

— Yes, one of the last. — One of the last, in general? — Like the last of the Mohicans.

(reference to James Cooper's historical novel, 1826) — Because few people in the village know about the Hlazuns, we went around half the village, like this. We found only one person who remembered the Hlazuns.

What's your schedule like? Do you have anything else to do at home, or shall we go? — Just three days ago, I visited my uncle, who is 93 years old. He remembers more about the Hlazuns,

but 5 years ago he could talk about them at length, and now he can't, his memory, you know... He's also a relative of the Krushanivskys, well, my uncle.

— And this is the main road, most people come here to the village, right? — Right now, yes. Well, when it rains, they're there, there's a paved road there.

And now it's quiet, there's a little house in the back, where the kulak Denis lived. The village of Novoheorhiivka, Odesa region, Ukraine. Well, the owner, this is his house.

— Some people have already told us that this was the Hlazun house? — Denis, Denis lived here. — I would never have believed that...

— Vira, they say that you said that the Hlazuns' house was here on the collective farm. Denis lived here. He had a house where Prodan was given his house, Prodan lived there,

and then he built himself a house and demolished it. That's Hlazun's house. — No, no, no, this is Hlazun's.

And his grapes were Hlazun's. Over there, behind the village. — Behind the village — yes, I know that, okay.

— That's their house, because I know that they always said that they were repressed. — If you say so, this hut is here now, near the smithy, and between this hut and Kolomiets there was another one, Denis, they said.

— Yes, there was, there was a house here. It was here, I know. — And was there a collective farm warehouse there?

— Yes, there was a warehouse, this is Hlazun's house, and these were their grapes. — So they chopped up the grapes later? — Well, the grapes were there for a long time,

and then they plowed them up, plowed them up, all that. They started taking everything away, the old woman says, “I was left with only my skirt, and that's it.” And then one of them says, they were such drunkards, such slackers,

and they got involved, this revolution, they got involved in this party, or something. And he says, he went and took the skirt, and said, “This will be a skirt for my Katya.”

And the old woman says, “I only have one, and that's the only one I have left, and he's going to take that too.” She says, “You want to take this last skirt too?” And she hit him with her handkerchief.

And what happened? They took her to Siberia, and they took her to Siberia for 3 months. — The mail has arrived.

— They've had their fill, God bless them, and now there's nothing we can do. — See how interesting it is? This woman is much older than me.

She remembers, she lived here. We don't have a post office here, so they come here. — And there's no post office in such a big village?

— How is it? I'm telling you, there are about 400 people. — Are there 400 people left here? — Well, maybe 80 or 50 — only according to the voter lists.

— And you don't know before that? How many people lived there in the 1930s? — In the 1930s — no. In 1978, there is something in the book “History of Villages,”

they write something like 2,000 or so. — If you read the history of Ananyiv and Ananyivshchina from 1917 to 1920, The town of Ananyiv, Odesa region, Ukraine.

the authorities there were so changeable, you could say even more changeable than the weather in November. One day the sun shines, the next day it rains, and the third day it snows.

But the Ananyiv district played a significant role in the history of (the Liberation Struggle was a series of events in the Ukrainian people's national liberation struggle for independence in 1917-1921). the Ukrainian National Liberation Struggle.

At one time, the army of the Ukrainian People's Republic had a whole hundred, which consisted of people from the town of Ananyiv and the surrounding areas. In the spring of 1920, Ananyiv became known throughout Ukraine and the former Russian Empire

due to the famous Ananyiv Uprising, when power was seized by supporters of the Directory, supporters of the Ukrainian People's Republic. We have no reliable evidence that the mass dispossession

and mass repression that took place in 1920-1930 were caused precisely by this, by the mood of the local population, which was wealthy. After all, it is a well-known historical fact

that the supporters of Ukrainian statehood and Ukrainian independence were precisely the wealthy peasantry. And any insurgent movement and the formation of an independent Ukrainian state

was primarily based on the wealthy, independent peasantry. In the 1920s and 1930s, regions of Ukraine such as Kholodny Yar, regions of Ukraine such as around the town of Medvin

(now the village of Medvin, in the south of the Kyiv region) and regions such as around the town of Ananyiv, were where uprisings against the Bolsheviks arose.

