Guest of the episode: Tymofiy Brick – sociologist, rector of the Kyiv School of Economics.
Transcript of conversations
Nik Lysytskiy: Hello, I’m Nik Lysytskiy, and this is Archetype of the Nation—a cultural project that explores the foundations of Ukrainian identity: who we were, who we’ve become, and who we can be. We search for answers in folklore and in conversations with remarkable Ukrainians.
Today, our guest is Tymofii Brik, sociologist and rector of the Kyiv School of Economics.
Good afternoon, Tymofii.
Tymofii Brik: Good afternoon, thank you for the invitation.
Nik Lysytskiy: Thank you for coming. Each episode of our project is devoted to one particular value that characterizes the Ukrainian people. In your interviews, you often talk about values—about how Ukrainians tend to support one another and preserve traditions.
But today’s topic is a bit different. We want to talk about a very special value—ingenuity.
Tymofii Brik: Alright. That’s a really interesting and unusual topic. Sociologists don’t study it very often, though some research does exist. I’ll try to approach it from that angle.
Nik Lysytskiy: Excellent. As usual, we’ll begin with folklore. For each episode, our folklorist Maryna Demediuk prepares a short essay exploring how a particular value is reflected in Ukrainian folklore. Let me read a brief excerpt from her work on ingenuity.
Tymofii Brik: Sounds very interesting.
Nik Lysytskiy: “Ingenuity is one of the defining traits of Ukrainians, expressed in the ability to find unconventional solutions in situations of limited resources, hardship, or danger. It combines wit, observation, practical intelligence, and the talent to ‘come out dry from the water’—with minimal loss or even unexpected gain.” Tymofii, what does ingenuity mean to you?
Tymofii Brik: That’s a great definition—it’s actually very close to how creativity and ingenuity are discussed in both the social sciences and in business schools. Business schools especially like to talk about qualities that help companies grow, innovate, and stand out.
When I think about ingenuity, two ideas come to mind.
First—the ability to make decisions very quickly. Even when we don’t have full information, or time to think things through, we still have to act. That skill—to act fast and wisely—is ingenuity.
There’s quite a lot of research on this. Anthropologists, psychologists, neuroscientists study it. There’s even a popular science writer, Malcolm Gladwell, who wrote Blink—a book about how people make decisions in a split second, sometimes without realizing it.
This ability comes from experience. To make the right decision fast, you first have to practice a lot. There’s even a saying: the best improvisation is a prepared improvisation.
Think of athletes—they have to decide in a fraction of a second whether to dodge or strike, jump left or right. But that instinct is trained over years. Or a chess player—they can make an excellent move in a moment because they’ve been practicing for decades.
In my own life, both as a researcher and as a rector, I see the same thing. When someone asks me how to design a survey or test a hypothesis, I don’t have time to go to the library or check the literature. I make that decision quickly because I’ve been doing it for 20 years.
So, ingenuity is hard to achieve without experience.
The second part of ingenuity—and one we try to cultivate at work—is the ability to transfer knowledge from one field to another.
That’s a big topic in business schools. And it’s controversial—sometimes it’s seen as innovation, sometimes as arrogance. For example, when a businessperson enters politics and says, “Let’s run the country like a company.” On one hand, that’s creative—thinking outside the box. On the other, it might be naïve or even dangerous if they don’t understand how politics actually works.
Finding that balance—between bringing fresh ideas and respecting the new context—is very difficult but essential. We deal with this in academia too.
As a sociologist, I sometimes adapt mathematical or economic models to social studies. For instance, my research on religious competition borrows models from economics that describe how markets react to supply and demand. We apply those ideas to study how different religious groups interact and evolve.
But not everyone welcomes that approach. Some say, “How dare you bring your formulas into the sacred world of faith?”
Nik Lysytskiy: You’ve touched the sacred.
Tymofii Brik: Exactly! There’s a century-long tradition of discussing religion without numbers, without formulas. And suddenly you bring math into it—they say, “Go write your equations on napkins.”
So, to summarize: ingenuity is the ability to make quick, effective decisions under pressure, and also the ability to see a pattern in one context and successfully apply it in another. But both forms of ingenuity require preparation and experience.
Creativity isn’t magic or luck—it’s the result of deep training and professional mastery.
Nik Lysytskiy: Archetype of the Nation is produced with the support of the Ukrainian Cultural Foundation and appears in different formats. So choose whichever you like—watch, listen, or read our episodes—and share your thoughts in the comments, because in this project, every opinion matters. And of course, subscribe to our channels so you don’t miss anything new.
All links are in the episode description.
