Olena Kalaitan on Mariupol, Journalism, Language, and War in Ukraine

Olena Kalaitan is a Ukrainian journalist and editor best known for leading Mariupol’s Pryazovskyi Robochyi newspaper and heading the Donetsk regional organization of the National Union of Journalists of Ukraine. During Russia’s 2022 siege of Mariupol, she stayed in the city for 23 days, survived the destruction of her home, and escaped on foot with her son. She later became a prominent voice for displaced journalists, media freedom, and the revival of independent Ukrainian journalism in occupied and war-affected regions. Kalaitan has also warned publicly against Russian propaganda issued under the stolen name of her newspaper during wartime occupation there.

In this interview, Scott Douglas Jacobsen speaks with Olena Kalaitan, a Mariupol journalist, about family roots, language, identity, and war. Kalaitan recalls growing up in Mariupol, discovering journalism in school, and studying during the Soviet collapse. She reflects on Ukraine’s linguistic realities, arguing for love of Ukrainian rather than exclusion of Russian speakers. She describes rebuilding Mariupol’s newspaper culture before the invasion, then watching occupiers steal her paper’s brand for propaganda. Despite displacement, loss, and separation from family, Kalaitan remains devoted to journalism through writing, teaching, mentoring, and recovery projects documenting Mariupol’s destruction and future renewal for coming generations alike.

Olena Kalaitan is a colleague and expert associated with the National Union of Journalists of Ukraine and the Journalists’ Solidarity Centers. The Journalists’ Solidarity Center of the National Union of Journalists of Ukraine is a vital wartime hub helping Ukrainian and international reporters stay safe, connected, and operational through frontline danger, blackouts, displacement, and daily pressure on independent media.

Scott Douglas Jacobsen: A city devastated by Russian attacks and bombardment. What was the family history before Mariupol? Did the whole family grow up in Mariupol?

Olena Kalaitan: My mother and father met in Mariupol. She came to Mariupol for her education, and my father moved there with his family, but neither of them was born in Mariupol. My mother was born in Kursk and father in Volgograd, Russia. Then they met in Mariupol. They fell in love, got married, and my younger sister and I were born there. My sister is four years younger than I am. We were born and raised in Mariupol. For me, Mariupol is my native city. I love it very much.

I love the sea and miss it very much in Kyiv. I live in a district near the lakes. It is water, too, but the sea is not a lake. It is a different feeling. Mariupol is my native city, but I understand that returning impossible although it is part of my inspiration and my love, staying in my soul.

Jacobsen: Did you always want to be a journalist?

Kalaitan: Yes.

Jacobsen: Very interesting. What were the proverbial mustard seeds?

Kalaitan: In school, I liked writing, and my writing filled an entire twelve-page notebook. Then I realized I wanted to be a journalist, and I started by joining a youth community. We wrote for one city newspaper and then another. I felt successful and enjoyed it. After that, I continued. I studied at Rostov State University in Rostov-on-Don.

Jacobsen: It must have been a very interesting experience. You began your education around 1991, during the collapse of the Soviet Union.

Kalaitan: Yes. When I started my education, the Soviet Union was breaking apart. I began my education in the Soviet Union and continued it in Russia. But we had a structured path, and it was not a problem.

Yes. I studied journalism at Rostov State University in Rostov-on-Don. When I decided which faculty to choose, I was thinking about philology or journalism. In philology, I saw mostly girls. I thought it would be too sad, and I wanted to be a journalist instead.

We had a very interesting group in our journalism faculty, as well as teachers with extensive experience. I still have some friends from that time, from my student years, but it is difficult to see one another now because of the war. I cannot even see my parents, who now live in Russia.

It is very painful not to see your parents. I have not seen them for eight years. They become older and older. It may be the last their years. I do not know. I do not want to think in such a way that I can see them and then never see them again.

Jacobsen: In 1991, when you were studying journalism in Rostov-on-Don, did you notice any shifts in the style of journalistic education between the Soviet period, the transition period, and the early Russian Federation after the Soviet Union?

Kalaitan: No. That process had only started, and we did not feel any changes. It is a long process. When I finished my education in 1996, it was still not very noticeable.

Jacobsen: Was the feeling good, bad, or neutral about that collapse of the big state and the transition afterward? Or was it simply that you stayed and continued your education? What was the sensibility at the time?

Kalaitan: It was a strange feeling. It wasn't like it is now, when I say I really hate Russia. Even in our communication, I prefer to speak Ukrainian. I also spoke Russian in Mariupol, and my parents are from Russia and speak Russian. All my life, I spoke Russian, but now I speak only Ukrainian. If I can refuse Russian, I refuse it.