Then, in the 1920s and 1930s, these regions suffered the most severe repression and dispossession. The Soviet authorities tried with all their might to erase this history

and stamp out the so-called “kulak spirit” among the peasants, to stamp out their independence and ability to farm their own land. At present, we have no documentary evidence

that the Hlazun family was involved in this Ananyiv uprising or in the army of the Ukrainian People's Republic, but we can overlook this, because he was a prominent representative

of a wealthy and successful peasant who knew how to work his land. And now I am saying these words not in a completely random place, I am saying them in the town of Ananyiv, where in 2018

activists erected a monument to their fellow countrymen who fought in the ranks of the army of the Ukrainian People's Republic for the independence of Ukraine in 1917-1921.

Sadly, even in 2024, this monument in the town of Ananyiv in the Odesa region remains one of the few monuments honoring the struggle of the soldiers of the Ukrainian People's Republic,

the soldiers of 1917-1920 who fought for Ukrainian independence. The village of Novoheorhiivka, Odesa region, Ukraine. — It was a real estate.

And the house itself, where my great-grandmother was born, my great-great-grandmother, Palazhka, she was behind it. I remember a pile of clay, from which everything was there, and it moved apart.

And I already lived in this house. We sold it to people who didn't take care of it.

— Is there nothing left, just one corner? — Well, yes. It even hurts me to walk here sometimes.

Everything here has been trampled by my... My father used to run around here barefoot. — Was this house built by your parents, or is it even older?

— It was built by Grandfather Ignat, who lived in the old one, and he built it for his son, Stepan. The one who was repressed.

— So, it was built sometime in the 1920s? — Yes, almost. And this one was built during my lifetime.

— And so they (the Russians) started the destruction of the village, because they killed the real owners. And then they accuse us, saying, “Your Ukraine has led to decline.”

The flywheel that started the decline, they did that back then? — They did that back then, yes. So there was almost a hectare of land here.

My father told me that there was a smithy in this direction. Behind this house there was a stable, there were three pairs of oxen, two pairs of horses, then barns for grain.

And at the very bottom was a mill. And then this man (my great-grandfather) Ignat Krushanivsky, he ordered a steam engine from Germany,

a locomobile, as they say, a steam engine. You burn straw, wood — it doesn't matter what — in it, and it produces steam and drives the mill.

— Who was your great-grandfather, Hlazun? — He was a matchmaker, yes. — He was a matchmaker.

So you have two lines of dispossession in general. — Yes, yes. Here, in 1930, they came

and said, “Everyone sign up for the collective farm.” Voluntarily - they don't want to. Then an order comes - to select 200 of these families,

200 young men, hostages, and take them away. If you don't want to join the collective farm, then you're not needed there. And my grandfather Stepan, the young son of Ignat Krushanivsky,

put on his sheepskin coat, put on his best hat, well, everything he had. And that was his mistake.

People dressed, well, they were poor, in simple clothes. And he, his guards, the NKVD, stripped him, and he was in his underwear, it was February, and he caught a cold.

I'm telling it like it was. — They stripped him because they took his good clothes for themselves, right? — Yes, they took the good clothes for themselves.

They brought him here already with meningitis (meningitis is an inflammation of the brain membranes). It was 1930, and no one could save him, no one tried to save him, of course.

— In the 1930s, many houses in the Odesa region and throughout Ukraine looked like this. They looked like this, first of all, because they were covered with thatched roofs at the time,

and very often the thatched roofs were dismantled with kulias. (kulia - threshed sheaves) We can recall this from our expeditions to Khashchi, when we researched this in Polissya,

and people told us then that the kulaks were evicted from their houses, they were driven out so that they would go out and start this straw, well, in Polissya it was rye straw, just take it from the house, break these bovduri.

(bovduri in the house - chimney) The Soviet system was also built this way, cunningly, it was, of course, first there were these -

prodrazverstka, dekulakization, (prodrazverstka - requisitioning of agricultural products by the Soviet authorities) And the essence of this collectivization was

to squeeze as much grain as possible out of the people, out of the Ukrainian peasants. After all, Ukraine has always been the breadbasket of Europe, and at that time, the Soviet Union, earning money on these bonds,

transporting grain by tanker across the Black Sea to Europe, selling this grain while people here were starving, tried to extract as much grain as possible from the peasants.

Therefore, the harshest repressions took place after the harvest. The final harvest ended in the fall, and it was around October-November,

in weather as miserable as today's, when it was snowing and slushy, that people began to be driven out of their homes.

This can be seen in documentary chronicles, it can be seen in many documentary photographs. Just imagine, in weather like this,

you are kicked out of your house, wearing whatever you have on, even in modern clothes, it is very difficult to be outside in such weather, your shoes are wet, everything is wet.