So, are there any studies showing that Ukrainians are, in general, an inventive nation—not just in science, but as a cultural value?
Tymofii Brik: That’s a really interesting question—and I have to admit, even Ukrainian sociologists, myself included, deserve criticism here. Because, surprisingly, there are no such studies.
It’s a paradox. We see Ukrainian creativity around us every day—especially now, during the war. People are constantly adapting knowledge from one sphere to another.
Drone pilots who used to film weddings are now flying drones in combat. Logistics specialists now manage military supply chains. There are new technologies, new media tactics, cyber defense innovations—so much ingenuity everywhere.
And yet, we rarely stop to study ourselves. There’s no systematic research proving that Ukrainians are a creative nation. Maybe we’ve just never thought to collect that data.
Globally, though, sociologists generally agree that creativity isn’t tied to any one nationality. It’s not that Germans, or Poles, or Americans are “more creative.” It’s a human trait that depends on environment, institutions, and education—not ethnicity.
Usually, sociologists say that creativity functions at the level of a group. Other scholars—biologists, anthropologists, psychologists—might argue that it’s an individual trait, something determined by genetics, personality, or life experience. They’d say some people are naturally more creative, others less so. And that’s true, but sociologists add another layer to this.
We agree that personal traits matter—but we also emphasize the interaction between people in a group or a team. There’s research showing that depending on how people are arranged within a group, creativity can actually increase.
What do we mean by that? Imagine the same people—but you either keep them isolated in their offices, or you put them together in a coworking space. The exact same individuals, with the same skills, will become far more creative once they start interacting. When people exchange ideas, talk, and learn from one another, new insights emerge.
There are many experiments proving this. When a group collaborates regularly—sharing and recording ideas, revisiting them, refining them—their collective creativity grows. So yes, creativity can be cultivated.
If we bring this back to Ukraine, most research describes Ukrainians as relatively traditional, even somewhat conservative—people who distrust the state, don’t rely much on formal institutions, and prefer to stick with their own. That’s the paradox: on one hand, we’re cautious and skeptical, but in many fields we show remarkable creativity.
So the question becomes—why are we creative in some contexts, and not in others?
My hypothesis goes back to that earlier definition: creativity happens when people have deep experience in something, when they’re forced to act quickly, and when they can transfer knowledge between different fields.
Look at Ukraine today: we have many people with technical backgrounds—engineers, mathematicians, scientists—who now find themselves in unpredictable situations that demand fast, practical solutions. They draw on their prior knowledge and adapt it to entirely new contexts.
It’s like a puzzle coming together. Under pressure, with experience and cross-disciplinary thinking, creativity activates.
Nik Lysytskiy: Given our traditional distrust of authority, could Ukrainian ingenuity be seen as a form of hidden anarchy—a tendency to bypass rigid systems and invent new approaches instead?
Tymofii Brik: That’s a profound question. I’m not a historian, so I can’t give a definitive answer, but ideally, this is where historians, sociologists, and political scientists should sit together and discuss it collectively.
From my perspective, creativity often thrives in collectives—when people come together, exchange ideas, and build something new. But historically, we’ve often been denied the chance to be creative.
Think of the Soviet era—it was nearly impossible to express originality without risk. You could be punished for independent thinking. The safest survival strategy was silence. Even before that, during the imperial period, creativity wasn’t exactly encouraged either.
For centuries, Ukraine lacked a strong state that protected its citizens’ right to be creative. Compare that to Britain, the U.S., or Switzerland—countries that have had functioning patent systems for centuries. There, if you invent something, you can register it, gain legal protection, earn money, even receive honors for your ideas. Intellectual achievement has social status.
We never really had that. The state didn’t nurture or fund creativity. And culturally, we lacked strong role models or stories that elevated creativity as a national virtue—the kind of heroes who would make you believe that innovation could lift you to the top of society.
So yes, creativity has always existed in us, but it’s remained local, small-scale—limited to the backyard, the village, the workshop. Whenever people tried to go further, especially during Soviet times, they were told, “Sit down, don’t stand out.” And that shuts down creativity.
Even after independence, in the 1990s and 2000s, many creative Ukrainians couldn’t fully realize themselves economically. Talented scientists, artists, thinkers often had to move abroad to find opportunities.
This long history has held back our potential. But paradoxically, now—in the darkest, hardest period of our history, during war—we’re seeing an explosion of creativity. The state supports it because it’s vital for survival. Society unites around this shared purpose: to endure, we must invent.
