Translated by Daria Demerlii
Since the full-scale war began, ukrainians have witnessed a strange and telling phenomenon: artists who for decades shaped the Russian-speaking cultural space in Ukraine are now rush-translating their hits into Ukrainian. On the surface, it looks like a sign of the times—a kind of “renewal” or rethinking. Yet this bizarre flash mob of collective “awareness” feels more like a survival tactic to maintain influence. Those who once, consciously or unconsciously, imposed the Russian cultural code are now “rebranding” themselves as neophyte Ukrainians. They remain in the spotlight, soak up the praise, and society often lets it slide —as if the past no longer matters.
The question arises: can people trust these “reborn” figures when we know exactly what role they play in the Russification of the Ukrainian media landscape? For many of them, language is not an expression of identity but a convenient survival tool. Their primary motive is not cultural enrichment but pure opportunism—the desperate need to stay center-stage, even at the cost of airbrushing their own history.
To understand how we got here, we have to look back at the 1990s—a time when Ukrainian culture was just starting to find its feet , only to lose ground under the pressure of foreign models.
After the collapse of the Soviet Union, Ukraine was a blank slate for cultural expression. In the early years of independence, music, TV programs, and literature began to carve out a vibrant, original Ukrainian space. But by the end of the decade, that wave started to recede. Ukrainian language and culture were systematically pushed out of the media—from glossy magazines to television—by mass culture templates imported from Russia. Local initiatives gave way to broadcasts of Russian series, shows, and producer-center formats with Soviet backgrounds. Channels that should have reinforced cultural identity instead sold a foreign model—the audience was conditioned to see Russian as “the norm”, while Ukrainians in the media were often portrayed as simple, comic, or provincial. This process went on for years, and today ukrainians are living with the devastating consequences. Yet now, as some of those same faces reappear on the forefront of public life—this time draped in new slogans—it is vital to remember the role they played back then, and how we should view them now.
We will not get bogged down in individual names (mostly), but we’ll look at the power players who shaped the media landscape and constructed a shared cultural space with Russia. This perspective helps us understand the motives of an entire generation of artists and understand the identity crisis Ukraine is facing today.
From Soviet Inertia to Russian Expansion
The early 1990s were a wild west for private media in Ukraine. It was a time of spontaneous growth, giving birth to the first Ukrainian music charts and legendary projects like Territory A (1995–2000) on ICTV, which launched an entire generation of Ukrainian pop performers. Or the Chervona Ruta festival, which for the first time showcased a rich cultural layer that had been buried under the “Land of the Soviets.” Yet even this cultural blossoming happened in the shadow of a dominant Russian showbiz: Russian pop music and TV programs still ruled mass culture in the 1990s. Notably, in the early years, Ukrainian state TV simply could not compete with Russian channels in production quality or scale. As a result, when private Ukrainian channels appeared, many baked Russian content into their DNA from the very start. This process can be seen as the first wave of Russia’s commercial colonization: Ukrainian broadcasters filled their slots with “ready-made” products from the Russian Federation.
By the turn of the millennium, a Russian media presence in Ukraine existed “by default”— a lingering ghost of the shared Soviet space, which the new Ukrainian state was unable to fully reform.
But it didn’t stop there. From the mid-90s, large nationwide TV channels emerged with direct backing from Russian partners, investors, or “Ukrainian” businessmen, but with murky KGB or Communist Party pasts. Their role as “foreigners” could be interpreted as an advantage of an open market—if not for one crucial detail… Ukrainian content was systematically being suffocated.
By the 2000s, Russia’s presence in the Ukrainian media sphere became ubiquitous—visible on every TV screen , every concert stage, and in every talent agency. This period was marked by the massive expansion of Russian-language content and the formation of Ukrainian media market dependence on Moscow’s centers of influence.
The Beginnings of Cultural Intervention
The real takeover began in October 1996 , with the launch of the Inter TV channel, created from the outset as a joint project with Russian ORT (Channel One). The Russian side grabbed a 29% stake and provided the “backbone” of the programming. Essentially, Inter took over the old Soviet frequencies to rebroadcast Moscow’s worldview. Its very first broadcast of the new channel—a news program titled Inter – Day Today—aired in Russian. In its first year, half of Inter’s schedule consisted of live or recorded retransmissions of Russian TV. This meant millions of Ukrainian viewers continued to watch Russian news and shows through a “supposedly” Ukrainian channel. This was no coincidence: the Russian side deliberately took a stake in the leading channel to keep its grip on Ukraine’s information space.
