Ukraine's Veterans' Theatre: A Sanctuary for Healing Through Art

Ukraine's Veterans' Theatre, nestled in a basement in Kyiv, has become a sanctuary for soldiers, their families, and those who have lost loved ones to the war. Here, the pain of war is transformed into art, offering a space for catharsis and healing. The plays staged here are not just performances—they are raw, unfiltered expressions of trauma, loss, and resilience. Each production is a collaboration between veterans, their spouses, and widows, who come together to share their stories through the lens of theatre. The result is a deeply moving experience that leaves audiences in tears, reflecting the emotional weight carried by those who have lived through the war's horrors.

The play *Twenty One*, currently in production, centers on Maryna, a character inspired by real-life experiences of Ukrainian women. Her husband, Petro, is missing in action, and her only wish is for him to return alive. Maryna's obsession with hatching an egg from a black hen—a symbol of hope and desperation—drives the narrative. The play blends elements of magic realism with stark realism, mirroring the surreal and often unbearable realities of war. Actress Kateryna Svyrydenko, who portrays Maryna, described the process as both painful and transformative. "There is enough of everything—enough to cry, laugh, think," she said during a rehearsal. The theatre's mission is to give voice to those who have been silenced by war, using art as a tool for both expression and survival.

Founded in 2024, the Veterans' Theatre functions as a four-month-long school for veterans, their spouses, and widows who wish to become playwrights. The program is rigorous, blending workshops, rehearsals, and mentorship from professional instructors. The plays created during this time are performed at graduation and later tour across Ukraine, offering a form of therapy for both the creators and the audiences who witness their stories. For soldiers who have endured amputations, injuries, or captivity, the act of writing and performing their experiences becomes a way to process their trauma. For the families of fallen soldiers, the theatre provides a space to confront their grief and share their pain with others who understand.

Actress Svyrydenko's story is emblematic of the struggles faced by many. Her husband disappeared in 2022, and the waiting has been agonizing. "I can't express in words how difficult it is," she said, her voice trembling. The emotional toll extends beyond her, affecting her seven-year-old son, Semen, who rarely cries but carries the weight of his mother's sorrow. The theatre becomes a refuge for such families, a place where pain is not only acknowledged but given form. The play *Twenty One* was written by Olha Murashko, a publicist who raises funds for weapons and equipment sent to the front lines. Her own husband is still missing, and the play's themes resonate deeply with those who have lost loved ones.

The theatre's director, Kateryna Vyshneva, emphasized the importance of documenting the war through the voices of those who have lived it. "We have to talk about the war using the words of its participants, through the eyes of those who survived it," she said. The plays serve as historical records, ensuring that future generations understand the war's impact not just through statistics, but through the human stories behind them. Last year, Oleksandr Tkachuk, a veteran and documentary filmmaker, staged his first play, *A Military Mom*, based on the experiences of Alyna Sarnatska, a military medic. The play explores the tension between duty and motherhood, a theme that resonates with many who have faced impossible choices.

The act of performing trauma on stage is described by Tkachuk as a form of healing. "They realize their trauma, break it down, relive it, let it pass through them—not just in flashbacks, but as a clear, calm memory," he said. The theatre's approach is rooted in the belief that art can be a catalyst for recovery. For Maryna, the character in *Twenty One*, the 21 days it takes for an egg to hatch symbolize both hope and loss. The same number of days marks the moment a human fetus develops a heartbeat. This duality reflects the experiences of many who have faced miscarriage, grief, and the relentless demands of war.

The theatre's legacy is not just in its productions, but in the lives it touches. For veterans and their families, it is a place where pain is transformed into something enduring—art that outlives the war. As the plays continue to tour Ukraine, they carry with them the voices of those who have suffered, ensuring that their stories are not forgotten. In a country still reeling from the conflict, the Veterans' Theatre stands as a testament to resilience, a reminder that even in the darkest times, there is a way to find meaning through art.

The war in Ukraine has become a relentless force, shaping the lives of teenagers like Alyna in ways that blur the lines between adolescence and survival. At 16, she navigates a world where schoolbooks are overshadowed by the distant thunder of artillery and the silence of unanswered calls. Her mother, Maryna, watches helplessly as Alyna's rebellious streak intensifies—arguments erupt over trivial matters, a grumpy neighbor becomes the target of her frustration, and Ukrainian flags are scrawled across asphalt in a desperate bid for control. Yet beneath the surface, Alyna's anxiety is palpable. Her father, a soldier deployed in the east, has been unreachable for over two weeks, his absence a void that consumes her. The phone remains silent, its screen a cruel mirror reflecting her growing despair.

Meanwhile, on the front lines, the stakes are even higher. Two soldiers from Alyna's father's unit attempt to evacuate a critically wounded comrade, their mission thwarted by a Russian strike that claims both their lives. The incident, though not widely reported, underscores the brutal calculus of modern warfare, where seconds can determine survival or death. Back in the theater where Maryna's anguish is being enacted, the audience is gripped by the raw portrayal of her grief. Director Oksana Vyshneva describes the moment as a "collective catharsis," a term she uses to explain how the audience's emotions synchronize with Maryna's. "They breathed with her, waited for her husband with her," she said, emphasizing the unifying power of shared suffering. The play's realism—crafted through meticulous attention to detail—transports viewers into the heart of a crisis that feels all too familiar.

The tension in the theater reaches its peak as Maryna's torment deepens, her sobs echoing through the auditorium. Then, a sudden cry pierces the silence: "Daddy called! Looks like the egg hatched!" Alyna's voice, trembling with relief, becomes the catalyst for a wave of emotion. Tears flow freely, even as the audience exhales in unison, their collective sighs a testament to the fragile hope that has been rekindled. The metaphor of the "hatched egg" lingers, a symbol of life emerging from chaos. For Alyna, this moment is both personal and universal—a fleeting victory over despair that resonates with thousands of families enduring similar waits. The play, though fictional, mirrors the real-world struggles of a nation on the brink, where every call received or missed carries the weight of a war that shows no signs of abating.

Vyshneva's production has sparked conversations about the psychological toll of conflict on civilians, particularly adolescents caught between childhood and the harsh realities of war. Alyna's journey—from rebellion to quiet hope—reflects a broader narrative of resilience. Yet the play also serves as a stark reminder of the human cost: the soldiers lost in the east, the families torn apart by silence, and the emotional scars that outlast the fighting. As the curtain falls, the audience is left with a lingering question: How long can a nation endure such collective pain before the weight becomes unbearable?