That’s why we’re seeing new Ukrainian stand-up comedians—humor as a survival tool, a form of cultural therapy. We’re seeing engineers designing drones and defense tech. Even our diplomats are showing creativity. Remember when, at the very start of the full-scale invasion, the Ukrainian representative at the UN brilliantly trolled the Russian delegate? That was quick thinking, clever communication—a perfect example of national ingenuity.
So yes, today Ukraine has finally mobilized around the understanding that creativity isn’t a luxury—it’s a necessity. And now, business, the state, and civil society are working together to support it.
Nik Lysytskiy: So, can we say that ingenuity has been—and still is—a means of survival for the nation, one of the tools that helped us endure?
Tymofii Brik: I think that’s absolutely right. We just haven’t paid much attention to it before. But if you start analyzing, you’ll see that many of our success stories—whether in industry, professional communities, or even politics—are tied to ingenuity and creativity.
The key point here, I think, is that when we say “Ukrainians,” we often imagine some kind of homogeneous group, as if we all share the same traits and values. But from a sociological perspective, society is never one solid mass—it’s a structure made up of different groups: professional, regional, gender, age, religious, linguistic. Sociologists always look at these differences.
And creativity might manifest differently across these groups. In some environments, hierarchy matters more. For example, people who worked for decades in a planned economy are used to having a director tell them what to do. In some cultures, collectivism dominates—people rely on group consensus rather than individual decisions.
But in other circles—say, among entrepreneurs or stand-up comedians—individual expression is key. Imagine a conference of chemical engineers happening next door to a Ukrainian stand-up festival. Both groups are made up of Ukrainians, both equally smart and talented, but their professional cultures are completely different. One values structure and discipline; the other thrives on originality and improvisation.
So creativity isn’t evenly distributed—it depends on context. But that doesn’t mean one person is “better” or “worse.” It’s not that one is clever and another is foolish. They’re simply shaped by different environments and values.
As sociologists, I think it would be fascinating to study why creativity flourishes more in certain groups and less in others—and, more importantly, what we can do to scale that creative energy so that it becomes more widespread among Ukrainians in general.
Nik Lysytskiy: How would you distinguish between ingenuity and adaptability?
Tymofii Brik: That’s a really interesting question—and I’ll be honest, I might say something a bit naive here. There’s probably a lot of research on it that I just don’t know. Specialists can correct me later.
But, in my simple understanding, we use these two words differently. Adaptability usually means adjusting to new circumstances. And that’s already a form of creativity.
A new situation appears—you have to study it, figure out how to live and function within it. Sometimes adaptability can mean conformism: a new boss arrives, and you follow orders to keep your job. Or under a repressive regime, you stay quiet to avoid punishment. That’s adaptation too, but of a different kind.
Yet adaptability can also be positive—a creative form of adjustment. During the invasion, for example, many local communities learned to keep their daily work going under completely new conditions.
They needed electricity, so they figured out how to buy, transport, and install generators. They learned logistics, procurement, and technical setup—skills they didn’t have before. That’s adaptability, but also creativity, because they found new solutions to survive and move forward.
So, when we want to emphasize something constructive, we usually use words like creativity or ingenuity. They suggest not just survival, but problem-solving—overcoming challenges through original ideas.
For me, adaptability is a broader term—it can mean anything from passive adjustment to active innovation. But creativity and ingenuity imply the positive side of it: there was a problem, and we solved it by thinking differently.
Nik Lysytskiy: So, is it true that ingenuity often comes from a lack of resources?
Tymofii Brik: I think it’s more complicated than that. When we talked about the definition earlier—mine, the one I agree with—it already implies that before you can be creative, you need to learn a lot. To become a brilliant chess player, you have to play chess for twenty years. To become a good sociologist, you must study theory, methods, math, and even some knowledge from other disciplines.
Only then do you begin to see a wide puzzle in front of you—and creativity is about being able to put that puzzle together from different pieces. In other words, real creativity requires prior experience.
Take, for example, someone who has traveled abroad, seen other cultures, spoken other languages. When they return to Ukraine, they might ask: “Why do we do science this way? Why do we run politics or business this way? Maybe I could apply what I’ve seen elsewhere.” That’s how inventiveness emerges—from accumulated experience.
So, paradoxically, creativity doesn’t come from nothing. It comes from resources—mental, emotional, educational. We need resources to learn, to reflect, to build up knowledge that we can later use when circumstances are hard.
True creativity appears at the moment when these two states meet:
first, you have a rich background of experience and knowledge,
and second, you suddenly find yourself in a situation where you have no resources—no time, no support, nothing but your wits.
That’s when you have to mobilize everything you’ve learned before.