Inter was not the only one. In 1997, the TV channel STB launched, initially co-founded by the American company Internews, it was soon swallowed by Vladimir Sivkovich—a Ukrainian “businessman” and politician linked to Russian circles, now a fugitive wanted for high treason. STB also used Russian content in its schedule: in the late 1990s, the channel collaborated with Russian REN TV—during REN TV broadcasts, the STB logo was simply moved to another corner of the screen. This indicates that part of STB’s airtime was effectively devoted to Russian television products.
Radio followed the same script. By the late 90s and early 2000s,Moscow brands like Russkoe Radio Ukraine, Hit-FM, Europa Plus and Nashe Radio flooded the airwaves. Initially, this was semi-legal: Ukrainian regional broadcasters retransmitted Russian airwaves en masse, violating licensing rules but earning significant advertising revenue. According to radio producer Oleksandr Stasov, this was “information smuggling under the state roof”—regulatory authorities turned a blind eye to violations in exchange for bribes. By 2000, Moscow controlled a massive chunk of the Ukrainian dial. This had not only economic but cultural consequences: Ukrainian listeners were conditioned to Russian music, news, and presentation styles, often unaware their local station was just a relay for a foreign power.
One of the most telling campers of this hybrid trap was the Tavriyski Ihry festival, which later grew into the TAVR Media media holding. Its founder and long-time organizer was Nikolay Bagraiev—a Ukrainian of Ossetian descent, a member of multiple Ukrainian parliamentary convocations, who had previously worked in Soviet Komsomol structures. After independence, he quickly pivoted to show business, creating Tavriyski Ihry in 1992 in Kakhovka—the Ukrainian analogue of Slavianski Bazaar. In its early years, the festival genuinely carried a national spark: gathering Ukrainian performers, offering a stage for youth, and shaping the post-Soviet pop aesthetic with a Ukrainian accent. But by the late 90s, it had pivoted into a factory for Russian music market. It put Russian “stars” like Alla Pugacheva, Philip Kirkorov, Valeriya and Leps on the same stage as Ukrainians who were being groomed for Moscow careers.
Bagraiev used his high-level political ties to secure state funding while also taking Russian sponsorship. Partnering with Russian channels ORT and RTR, the festival marketed a “unified cultural tradition” across post-soviet states. Formally a Ukrainian brand, Tavriyski Ihry actually worked to reinforce the idea that Russia set the tone, while Ukraine was merely background scenery.
From this festival and media holding—which controlled 30% of the radio spectrum (17 stations)—churned out an entire generation of artists who later became the faces of the commercial Ukrainian scene. Most sang in Russian and built careers in Moscow while still being presented as “Ukrainian representatives.” Instead of a cultural rebirth, Tavriyski Ihry became a mechanism for implementing an imperial strategy designed to erase Ukraine’s cultural borders—a strategy later invoked by Russia to justify its invasion.
It was under these conditions that an unspoken rule emerged: The road to success runs through Moscow. To make it, artists had to create in Russian, cater to Russian narratives and, eventually, stump for pro-Russian politicians. This forced a cynical transformation within Ukrainian show business. Prominent figures such as Iryna Bilyk, Viktor Pavlik, Taisia Povaliy, and others began producing content in Russian to maintain popularity, as this strategy guaranteed success. In the case of Andriy Kuzmenko (Skryabin), under contract with Inter, he was even compelled to campaign for the pro-Russian Yanukovych—a compromise he later admitted to in multiple interviews.
The Orange Revolution as a Continuation of Cultural Confrontation
The 2004 Orange Revolution was a major political event that also left its mark on the information space. As mass protests against election fraud erupted, the media took sides: some TV channels (5 Kanal owned by Petro Poroshenko, the newly established Era on the First National Channel) became the mouthpieces for democratic change, while giants like Inter doubled down on pro-Kuchma and pro-Russian propaganda. For the first time in many years, Ukrainian artists actively intervened in political struggle: a number of Ukrainian singers and bands supported the “Orange” movement (Komu Vnyz, Okean Elzy, Ruslana, Taras Petrynenko performed on Maidan), while part of the pop scene—including many Russian artists— backed Yanukovych.
This period sparked a wave of Ukrainian cultural revival: more Ukrainian songs appeared on TV, programs about national culture were launched, and the public was hungry for its own identity. However, it did not produce a significant long-term shift in the ongoing confrontation. Once Viktor Yushchenko took office in 2005, the Russian “cultural counter-strike” hit back even harder.