And at that time, people could be barefoot. They were driven out to the fields and somewhere to Siberia. Another clear example is

today's story of the Hlazun family, who, in the fall of 1931, were sent from the village of Mainova, (now) the village of Novoheorhiivka, to the Perm region,

and then these houses were populated by several poor families, or transferred to the needs of collective farms, so-called “kolkhozes” and so on, and so forth.

And then this model of improper development of the Ukrainian village was launched. I repeat once again that it was launched at that very moment. If it weren't for collectivization, if the landowners hadn't been destroyed,

the Ukrainian countryside today would not look as if a war had swept through it. There is indeed a war raging in the east, but we are now hundreds and hundreds of kilometers away from the combat zone.

Now let's walk down the street of Novoheorhiivka, the street of the former Mainove, the former Balki, because this village has had three names throughout its history.

Now look at what this village looks like. You can just turn around there. Here is a house.

And it is very symbolic that there are indeed many houses under such roofs here. And this, this is the whole street, look at the street. It looks like it was wiped out by KABs, by Hurricanes, by Grads.

And then we turn in that direction. It's just complete destruction. — Yes, it looks like artillery was used on it.

— Yes, it looks like, you know, your homeland, which was wiped out by the Soviets. Damn, what kind of weapon is that? How can you even name this weapon?

It's some kind of weapon... If there are weapons of mass destruction in Donbas now, some kind of real bombs, shells, Grads, Hurricanes, explosives.

— I don't know what kind of weapon it is, but it strikes at the very root, when you are simply torn from your roots, and you don't even have any intention to fight.

— That's the main thing. It knocks out your desire, and without desire, you yourself begin to destroy it. There's no need to come and drop bombs on these houses.

People with erased memories and erased identities become slow-acting bombs that destroy themselves.

Because, as bitter as it may sound, in the end, it was the people who lived in these Ukrainian villages who brought them to this state. For the most part, they looted and destroyed them.

Very often, the worst thing is that they did it unconsciously. It was normal to loot, steal, plunder, let things fall apart, and not take care of them.

This collective farm type of thinking: when you don't care about anything and you don't worry about anything. Whatever will be, will be.

And even when we were driving down this road just now, it seemed that In Soviet times, they built a concrete road here. It's good for the village.

In this case, it's still very good quality. But before that, we were driving and wondering how it was possible to pour concrete so crookedly. I have experience working with concrete, I used to work with it.

I think it's impossible to pour it so crookedly. Because it was a collective farm. And the collective farm poured it like that.

In the collective farm style. And this has even entered our Ukrainian lexicon. Nothing good is associated with a collective farm.

If something is clumsy, crookedly done, somehow shoddy — it's done “in the collective farm style.” — Well, you see, on the one hand, dispossession, in essence,

destroyed any resistance to struggle in you. That's how it is. And secondly, the Soviet model itself forced you

to be inactive, to remain silent, to hide in a corner and do nothing, just to be able to survive.

— I doubt that you, who built this house, thought that someone would ever come into it like this. — God, how many houses are there in this village under the thatched roofs,

and how many of them are simply being erased like this. — It's clear that this house has been abandoned since the 1980s. We were told that there are now 260 people left in the village,

but before the Soviets came, there were nearly 5,000. — Someone even said 7,000. — I think people like to exaggerate.

But even in Soviet times, when those who stayed remained here until the 1980s, there were 3,000 of them. Two to three thousand still remained.

And in the 1980s, when they were allowed to leave again, I repeat, the dam holding people back burst. They all flowed out of here.

The most important thing is to convey this to the majority. Because many Ukrainians still do not understand. They say, there was the Soviet Union, they worked on collective farms.

Everyone associates Ukraine with ruin, because it was already falling apart, in fact, in Ukraine. But I repeat, this is metaphorical.

You can already see the bullet flying into the target, destroying it. But where was this bullet fired from, which barrel did it come out of, and who pulled the trigger? Many people do not see and are unable to see.

And in order to see this, you need to analyze your history, study it, remember your past. After all, we repeat for the thousandth time - without the past, there will be no future.

What we have now. Hlazun farms, on the outskirts of the villages of Novoheorhiivka and Zherebkovo. — That's where the land used to be.

I remember that at one time they said that between this mountain and those trees, this ravine, they called it Hlazun Ravine. And on this hill on the left, there were vineyards.

Well, I found only one house on this plain. The house was under reeds, like a mushroom — it stood straight, the walls were low, and the reeds were almost touching the ground.

— Most likely, this was the first time they were dispossessed, they were dispossessed from here. — Yes, I think it was from here. And then he moved to the village, and then, because they didn't get enough the first time,

they dispossessed him a second time. — And this whole hill was covered with vineyards, right? So you still have what they call “Hlazun's vineyards” here, right?