I can give you a personal example. I spent twenty years building my career as a sociologist—studying and working in the Netherlands, Spain, and the United States. That took enormous resources. But during the full-scale invasion, I was in Kyiv, working at the Kyiv School of Economics—and suddenly I became rector.
There was no time to think, no energy to waste, no margin for error. I had to make quick decisions, drawing on everything I’d learned in the previous twenty years. That, for me, is what true creativity looks like: when a lifetime of preparation meets a moment of scarcity.
If someone without such experience found themselves in the same crisis, it would be much harder to be inventive—they simply wouldn’t have the foundation to draw from.
Nik Lysytskiy: And can this kind of ingenuity be cultivated through education? Can schools and universities actually teach it?
Tymofii Brik: That’s exactly what I believe. And it’s not just an opinion—there’s research to support it. But it’s also part of my worldview. I deeply believe in education.
Educational institutions—schools, universities—build what economists call human capital. That means skills, habits, and ways of thinking. Even if you don’t realize it while you’re studying, you’re training your mind to be flexible. You’re learning to work with information, to collaborate, to think critically.
Later, when you’re already working, you might think: “Why did I even go to university? I don’t remember a single poem from school, or the math I learned.” But then, one day, you face a complex problem—and suddenly you find that all those years of learning gave you tools you didn’t know you had.
Education shapes the way we perceive the world. It trains emotional intelligence, teaches us to understand others, and builds teamwork skills. Eventually, those lessons resurface—when you have to start a business, solve a crisis, or connect with new people fast.
That’s why I see education as one of the greatest values.
I didn’t appreciate my university years until I began working. I realized that my whole job was about searching—solving puzzles, just like I used to do in class. The difference was that now the puzzles were real.
And, half-jokingly, I’ll say this: I began to value my education most when I worked alongside people who didn’t have it. I’d see a sociological problem clearly, but they couldn’t even recognize it. I’d say, “Look, there’s the issue!” and they’d just stare blankly.
That’s when I understood—education gives you a shared language, a framework for problem-solving. You might forget the details, but the mindset stays with you.
That’s a great question. I don’t have hard data to back this up—just personal observations and experience. You know, everyone is inventive in their own way.
Sometimes we like to romanticize ourselves, to build myths that make us feel proud. For example, we often say Ukrainians are a particularly inventive nation. Or we repeat the myth that our language is the second most melodic in the world after Italian. Someone once said it, and we still enjoy believing it. But, in reality, every nation has its own kind of ingenuity—its own way of expressing it.
When I lived in the Netherlands, I saw a society that’s incredibly technologically oriented. People there—from kids to adults, from theater artists to factory workers—are all very hands-on. They think in terms of systems, design, and safety.
Unlike Ukraine, though, the Netherlands has stronger intergenerational inequality. Let me explain what I mean. In Ukraine, most of my classmates had parents who also went to university—my dad went to KPI, I went to Shevchenko University. But in the Netherlands, only about 20 percent of my classmates’ parents had higher education. Many were the first in their families to go to university.
Some told me, “My father was a mechanic who started a small repair business,” or, “My parents were farmers—I’m the first one to study.” Others were children of migrants: “My parents worked in basic jobs in Turkey, and now I’m the first in my family to study here.” So yes, inequality exists, but it’s combined with a strong technological culture.
From a very young age, Dutch children are trained to deal with real-world risks—because the country literally depends on its engineering. They have to know what to do if a dam breaks, or there’s flooding. Kids even take swimming exams fully clothed to prove they can survive difficult situations. That sense of preparedness becomes part of their national identity.
The Dutch cultivate a story about themselves: how they built dams, drained land, built ships, became an empire, and conquered the seas. It’s a myth of technological mastery—and that myth shapes their ingenuity. They’re great engineers, architects, and mathematicians. But ironically, because their society is stable and prosperous, they don’t have many crises that require creativity. So sometimes, they have nowhere to apply it.
Maybe that’s why so many Dutch people go abroad—to do humanitarian work, volunteer, or help during crises. Even now, during the war, many drive to Ukraine bringing aid. They seem to bring their ingenuity and compassion to places where it’s needed, because at home everything already works so smoothly.
The same goes for other countries. Spaniards, Americans—they’re all inventive, just in different ways.
In the U.S., for example, many people live in suburban homes and don’t rely on public infrastructure as much as we do in Ukraine. There’s no small shop or service for every little thing—fixing a faucet, repairing furniture, or wiring electricity costs a fortune. So people learn to do everything themselves. Americans are often underestimated; people say they’re not well educated or don’t know world geography—but within their communities, they’re incredibly capable.
They build, repair, organize, and innovate constantly. Even politically, America has been extremely creative: they invented volunteer fire brigades, credit unions, democratic town halls—ideas that reshaped the political systems of many other countries.