Some people speak only Russian. I understand Russian exactly, but it is a disappointing moment. At that time, in 1991, it was not a problem. We were thinking mainly about political changes, new figures, relations between the republics, and independence. Ukraine had independence, but for a long time, we had been part of the vast Soviet Union, with factories and other development systems.

Real independence may have come only last year in this war. In this war, we have lost a lot, but we also have gained a lot. Our community is very strong. People support one another in this war at this time. I adore our community and our people. They are incredible.

Jacobsen: In Canada, for those reading this in North America, the experiential landscape of history is very different. There is a big divide among people two or three generations behind me.

French and English were once the focus of a major national conflict in Canada. Former Prime Minister Justin Trudeau's father, Pierre Trudeau, introduced the Charter of Rights and Freedoms in Canada in 1982 for national rights. Around the same time, he was also the leader who advanced a federal bilingual policy. All official documents are in French and English.

So there are the Québécois francophones and the wider anglophone population here in Canada—about a one-to-four ratio of French to English speakers. He acted as a peacemaker in that way. But the antipathy some older generations of Anglophones and Francophones speak of from that period still comes up in conversations I have today, although, of course, not everyone.

When I speak with Ukrainians, or people who are bilingual in Russian and Ukrainian, I am reminded that a major cultural divide in this war concerns language. You mentioned earlier that you really hate Russia. Language is always a very difficult question. You are at least trilingual, correct? So what is the feeling or sentiment around this language divide? Many Ukrainians speak both Ukrainian and Russian, and many Russians—particularly near the border—also understand both. Culturally and individually, how do people talk about these issues?

Kalaitan: People are very strict about these questions, and it is very painful for us. In many ways, the conflict also developed from language questions. We have regions where Russian is widely spoken, such as Donetsk, Kharkiv, Luhansk, and Odesa.

People there often speak Russian, even now during the war. Many older people, retired people, have spoken Russian all their lives. We cannot forbid the Russian language in Ukraine. If we do it that way, we are saying that you are not Ukrainian and that you do not belong with us in Ukraine. But that is not true for the people in Ukraine. They are our people. We need to be honest about language.

I agree that we need to show love for the Ukrainian language. We should talk about Ukrainians, how beautiful and perfect the language is, our history, our writers, and our famous people. Through stories and through many years of work—through careful efforts to strengthen identity—we can do this. We need it, and we need to continue doing it. It will work. Ukrainians increasingly love our home, our national traditions, and our writers.

Jacobsen: You can see how many Ukrainian writers are represented even in this bookstore. Around the table is a bust of Taras Shevchenko. Many Ukrainian writers offer interesting perspectives and styles. There also seems to be a strong love of physical books. Many Ukrainians I know love the feeling of holding a book.

Kalaitan: Yes, they love it.

Jacobsen: In North America, there is often a convenience culture, as seen in places like Costco and McDonald's. If something is online, people say that it is fine. But when people get a physical book, it becomes something special.

The smell of a book. People love it. It is very distinctive. I have also noticed that the metaphors people use in Ukraine are often concrete, almost existential in tone. That is very different from the landscape, in many places, at least in Canada. That is another point here. As you were saying about the books we see here, there are physical books, not just the act of flipping a page.

Kalaitan: I have some experience with that. I was the director of a newspaper in Mariupol, and we published and printed the newspaper there.

It was a time when newspapers were dying more and more, and there were only a few newspapers left in the city of Mariupol. We rebranded our newspaper, Priazovsky Rabochiy, and distributed it across the entire Donetsk region. After this rebranding of the printed newspaper, we began expanding our activities.

We started working with local shops, and we developed projects with the city, including lighting buildings and organizing social actions and other initiatives. The newspaper became more popular and developed a new image. People appreciated it more. We also developed our social media presence alongside the newspaper and website.

I can understand why people like printed media and books. It is something essential. People appreciate it differently.

Jacobsen: How is it to run a newspaper in a non-wartime city? And how is running a newspaper in a wartime city? Being the editor-in-chief involves managing a newspaper's operations in peacetime and in wartime. How does that change? You are doing the same work, but the circumstances around it are completely different - in Mariupul.

Kalaitan: In Mariupol the occupiers stole our brand.

