Interview with Marina, a Voice for Wartime in Ukraine

Thank you for your agreeing to speak to the Lviv Herald about your career as a musician in wartime Ukraine. Could you tell us a little about yourself—where you’re from, your musical background, and what first inspired you to perform?

I’m from Lviv originally, born and raised. I studied at the Lysenko Music Academy—classical piano and voice. My father was a music teacher, and my mother sang in a church choir, so music was always part of our home. But I think what really inspired me to perform was watching street musicians in Rynok Square when I was a teenager. Their sincerity moved me.

What kind of music do you play, and which artists or traditions have influenced your style?

It’s a blend of Ukrainian folk, jazz, and a little indie rock. I love traditional melodies, but I try to reimagine them with modern arrangements. I’m influenced by artists like Mariana Sadovska, DakhaBrakha, and also a bit of Joan Baez and Norah Jones.

Did you always imagine yourself becoming a musician, or was this something that emerged over time?

I always loved music, but I didn’t imagine it would become my life’s work. I thought I might become a teacher or work in arts administration. But after Maidan, and especially after the full-scale invasion, I felt I had no choice but to use the voice I was given.

When did you first begin performing to raise funds for the Ukrainian Armed Forces?

In March 2022. My first fundraiser was held in the cellar of a local café, during the first wave of refugees coming from the east. We didn’t have a real stage or proper sound, but people came, donated, and stayed for hours.

Do you remember the first time you played a wartime concert or event? What was the atmosphere like?

Yes, vividly. It was emotional and very raw. There were people in the audience whose loved ones were fighting or missing. We lit candles between songs. No one applauded at first—they just sat silently. And then, at the end, people stood up and hugged each other. It felt more like a memorial than a concert.

How do you choose your repertoire when performing for military or patriotic causes? Do you write any of your own songs?

I mix traditional songs like Oi u luzi chervona kalyna with original compositions. Some of my own songs are lullabies, written for soldiers’ children, or about letters from the front. I avoid overly cheerful material—it needs to honour the moment.

Has the war changed your music—its tone, message, or emotional intensity?

Absolutely. My voice used to be softer, more ornamental. Now I sing with urgency. I’ve written songs I never imagined I could write—about loss, courage, rage, and hope. I think the war gave my music a backbone I didn’t have before.

What does it mean to you personally to be able to support the Armed Forces through your art?

It’s everything. I can’t hold a rifle, but I can hold a microphone. I’ve sung in cold train stations, hospitals, trenches, and halls. Every hryvnia raised, every soldier who hears a familiar melody and remembers home—it’s my way of serving.

How do you stay emotionally strong when performing in a time of national trauma and grief?

Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I cry on stage. But I remind myself why I’m doing it. I think of the people who can’t speak anymore, and I try to speak for them.

What role do you think musicians and artists play during war, beyond financial support?

We carry memory. We preserve language. We remind people that they are not alone. Music keeps culture alive in the middle of destruction. It’s resistance in the form of beauty.

What sort of reactions do you get from your audiences—both civilians and soldiers?

They’re generous, open, and sometimes heartbreakingly vulnerable. Soldiers often say, “Thank you for making me feel human again.” Civilians say, “You gave me the strength to cry.”

Are there any particular moments from your concerts or tours that have stayed with you, especially involving servicemen or their families?

Yes—last year, in a field hospital near Kramatorsk, a young man in a wheelchair asked if I could sing Ridna maty moya. His mother had just died in Kherson, and he hadn’t been able to bury her. He cried silently the whole time. After the concert, he gave me his army patch. I still carry it.

Do you find that your music helps people process their emotions about the war, or find strength in difficult times?

I hope so. I think music creates space—for grief, yes, but also for courage. Sometimes when words fail, melody steps in.

How do you personally see the war—what do you believe is at stake for Ukraine?

Everything is at stake: our borders, our dignity, our memory, our future. This is not just a war of territory—it’s a war over who gets to define who we are.

Do you think music can influence public morale or international perceptions of the war?

Yes. Music is a language everyone understands. I’ve sung in Warsaw, Berlin, and Vienna, and people cry even if they don’t understand Ukrainian. Art can build bridges where politics fails.

What message would you like to send to those who may be watching Ukraine from abroad and feeling unsure about how to help?

Please don’t turn away. Your attention matters. Your donations matter. But most of all, your belief in us matters. We are still here, still fighting—not just with weapons, but with words and songs.

Have you collaborated with other Ukrainian artists, musicians, or cultural figures during the war?

Yes, many. We’ve formed collectives, recorded benefit albums, and toured together. The artistic community has become like a second family.

Do you perform in Lviv only, or have you travelled across Ukraine or abroad to raise funds and awareness?

I’ve performed in frontline areas, in Dnipro, Odesa, Kyiv, and abroad in Poland, Czechia, and Germany. Everywhere I go, I carry the voice of Lviv with me.

How have local communities—especially in Lviv—supported your mission?

The people of Lviv are extraordinary. Local cafés, theatres, and churches host concerts for free. Businesses donate proceeds. Children draw posters for soldiers. The whole city sings with us.

What keeps you going when times are hardest?

The people I sing for. The knowledge that music can reach where medicine, money, and even words cannot. And the dream that one day, we’ll sing only lullabies again—not laments.

What would you like Ukraine to look like when the war ends? How do you hope music will shape that future?

I dream of a Ukraine that is confident, democratic, and whole. Where we teach our children history without fear. Where music isn’t a cry for survival, but a celebration of peace.

If you could perform one final song at a victory concert in a free and peaceful Ukraine, what would it be—and why?

Zaspivaymo pisniu veselo (“Let us sing a joyful song”). It’s a folk tune my grandmother taught me, and it’s all about singing together after a storm has passed. That’s the song I want us all to sing—together, under a blue sky, in a free Ukraine.

Marina, thank you for your time, and keep up the fantastic work!

Thank you.