So, I’d say every nation is creative in its own way. The difference is how that creativity is expressed and why it’s needed. Ukrainians, for example, often innovate under pressure—when resources are scarce, when survival is at stake. Other nations innovate in comfort, improving already stable systems.
It’s not about who’s more inventive—it’s about the context in which that ingenuity is born.
Nik Lysytskiy: Just a reminder that today in the “Archetype of the Nation” studio, we’re talking about ingenuity with Tymofii Brik. Does this kind of social ingenuity—the ability to find a way out of difficult situations—correlate with scientific ingenuity in society?
Tymofii Brik: That’s a really good question. I think the connection between social and scientific creativity isn’t linear. Every field has its own way of defining talent.
In science, we often use the word “talent” as a kind of shorthand. It’s not something you can measure easily, but everyone understands what it means. And people often say that Ukraine has a lot of talent — and it’s true. You see it in students who win international Olympiads in physics or math. Many of them are from schools like the Rusaniv Lyceum or Lyceum No. 145 in Kyiv — brilliant young people who take home gold medals.
But then, what happens next? They go to Cambridge, or to the Jagiellonian University in Poland, or to the U.S. to continue their studies. So, yes, we have talent — but the question is, what do we do with it?
In today’s world, talent alone isn’t enough. Modern science is a massive global industry that requires money, infrastructure, and teams. You need laboratories, funding, management, legal and financial systems to support the work. Even a genius can’t operate in isolation.
If you look at how major scientific discoveries happen now, they’re almost never the result of one person’s ingenuity. They’re made by international consortia — teams of hundreds of researchers backed by governments and institutions. Think of CERN in Europe: thirty countries pooling resources to build one huge laboratory where hundreds of physicists work together.
So we have to be realistic — no matter how talented Ukrainians are, you can’t compete with that kind of organized, well-funded machinery using only individual brilliance. Talent hits a ceiling when there’s no system behind it.
That reminds me of the Ukrainian historian Mr. Sokyrko, who studies Cossack military history. He describes the Cossacks as incredibly inventive, skilled, and adaptable — they were brilliant strategists for their time. But when the world underwent a technological and institutional revolution in the 18th and 19th centuries — new weapons, new armies, new state structures — the Cossacks suddenly became outdated. They couldn’t keep up, not because they weren’t talented, but because the system changed and they didn’t.
The same applies to science today. At first, individual talent is crucial — original ideas come from people. But at some point, individuals hit limits. You can’t launch rockets, conduct genetic experiments, or run big data labs alone. That takes organization, management, funding, and teamwork.
So it’s not enough to be inventive — you also have to be a good manager, capable of working with others and finding resources. That’s something Ukrainian science still struggles with. We have the brains, but the system — the management, the organization — lags far behind European and American standards.
Nik Lysytskiy: And that raises the next question. Could it be that our ingenuity — this ability to find creative ways out of crises — actually exists because we lack a systematic approach?
Tymofii Brik: Yes, I think that’s a fair observation. Ingenuity is a survival tool. We’ve learned to use it well, but it’s also a sign that we’re stuck in a cycle.
We keep finding clever ways to fix problems instead of preventing them. We run out of resources, invent something to survive, then end up short of resources again. It’s a loop — our ingenuity helps us endure, but not to build beyond survival.
To break that cycle, we need to become inventive in management — to rethink how we organize the state, the economy, and our institutions. We need to create systems that generate resources instead of constantly compensating for their absence. In business terms, we need what’s called scaling.
For example, Ukraine has brilliant engineers who can build innovative drones. That’s great — but the real question is: how do you scale that? How do you go from one prototype to a thousand functioning units used by the military or even exported abroad?
That takes more than technical ingenuity. It requires logistics, business models, financing, partnerships — a broader culture of cooperation.
Nik Lysytskiy: And as a leader, as the rector of the Kyiv School of Economics, how do you personally create conditions that help your students and colleagues develop ingenuity? What exactly do you do?
Tymofii Brik: That’s a good question. I think it’s fair to say that all universities, without exception, try to do this. It’s our mission by definition.
A university is a place where you come to learn something new — and learning new things means learning creativity. Still, unfortunately, Ukrainian education continues to carry traces of old hierarchical culture, something we probably inherited from the Soviet system.
Even though I belong to a newer generation and studied in independent Ukraine, I still remember what it was like at Shevchenko University. Some professors expected us to stand up when they entered the classroom. Others scolded students for something as small as sitting on a windowsill or drinking tea. I remember one case when a student brought a cup of tea into class, and the teacher shouted, “Why are you drinking tea on my table? That’s disrespectful!”