When I was left Mariupol in Much 18th in 2022 and removed to Ukraine territory, at first Zaporozhye then Ivano-Frankivsk we discussed with Serhiy Tomilenko destiny our newspaper and he gave me advice. I made official list and a post on social media explaining that all Ukrainian staff at our newspaper were no longer working on that edition, that we had stopped publishing the newspaper, and that we had stopped our work due to the full invasion.

After that, in May—on Victory Day, as the Russians call it, on May 9—they revived the newspaper using our stolen brand, our colours, our layout, and our old style. They began republishing the newspaper under the same recognizable appearance. But the content was different, with Russian propaganda and completely different texts.

I was very glad that I had taken Serhiy Tomilenko's advice and that we had publicly announced that we had stopped our work. The newspaper that is now published in Mariupol is not our newspaper.

Unfortunately, they already had an inventory of readers and followers. Many older people were surprised at first that it was a different newspaper. But now, with Russian propaganda, people see the changes and receive these messages repeatedly. After this year, many of them believe it is true.

That newspaper, along with other sites and media, writes and speaks as if these things are true. I do not know exactly how or why this happens.

We still have some colleagues and friends who remain in Mariupol. Sometimes they send messages, though it is now very difficult. Communication with people in Mariupol is becoming increasingly restricted, making it harder to stay connected. Many of them think differently now. It is very difficult to speak with them or discuss events in Ukraine because they are deeply influenced by propaganda. I do not know how this was done so effectively. Our Ukrainian information efforts have not been as strong as the Russian propaganda.

Now they have many newspapers in Mariupol, and they understand how to present printed media. They also have television and other channels. In Ukraine, the situation with publishing is very sad. Publishing is becoming more expensive each year, and it is not a very profitable business.

In the early years, some Ukrainian editors from our Donetsk regional union received grants from charities. Because of those grants, some newspapers continued publishing printed versions, including newspapers in Kramatorsk and other cities.

Now, only the Bakhmut newspaper Vpered continues to publish. Others exist only online, as websites or social media platforms. Sadly, our government does not support newspapers and editors more. Printed media are very important because people still need them.

We have some government programs that support publishing and distribution, but there are still many problems with Ukrainian newspapers. In previous years, we even bought printing paper from Russia and later from Poland to publish. Ukraine has many forests, but we have not developed enough domestic paper mills. This remains a problem.

Jacobsen: I interviewed a former Finnish banker who now works with Finnish forestry and investment groups. He explained that in some areas, they need sappers or deminers to remove mines from forests that have become overgrown during the war. Only after that can trees be harvested in Ukraine and exported to Finland. Reporters Without Borders has also noted a significant divergence of roughly 109 places in press freedom rankings between Russia and Ukraine.

Ukraine is ranked 62nd in the 2025 press freedom index—between South Korea and Brazil in peacetime. The Russian Federation is ranked 171st, between Nicaragua and Egypt, and is also listed as an aggressor state during wartime. One could therefore argue that the reduction in press freedom in Russia has been largely about regime repression, whereas in Ukraine it has mostly involved martial law. Most of the restrictions affecting journalists in Ukraine tend to concern issues around the frontline—such as not revealing sensitive geolocation or operational information.

How has your experience been as a journalist under martial law, both near the frontline and in Kyiv? Have you faced any issues? If so, what kinds? If not, why not?

Kalaitan: We published numerous materials on Ukrainian identity and created pages dedicated to famous stories from Ukrainian history. When we rebranded our site in Mariupol, we began emphasizing the Ukrainian language and identity more strongly.

The main version of our website was Ukrainian, while the second version was Russian. At that time, other websites in the city usually had Russian as the primary language, Ukrainian as the secondary, and English as the tertiary. We created special pages in Ukrainian. At first, we were not completely sure of the success of this approach, but gradually the number of Ukrainian-language pages increased—from one page to two to three.

In the printed newspaper, we also mixed languages. Some articles were published in Ukrainian and others in Russian. This was how we worked with our audience and our readers.

There were moments around 2015 and 2016 when some people wanted to believe certain narratives or news stories. But local media and city authorities played a very important role. Many people in our media and administration worked sincerely with love for Ukraine, its traditions, and its history.

During those five years, Mariupol shifted its orientation from a more Russian to a Ukrainian one. The city has changed a lot. Young people wanted to stay in the city, study there, and help develop it. They wanted to contribute their experience to the city's development.

When we took these steps, the situation really began to change. Mariupol became a strong Ukrainian city, which was disappointing to forces in Donetsk and elsewhere.

When Russian forces arrived in Mariupol in March 2022, they found that the city had developed significantly. Mariupol had become a frontline city in the war, but before the invasion, it had recovered and developed in many ways.