Pro-Russian forces, temporarily losing political power, retreated into the media to launch a “grassroots” cultural expansion. Yushchenko himself attempted to strengthen the position of the Ukrainian language—for instance, initiating the shift of cinema distribution to Ukrainian dubbing in 2006 and increasing the share of Ukrainian music on the radio. These steps met fierce resistance from the pro-Russian lobby. For example, supporters of the “Russkiy Mir” organized campaigns against Ukrainian dubbing, claiming Ukrainians wouldn’t “understand” films in their own language. Ultimately, although the mandate for obligatory dubbing came into effect, major film distributors were given a transition period, and by 2010 Russian was still heard in many movies shown in cinemas.
Television ownership structures did not change—major channels remained in the hands of oligarchs who had previously allied with Russian partners. After 2004, Inter became a fortress for the pro-Russian Party of Regions (opposed to Yushchenko); STB, Novyi, and ICTV were controlled by Pinchuk (Kuchma’s son-in-law); 1+1 came under the influence of Ihor Kolomoisky, after which its content gradually but steadily drifted toward Russian. The brief euphoria of 2004 faded into a familiar gray reality: “bilingualism” that always gave the upper hand to Russian.
Moreover, the anti-Orange forces learned their lesson: if you want to win, you have to occupy the consciousness. By 2006–2007, a new wave of Russian TV series flooded Ukraine. Shows like My Fair Nanny (an adaptation of an American format), crafted a specific, toxic image: the heroine—a Ukrainian from Mariupol—was portrayed as a “cute but clumsy” provincial figure compared to her sophisticated Moscow employers. Collaboration between channels in producing TV shows also flourished (for instance, Kvartal 95 in 2006 launched the sketch show Blokpost together with Russian partners, openly mocking the Orange Revolution).
It was after the Orange Revolution that pro-Russian media assets in the hands of Kremlin-aligned individuals began to grow rapidly. For example, in 2007, media magnate Valeriy Khoroshkovsky with his deep ties to the Evraz Group consolidated the Inter group. In 2008, the new holding Ukrainian Media Holding (UMH) of Borys Lozhkin acquired several newspapers and radio stations, aiming to later resell them to pro-Russian investors—which happened in 2013, when UMH was absorbed by Serhiy Kurchenko a 20-year-old “front man” widely believed to be managing Gazprom’s money for Yanukovych’s inner circle.
Thus, while the Orange Revolution gave a boost to Ukrainian passionaries and slowed Russia’s cultural expansion, it provoked Russians to launch an active counter-offensive. After 2004, Russia resorted to even more subtle and large-scale actions to regain influence: through loyal oligarchs and media managers, via entertainment content and “general understanding” jokes, through investment in media infrastructure. By 2010, when Yanukovych finally grabbed the presidency, the trap was set. The 2012 “On Regional Languages” law was the final nail, legalizing the dominance of Russian culture just years before first shots of the 2014 invasion were fired.
A Media Market Under Foreign Control
An analysis of ownership and financial ties behind Ukrainian media from 1990 to 2014 reveals a systemic presence of Russian capital or Kremlin-affiliated individuals. The most striking example is a previously mentioned Inter TV —Ukraine’s most popular channel in the 2000s—which counted Russia’s state-owned Channel One (ORT) as a shareholder for almost 20 years. This was a textbook case of Russian state investment in the Ukrainian information space. Although ORT officially exited the partnership in 2015, it retained influence over channel content policy in preceding years. Other national channels, while not directly owned by Russia, were controlled by oligarchs whose business empires—and political survival—depended on Moscow. Specifically, the Inter group from 2007–2013 belonged to Dmytro Firtash (a gas tycoon and Gazprom partner) and Serhiy Lyovochkin—both key sponsors of the pro-Russian Party of Regions. Their channel openly lobbied for this party’s interests, which perfectly aligned with Kremlin’s narratives. The Ukraine TV channel (second in ratings) was owned by Donetsk oligarch Rinat Akhmetov, another Party of Regions patron; its media group flooded the airwaves with Russian TV series (including co-productions) and entertainment content that avoided topics inconvenient for Russia. Novyi Kanal and ICTV, under Pinchuk Media, also showed notable restraint in criticizing Russia, focusing on entertainment and sticking to a heavy diet of Russian-language content.
Radio holdings deserve separate mention. The largest player, TAVR Media, controlled over 15 stations. Its ultimate beneficiary was Oleksandr Butkevych (formerly Bagraiev’s partner), a businessman who stayed out of the spotlight but whose family history carries a dark legacy: his mother was reportedly involved in the Soviet-era “punitive psychiatry” used to silence Ukrainian dissidents.