This mindset of strict hierarchy and “master–apprentice” relations is still alive in many places. The idea that there are “masters” and “students,” and you must obey, conform, and follow orders to earn your place — that’s still part of our academic culture.
Another big problem is the lack of university autonomy, especially financial autonomy. Often, universities can’t make simple operational decisions without going through months of bureaucratic approvals. For example, if a professor needs materials for an experiment, they might have to wait half a year for permission from the treasury to release the funds.
Our university, the Kyiv School of Economics, is not entirely free of such challenges either — but what we do try to do is minimize bureaucracy and hierarchy. We give both students and teachers more freedom and space for individuality and leadership.
If someone has an idea, they can act on it. For example, at our university, even undergraduate students — who haven’t yet earned a degree — can teach. They can conduct seminars for other students, grade assignments, and even get paid for it.
Some people react skeptically: “How can you let a student teach? This is a private university; we pay tuition — why should some student teach my child?” But our approach is different. If a young person is bright, capable, and inspires others — why shouldn’t they share what they know?
There are so many stereotypes that tell us what’s “not allowed.” We challenge those. We try to build a culture where students can express themselves, lead, and experiment. These may seem like small, simple things, but they build an environment of freedom — and freedom is what sparks creativity.
We also attract many people who’ve worked in top Ukrainian universities — Shevchenko, KPI, Sumy, and others. They are talented academics, but often they’ve lacked one thing: freedom. When they come to us and finally get that freedom, their creativity flourishes.
Nik Lysytskiy: Let’s turn to folklore. In Ukrainian folklore, ingenuity is often portrayed as the ability to resist a stronger opponent. We have the cunning fox in fairy tales, the peasant who outsmarts the devil in social stories, and the clever Cossacks in legends.
But if we look at history, ingenuity didn’t always lead to victory. So here’s the question: is our folklore ingenuity a kind of wishful dream of triumph, or is it purely fiction — something disconnected from real life?
Tymofii Brik: That’s a tough question for me because I’m not a historian or an anthropologist, so I’ll answer more intuitively. I think people, in general, create positive myths about themselves — it helps us survive as a community.
Ukraine — and the many societies that have existed on this territory over the centuries — has rarely had the luxury of a strong, protective state that allowed people to live freely and reach their potential. So it’s no surprise that, generation after generation, Ukrainians came to rely on ingenuity as a kind of survival tool.
And it’s also no surprise that we’ve built a positive myth around it — the idea that even if we’re not the strongest, the richest, or the most powerful, at least we’re clever. At least there’s always a hero who, though poor or humble, uses kindness, justice, and ingenuity to overcome evil and save everyone.
It’s a very organic myth for us. But if you think about it, fairy tales rarely end with the words: “And then Kotyhoroshko came back, built a successful business, and made sure no one ever kidnapped his family again.” Or: “Ivasyk Telesyk didn’t just return home — he went on to build a fair political system where no serpent could harm children ever again.”
Our fairy tales usually end with a single victory — a rescue, a triumph — but not with the creation of lasting structures or institutions that would make society stronger. There’s no system building, no “scaling,” as we’d say today.
I think it’s our generation’s task to change that — to create new narratives and a new culture where success isn’t just about individual triumphs but about collective progress. About how we, as a society, can grow stronger and more sustainable.
The Cossacks were perhaps the closest to this idea in our folklore. They didn’t just fight — they built. They had the prototype of a state. We talk about Pylyp Orlyk’s constitution, about Cossack diplomacy, about borders and governance — that’s already a move toward the idea of a stable, recognized state.
And now, I think, this mission is being continued by those who defend us today. The heroes of this war aren’t just individuals — they’re collectives. We talk about Azov, Charter, the Third Assault Brigade — strong, united groups that embody shared purpose.
Sociological surveys show that Ukrainians now place their greatest trust in volunteers and the Armed Forces of Ukraine. That’s the foundation of new institutions being formed before our eyes. If these groups endure and evolve into stable institutions, it will be a huge step forward — a sign that our society has learned to transform ingenuity from survival into sustainable strength.
Nik Lysytskiy: If we talk about the present, the stories of today’s war already have a kind of folklore built into them. There are tales about a grandmother knocking down a drone with a jar of pickles, or a grandfather hauling off a weapon or even a tank, or a truck full of gear. Do you think this modern ingenuity grows out of our folklore heritage, or is it simply that unusual circumstances lead to unusual solutions?
Tymofii Brik: It’s a very complicated question. In sociology—and the social sciences generally—we often say that correlation doesn’t imply causation. Even if we observe a pattern, it’s hard to say what’s cause and what’s effect.