We had parks, hospitals, and schools. Our neighbourhoods were beautiful. There were municipal programs that helped residents become owners of their apartment buildings and participate in maintaining them. There were programs supporting road repairs and infrastructure improvements in residential areas.

These initiatives made Mariupol a very comfortable place to live. We could see the changes every year, every month. It was shocking when Russian forces came and killed thousands people, destroyed these homes and buildings.

There was a harsh hatred toward our level of life and development. They did not understand how we achieved it.

Jacobsen: I have heard this argument before. I sometimes call it the "envy theory" of the war. The idea that Russia resented the development and quality of life in Ukrainian cities such as Mariupol.

That may be part of the explanation for some. It imputes too much, though. There may also be ideological factors involved. Wars rarely have a single cause. The difference in quality of life may have contributed to tensions, but it is probably not sufficient on its own to explain the full trigger for the war.

The fundamental fact remains that a crime of aggression and occupation has been committed. That point has been reaffirmed repeatedly through multiple United Nations resolutions, including very recently.

Jacobsen: Recently, around 107 countries voted in favour of peace, meaning a simple demand: stop annexation and withdraw all troops. It is a straightforward request.

As you were leaving Mariupol, you remained committed to pursuing your lifelong dream of becoming a journalist, even though you were trained during the Soviet period and continued your training during the early years of the Russian Federation.

What drove you to stay in the profession? Even in peacetime, in very wealthy countries, people leave journalism because they cannot take the pressures. Sometimes they move to other work simply because it pays more, even if they are talented. It happens in many professions—like a talented drummer who stops playing or an artist who abandons their work.

Yet there are also people in wartime who have fled almost certain death and still decide to stay in the profession. In a middle-income country, under those circumstances, what kept you committed to journalism?

Kalaitan: I love my profession. Since my school years, I have wanted to be a journalist. I am excited by writing. When I start writing, I lose track of time. I write, and it brings me enjoyment.

When we lost our beloved city, I had to find new directions in my work. Through the National Union of Journalists of Ukraine, we started a school for young journalists. For several months, I worked there, and it was a new experience for me.

After that, I began working on communication projects with the charity "I Am Mariupol." There, I gained more new experience. We worked on a fast recovery plan for Mariupol, bringing together investments and partners. We used this experience to create a book on rebuilding the city and planning development for the entire region—covering municipal services, transportation, population changes, migration, the labour market, and other issues. It became a real book project.

We also produced magazines and developed programs through the School of Recovery for communities facing similar situations and needing guidance from this experience. Later, we created video courses and a learning platform. I worked as a project manager for these initiatives, which was my first experience in that role.

Then we wrote another book called "Mariupol: The Destroyed Dream." It included many interviews with people who experienced the war. After that, we decided to create an online version of the book, an audio version, and eventually a documentary film. Again, this gave me a new experience.

I remained in the profession, but I also explored new directions within it. I worked as a mentor and began collaborating with Mariupol State University. Last year, I taught courses on newspaper and magazine journalism to third-year students.

This March, I received an invitation to continue teaching for 1-year course. I am now exploring different directions within journalism—as a journalist, a journalism school teacher, and a lecturer.

It is very interesting for me, and I want to remain in this profession in the future. Journalism is truly my path.

Jacobsen: Thank you very much for the opportunity and your time, Olena.

Scott Douglas Jacobsen is a blogger on Vocal with over 130 posts on the platform. He is the Founder and Publisher of In-Sight Publishing (ISBN: 978–1–0692343; 978–1–0673505) and Editor-in-Chief of In-Sight: Interviews (ISSN: 2369–6885). He writes for International Policy Digest (ISSN: 2332–9416), The Humanist (Print: ISSN, 0018–7399; Online: ISSN, 2163–3576), Basic Income Earth Network (UK Registered Charity 1177066), Humanist Perspectives (ISSN: 1719–6337), A Further Inquiry (SubStack), Vocal, Medium, The Good Men Project, The New Enlightenment Project, The Washington Outsider, rabble.ca, and other media. His bibliography index can be found via the Jacobsen Bankat In-Sight Publishing. He has served in national and international leadership roles within humanist and media organizations, held several academic fellowships, and currently serves on several boards. He is a member in good standing in numerous media organizations, including the Canadian Association of Journalists, PEN Canada (CRA: 88916 2541 RR0001), Reporters Without Borders (SIREN: 343 684 221/SIRET: 343 684 221 00041/EIN: 20–0708028), and others.