Another giant, UMH Group, belonged to independent publisher Borys Lozhkin until 2013 but was sold to Serhiy Kurchenko—a figure linked to the Yanukovych regime and Russian finances. According to the Prosecutor General’s Office, part of the funds used to purchase UMH involved murky manipulations with Russian capital. UMH’s portfolio included popular magazines (Forbes, Korrespondent—Russian-language) and radio networks (Autoradio, Europa Plus, NRJ franchises). This meant that even the glossy print and FM music segments were controlled by businesses deeply integrated with Russia.
On top of this “soft” influence, besides the stake in Inter, Russia’s state TV channels were directly available in Ukrainian cable packages until 2014. Millions of Ukrainians could flip to ORT, RTR-Planeta, or NTV via cable or satellite with zero restrictions. These channels blasted overt Kremlin propaganda into Ukrainian living rooms – attacking NATO, the “Orange” forces, and later Euromaidan. In other words, the Russian state had a “voice” in every Ukrainian household, reinforced by local retransmissions.
Thus, by 2014, the vast majority of Ukraine’s major media was tethered—directly or indirectly—to Russian financial and political centers. This did not necessarily imply direct censorship from Moscow—but it created an environment friendly to Russian narratives and dependent on Russian content. When the Revolution of Dignity broke out in 2013, it became clear that a significant portion of Ukrainian television took a “cautiously neutral” or openly pro-Russian stance , protecting the interests of the oligarchs who signed their paychecks.
The Occupation of Consciousness by “Kvartal 95”
The “cherry on top” of the erosion of Ukraine’s cultural borders is undoubtedly the comedy project Kvartal 95. With its roots in the Soviet-era humor show KVN, the troupe led by Volodymyr Zelensky built its brand on familiar post-Soviet clichés, often mocking Ukrainian identity to appeal to a Russian audience. The Kvartal 95 studio became a juggernaut of entertainment, but nearly all of its output before 2014 was in Russian. Their TV shows initially aired on Inter, later on 1+1, and achieved enormous ratings across the country. Kvartal’s humor consistently echoed Soviet and Russian narratives—for instance, Ukrainian-speaking characters in sketches were portrayed as caricatured, bumbling “khokhols” who spoke a “funny” dialect. Analysts note that these popular comedy shows, whether consciously or not, worked in line with Kremlin propaganda—instilling a sense of inferiority in Ukrainians and reinforcing the dominance of the Russian language in mass culture. Even recently, the 2024 sketch“Siskadovsk” by Kvartal 95 – which mocked Russi Ukrainians struggling to speak Ukrainian – was slammed by experts as “typically Russian humiliating humor” that demotivates speaking Ukrainian. All of this indicates that Russian-language entertainment content firmly entrenched itself in the media space, displacing or ridiculing authentic Ukrainian cultural narratives. Notably, even with the war raging, former colleagues of our president continue to follow these old narratives, merely swapping the language they deliver them in.
The full-scale invasion, like the Orange Revolution and the Revolution of Dignity before it, sparked a surge in Ukrainian cultural revival. However, those previous waves failed to bring about lasting societal change. We are now witnessing a third such wave, which is already waning.
The government stubbornly refuses to recognize the security threats directly related to the vulnerability of the Ukrainian language in Ukraine and to pursue a thoughtful national cultural policy. Perhaps this is entirely predictable from a political leadership that rose to power through the popularization of Russian content, leaving no grounds for complaints.
However, society itself holds certain levers of influence. One of the most immediate among them is a refusal to overlook the strange “mid-air flip” performed by numerous figures from the past who once participated in the Russification of Ukrainians. In this context, the remark made by singer Khrystyna Soloviy in an interview with Masha Yefrosinina is often cited:
“All those who eroded cultural borders are responsible for it. On their hands, hearts, and souls is the blood of Ukrainians.”
Attempts to translate old songs represent only the visible tip of a much larger process. Yet they are illustrative enough to suggest that many of these figures are incapable of a profound transformation and instead appear to be adjusting to a new reality in order to remain relevant. Such behavior raises broader questions about the moral capacity of so-called “opinion leaders” to set an example and to cultivate values that a society might reasonably expect to be fundamental. It prompts reflection on whether concepts such as sincerity, consistency, truthfulness, and self-respect have retained their meaning in the public sphere.
Sources and Further Reading:
Khinkulova, Kateryna . Hello, Lenin? Nostalgia on post-soviet Television in Russia and Ukraine. 2012
Bowring, Bill. Language Policy in Ukraine. 2011
Wilson, Andrew. Ukraine’s Orange Revolution. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2005.