It does feel like each new generation of Ukrainians gets caught in the same loop. Something bad happens; a strong personality steps forward and shows leadership; others notice, rally around, and follow. And this keeps repeating with every generation.
Each generation records its experience in narratives and passes them on. Modern Ukraine has people who stood on the Orange Revolution; they formed skills, memories, even mythology around it. Then the next generation came out for the Euromaidan. And now, with the latest protests, many people compared what was happening to earlier ones.
So yes—I think there’s a long arc here where people face new challenges but act according to a familiar pattern: a charismatic figure emerges, mobilizes others, and the pattern gets fixed, transmitted, and used as an instruction for the future. That becomes part of our cultural tradition.
Nik Lysytskiy: We’ve talked about folklore; now let’s play with it a little. We have our traditional segment, the Folklore Box. Since our theme is ingenuity, today’s box contains riddles.
Tymofii Brik: Oh, now I’m going to embarrass myself. I’ve just spent an hour talking about creativity, and now I have to solve riddles.
Nik Lysytskiy: There will be five riddles. You can either guess them or offer a logical version.
Tymofii Brik: Alright, let’s try. “Not gold, but the most precious.” Does this have a standard folklore answer?
If it’s about Ukraine, it must be tied either to family and loved ones, or to will and freedom. Will or family. What could it be?
Let’s go with family.
Nik Lysytskiy: The answer is life.
Tymofii Brik: Life. Okay, I missed it.
Nik Lysytskiy: Here’s one with a broader perspective.
Tymofii Brik: From a sociological point of view, those are fundamental values. Most Ukrainians will say their top priority is security— not only their own, but others’ as well. We saw that in the COVID studies: people weren’t primarily afraid of dying themselves; they worried their grandmother or their children could die. That’s why I leaned that way. But yes—the answer is life. And not necessarily one’s own, but the lives of loved ones.
Nik Lysytskiy: “There are two pillars, and on the pillars a barrel, and on the barrel a makitra, and on the makitra—a forest.”
Tymofii Brik: And I have to guess what that is. Two pillars—so, two posts; something round on them; then a makitra; then a forest. That’s really hard—I can’t even picture it.
Is this a real object, or a metaphor?
Nik Lysytskiy: This is a metaphor for a real object.
Tymofii Brik: What could look like two hairy sticks—and this is folklore? Maybe some kind of castle? Two towers, and on the towers maybe hills… I don’t even know. Let’s say watchtowers.
Nik Lysytskiy: It’s a person.
Tymofii Brik: A person! Two pillars — legs, the barrel — the body, the makitra — the head, and the forest — the hair. I could’ve guessed that!
Nik Lysytskiy: Next one: you can’t weigh it on the scales, you can’t buy it at the market.
Tymofii Brik: It must be something priceless and immeasurable — experience, health, or friendship. I’ll say intelligence.
Nik Lysytskiy: Correct.
Tymofii Brik: Okay! One out of five so far — at least I’m thinking straight.
Nik Lysytskiy: And what is older than intelligence?
Tymofii Brik: What’s older than intelligence… hmm. You know, there’s a saying: foolish thoughts are rich. Maybe intelligence is something we acquire later, and before that comes error, inexperience, or instinct. What’s older than intelligence? Stupidity, maybe — or error.
Alright, people say it’s attention. Attention, yes — observation, experience, then reason. Makes sense.
Nik Lysytskiy: And the last riddle. White, not snow, not a shirt, but sewn; not a field, but sown.
Tymofii Brik: White, sewn, not a field but sown… This is tough. Maybe air? Or winter?
Nik Lysytskiy: It’s connected to science.
Tymofii Brik: Science, white, sown like a field… you’re giving me a hint — it must be paper, maybe something written on it?
Nik Lysytskiy: A book.
Tymofii Brik: A book! Okay, fair enough. You see, it’s fascinating — this is the second time I’ve missed the obvious. For some reason, I struggle to visualize objects through words. But yes, that’s a great creativity exercise.
Nik Lysytskiy: Exactly. Ukrainian riddles really do train intelligence, creativity, and metaphorical thinking. There are more than a thousand collected—at least in the volumes I’ve seen, probably many more. Some are abstract, some concrete, but they’re all a brilliant folklore genre.
Tymofii Brik: And from our conversation’s point of view, I’d say studying riddles from other cultures could be a great way to develop creativity. Because we all think through our own cultural symbols.