— Yes, and you see, this is plowed, and his farmstead was here. He lived and worked here. — What, take it, Dmytro, restore the vineyards here.

— Yes, and make wine. — If I were you, I wouldn't just think about it, I would actually ask the local authorities - you definitely can't change this, it's owned by farmers,

and for some hill, how can you restore it historically now? It's just been so many years, hundreds of years. — You can't restore it historically, but at least buy it for some...

— Actually, you could make such an appeal right here in the film. The state is taking care of veterans now, returning them, giving them land, right?

Here's an example of how a veteran can get his historical land back. where the Soviet authorities, against whom we are essentially fighting now, against the direct successor to the Soviet authorities, Russia, the Russian Federation.

It took this land away at that time. Now Dmitry has suffered again in this war against the Russian Federation. And our state, if it can set a very good example,

by caring for veterans and restoring historical justice, at least not directly here, all the hectares, hundreds, as it was there. Who owns this land?

There were buildings, such a large area, theoretically something could be done here... — It belonged to the boarding school, and now no one can say anything about it. — You say: "My great-great-grandfather was evicted.

Grigory. — Grigory, yes. Grigory Dmitrievich Hlazun. — He went to Russia.

— Perm region, there is a village called Borodinka, or something like that, I have it written down somewhere. — And he was forced to do that there, to settle down, to somehow change his name from Hlazun to Hlazunov. — Either someone added it for him, or he added it himself.

The fact is that when he returned, he was already Hlazunov. — Many people regret it, saying, “It was good.” Especially when they say, “Under Stalin, he would have brought order.”

— I know hundreds of such examples. When people glorify the Soviet era, Stalin... Well, they simply never researched the archives,

never went to the archives, weren't interested in anything. And they don't know that their families also suffered under Stalin. And when you start revealing the truth to them, they are shocked.

which they sometimes even reject; they don't want to believe everything. “They paved the roads in our village and brought us electricity.” But they don't want to know that half of their family was shot.

— My aunt says that when I sent her a photo from the archive file and she showed it to my grandfather, he cried very hard and still cannot accept it. — Your grandfather is in Donbas?

— Yes, and he got hooked on Solovyov when the propaganda started in the 2010s, (Solovyov is one of Russia's biggest state propagandists) so it was hard to communicate with him.

The scariest thing about this story is that when repression is carried out, one generation is enough, as history shows, to completely erase your connection to your nationality.

To erase your connection to your language, to erase your connection to your historical roots. He simply didn't know that this was the case. I don't know, maybe this will sound a little revanchist,

but I have a desire to bring the Hlazun family, the descendants of the Hlazuns, back to the Hlazun farmstead, from which they were scattered all over the world due to Russian aggression,

and to create a place here where they could reunite. At least symbolically put an end to this and create some kind of victorious symbol of return.

This is very important to me. I want to change my surname back to Hlazun. (Yefrosinya “Dusya” and Serhiy, Dmytro's great-grandfather)

It's a matter of principle. (his family) I've already changed it on social media, but unfortunately, in real life it's a little more complicated

than just changing a couple of characters on social media. It's not so easy with the documents, but I'll do it anyway, because it's a matter of honor and historical justice.

(now playing “Selo Blyznyukiv - Continuation of the Family Line”)  ♪ The wind blows across the steppes   And the flame that was born melts away ♪   ♪ It draws all the juices from us, It draws   the soul and flesh, To burn for the last time ♪ 

 ♪ During the ritual dance,   Our fingers unravel in our hands ♪   ♪ And the look in our eyes is forgotten,   And the meaning is lost in conversation ♪   ♪ I will sing, sing songs,   Until the last day on Earth ♪ 

 ♪ Until the last breath of our language,   Until the last meaning in our writing ♪   ♪ This world where I exist -   It is a joint continuation of pain ♪   ♪ I am born again, And I stop   The continuation of the family line ♪ 

The film was created by: Volodymyr Kokhan, Maksym Lisovskyi, Oleksandr Kokhan, Maksym Voskresasenko Let them shoot! (the arrival is very close)

These are cats. You can't do anything against cats. This is already a common background.

What do we have? We have an icon of Tsoi. How common is Tsoi to Ukrainian culture?

The question is debatable. But at least the spirit of protest lives on in the people of Donbas.

You're already thinking about life. (explosions nearby) Why did you decide to go?

(hit nearby) (repeated arrival) Thanks to the Central State Historical Archive of Ukraine.

Khashchi.  

Heads up!

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