On 13 February 2022, the Kharkiv National Theatre of Opera and Ballet staged a rapturous performance of Massenet’s opera Cendrillon. The production featured intricate yet monumental set designs, star performers, and took place in the hall that is home to the world’s largest moving stage.

Just 11 days later, Kharkiv was under attack. Across Ukraine, Russia encroached like the wicked stepmother in a fairytale, wielding no legitimacy. Demanding rights over property to which it had no claim, enslaving the rightful heirs – Russia came to take Ukraine for itself.

One could twist any fairytale to fit the story of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine; after all, few things – let alone war – can be so clearly defined in terms of good and evil as Russia’s onslaught against its neighbour. Yet even when the distinction is so stark, Russia somehow continues to paint itself as the victim. Perhaps it is because Ukraine’s resilience is so strong that the effort behind it is often underestimated. The Kharkiv National Theatre of Opera and Ballet stands as both a symbol and a snapshot of the challenges endured to sustain that resilience.

I met the theatre’s general director, Ihor Touluzov, in his office on the National Day of Remembrance for the Holodomor. Just a few hours later, the theatre would perform a heart-wrenching requiem for the millions of Ukrainians deliberately starved to death on Moscow’s orders from 1932 to 1933.

This isn’t Russia’s first attempt to obliterate Ukraine’s national identity. Judging by the flaccid Western response to its actions today, it probably won’t be the last. This legacy of staving off destruction of the nation explains why, on February 24, 2022 – the day Russia’s full-scale invasion began – the theatre’s director and staff knew that they just had to carry on. They focused first on survival – theirs and the theatre’s – protecting the building and its people.

Touluzov described the chaos: ‘The main staff looked after the building. There were strikes nearby, and even a hit right outside the opera house – the windows were blown out, and the walls shook.’ The theatre also provided humanitarian aid to its staff and spent weeks tracking down everyone associated with the organisation to ensure their safety.

Once they had accounted for their people, those who remained in Kharkiv banded together. They began putting on performances in metro stations and bomb shelters to lift spirits, while civilians and soldiers fought Russians on the streets and forced them back to the edges of the city ring road, from which the invaders continued to shell the population.

The theatre reflects the fate of the city and its residents – part scattered across new homes, part staunch and defiant of the Russian threat. Half of the troupe – around 220-250 members – travelled across Europe, performing over 300 shows in more than 60 cities, conducting vital cultural diplomacy during a war where Russia has so successfully weaponised culture. The other half stayed in Kharkiv, performing in the city and surrounding region. They even held events in the iconic big hall, including a grand celebration for International Music Day in October 2022, marking the liberation of Kharkiv Oblast. Soon after, however, Regional Governor Oleh Synehubov banned mass events in unsafe spaces.

Undeterred, the theatre set about creating a safe space for culture. They reinforced their basement, turning it into a performance venue with seating for 400, a raised stage, and an improvised orchestra pit. Despite wartime challenges, they maintain a repertoire of over 80 ballets, operas, and classical music performances.

In the case of the Kharkiv National Theatre, a safe space for Ukrainian culture entailed removing all Russian works from its repertoire – not due to external pressure, but out of respect for the emotional and psychological toll the war has taken on Kharkiv’s residents. ‘We replaced Russian productions with Ukrainian and European productions,’ Touluzov explained. ‘This decision respects the residents of our city, who are terrorised nightly by Russians and react extremely negatively to symbols of Russian culture.’

He added that the imperialistic connotations of some Russian culture also influenced the decision. ‘Russians have gone to great lengths to portray their culture as grand and superior, while framing Ukrainian culture as lesser – rural, underdeveloped, even as they appropriated our most famous artists. This is the time to reclaim and celebrate Ukrainian culture.’

With the Russians just 20 kilometres away, brandishing their genocidal intent through their slow gruelling advance, annihilation of cities, and ethnic cleansing of the occupied territories, this determination has an urgency to it. In occupied territories, the Russians burn Ukrainian books, loot museums, and reclassify priceless Ukrainian heritage as Russian. For many in Kharkiv – a cosmopolitan city largely comprising Russian speakers – 24 February marked a turning point. Many switched to Ukrainian, wanting to rid themselves of anything Russian. Several Russian friends living in the city, born in Russia and previously proud of their Russian identity, now refuse to speak their mother tongue.

Unfortunately, as inconvenient as it may be to those who wish to enjoy culture outside of politics, the connection between Russia’s war on Ukraine and Russian language, culture, and history has been rendered undeniable: Russian culture has been politicised – not by Ukrainians, but by Russia, which openly uses it to justify war, imperialism and destruction.

Despite everything, Touluzov is focused on the future. Next year marks 100 years since Kharkiv’s designation as a national theatre – one of only four in Ukraine – and 105 years since its founding. Plans are underway for an ambitious anniversary programme.

When asked why it’s so vital to keep going, Touluzov said: ‘It’s about giving Kharkiv access to culture. It shows that Kharkiv is working.’ This motto, displayed on billboards across the city, reflects a literal truth in this case: ballerinas and opera singers need to perform. ‘They need to work – and at a high level. Russia hasn’t defeated us militarily, and it won’t defeat our spirit. High culture is critical, especially during wartime.’

Watching nimble ballerinas glide across a stage offers a momentary escape from horror, a repose for strained souls. The high drama of dance and opera is the only way to stem the stench of corpses in your nostrils, even if only for a bit. It is the only way to relieve the agony you feel from the fresh teddies around the memorial to the dead little children of Kharkiv. The only way to stop the grinding teeth, constant sickness and nervous tic that you long ago stopped noticing but are intricately tied to the air raid alarm that you also never notice anymore.

Kharkiv is a city battered, bruised and boarded up – but it is not a city reduced to cinders and ashes. We don’t know if Kharkiv will have the happy ending of Cinderella, but it deserves one. Its people – from soldiers in muddy dugouts mere kilometres from the city limits to ballet dancers performing in bomb shelters – have worked tirelessly for it. They’ve shown the world the meaning of courage and humanity. The Kharkiv National Theatre is playing a crucial role in nourishing these qualities, in soothing the agony and grief, and in providing beauty and joy amid the daily grind of annihilation hanging over the city.