For example, “a shirt” is something deeply Ukrainian — it’s part of our world of meanings. But if you gave me riddles from New Zealand or Estonia, their metaphors might be so unfamiliar that I wouldn’t even grasp the question. That’s a great creativity workout — immersing yourself in unfamiliar symbolic patterns.
Nik Lysytskiy: Finally, a quick Blitz round: seven short questions, seven short—or maybe not so short—answers. Scarier than riddles.
What trait do you value most in people?
Tymofii Brik: Not being stuffy.
Nik Lysytskiy: Lightness. And which trait do you dislike most?
мBeing stuffy.
Nik Lysytskiy: What inspires you?
мOther people.
Nik Lysytskiy: What scares you?
Tymofii Brik: I suppose it’s the experience of war, after all. I’m afraid of evil that goes unpunished — because if evil isn’t punished, then future generations, and the ones after them, will have to suffer for it.
Nik Lysytskiy: What helped you hold on during difficult times in life?
Tymofii Brik: The same thing that inspires me — people. My loved ones. My wife, and now my child.
Nik Lysytskiy: What would you say is the main goal or mission of your life?
Tymofii Brik: It might sound a bit lofty, but I’ve only recently come to this realization. I used to think my goal was about myself — to learn, to explore, to understand the world. That was enough for me.
But now I feel I have a mission. Since I’ve already learned something, I can share it. My mission is to teach others and to make the world a little better wherever I can.
Nik Lysytskiy: If you had to describe Ukrainians in three words, what would they be?
Tymofii Brik: Paradoxical — because, as we said earlier, we’re a bit conservative but creative at the same time. So, paradoxical.
Then — energetic. There’s this constant motion, something always happening here. If you look at post-Soviet history, we’re the only country that keeps having revolutions, changes of elites — and even war, because we refuse to stand still. Passionate, maybe? I don’t love that word — sociologists see it as unscientific, though it’s common in culture. But yes, let’s say energy.
And the third — skills. I think people underestimate how much human capital Ukraine really has. We have so many skilled people — engineers, athletes, scientists. Wherever you go in the world, there’s always a Ukrainian somewhere near the top. Chess, physics, engineering, sports.
For some reason, Ukraine isn’t always recognized globally, but we’re there — quietly shaping things. So yes: paradoxical, energetic, and skilled.
Nik Lysytskiy: Thank you. It was a fascinating conversation. The last part of our show is called “Artifact.” We ask our guests to leave something symbolic — a keepsake for our small museum. Please tell us what you brought today.
Tymofii Brik: Well, I’ll be a proper sociologist and a proper scientist — my artifact is a book. And not even my own book. Scientists often like to quote other scientists.
This one is by Nicholas Christakis — he’s a very well-known researcher, fascinating both as a person and as a scholar. He started out as a physician, working with terminally ill patients. Through that work he realized that social connections profoundly affect people’s quality of life. When you have friends, loved ones, a caring community — even your health and outlook improve.
That insight led him to move from medicine into sociology. He began studying and teaching how human relationships shape society. His book The Blueprint: The Evolutionary Origins of a Good Society is deeply humanistic and optimistic.
Christakis traces the story of humanity from ancient times to today and shows that — at the genetic, biological, and social levels — people are inclined toward goodness. We form groups to help one another, to build fair societies and democracies.
And even though democracy is now going through a crisis — with wars, populism, and instability — if you look at it historically, democracy is still the most resilient system. It survives and renews itself.
I think that’s an important reminder for Ukrainians — that humanism and kindness aren’t abstract ideals. They’re part of who we are, built into our very nature and our social fabric.
So I’m very glad this book will become part of your museum. And by the way, Nicholas Christakis is now a visiting professor at the Kyiv School of Economics. He’s already been to Kyiv twice, giving public lectures, and he’ll return again this summer and next fall.
I invite everyone to follow our social media, where we’ll announce his lectures and other events from our research labs — we’ll talk about science that’s both fascinating and meaningful.
Nik Lysytskiy: Thank you very much for this conversation — it was truly insightful and inspiring. Friends, follow us, listen, watch, read. Until next time.
Tymofii Brik: Thank you very much — it was a pleasure.
Nik Lysytskiy: Thank you. Friends, today our guest was Tymofii Brik — sociologist and rector of the Kyiv School of Economics. Write in the comments what stood out most to you.
Do you think ingenuity is one of the key values inherent in the Ukrainian people?
You can watch episodes of the Archetype of the Nation project on YouTube, listen on your favorite podcast platforms, or read them on our website magicworld.com.ua.
There you’ll also find popular-science essays by folklorist Maryna Demediuk, as well as recordings of folklore works performed by renowned actors.
Thank you for watching — see you soon.
