Guest of the episode: rap performer Blackfish.
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 national identity. Who we were, who we’ve become, what we have, and who we can be. We seek answers in folklore, as well as in conversations with inspiring representatives of our nation.
Today, our guest is the rap artist Blackfish. Good afternoon, Mariia.
Blackfish Hello.
Nik Lysytskiy Each episode of our project is dedicated to one of the values that define the Ukrainian nation — one of the elements of our identity. And today, I’d like to talk with you about the love of freedom.
Blackfish That’s interesting, because I believe freedom is one of the most defining traits of Ukrainian women.
Nik Lysytskiy When preparing for each episode, we study how a particular value is reflected in folklore and try to draw certain conclusions. Regarding freedom, we came to this idea: for Ukrainians, freedom means valuing both personal and collective liberty, independence, dignity, and the right to self-determination.
The pursuit of freedom is not about separating from others — it’s about the ability and the right to be a free person within the family, the community, the country, and the world.
So, Mariia, what does freedom mean to you personally?
Blackfish To be honest, I’ll put it simply — for me, freedom means being a musician and choosing the creative form and expression I want. It’s the ability to say what I want, how I want.
During the war, I felt a powerful inner need to speak my truth as a rap artist. Before that, I was a singer of a more poetic genre — songs about higher, almost sacred values. But after performing at the front in the third year of the war, something inside me changed. I realized I needed to be honest, to speak directly.
At that time, I was studying at a literary school and even wanted to write a book — but instead, all that creative energy transformed into rap. It was like a ricochet. I began writing — and suddenly, I began rapping.
For me, freedom is about creativity — first, the freedom to feel and express as I wish, and second, the freedom to speak openly and truthfully.
Nik Lysytskiy And if you think back to your childhood — what were you like as a kid? Obedient, or the type to argue and stand your ground?
Blackfish It’s actually a complicated story, because as a kid I was very obedient. My dad was an officer, and after finishing his military career, he worked as a miner. Now he serves again in the Armed Forces of Ukraine. My mom is a teacher, so in a family like that it was simply impossible not to be disciplined.
But when I grew older and started searching for myself as a teenager — that’s when everything shifted. I realized that, as a teacher’s daughter, it was very uncomfortable for me to live inside strict boundaries. That’s when the rebellion began — I started expressing myself in bold, even revolutionary ways. My dad always says I raised myself.
He says, “You’ve become just like me.” And he’s right — I’m definitely a daddy’s girl. I have a strong character; I don’t agree with things I don’t believe in, and I always speak up. That’s just how I am.
Nik Lysytskiy So would you say your dad taught you to defend your opinion?
Blackfish Yes, he did. My mom was always the peacemaker between us because when my dad and I clashed, sparks would fly. Neither of us could be broken. My dad never compromised on what he believed was right — he really shaped my system of values.
My mom, on the other hand, is a musician — softer, more creative, emotional. So I grew up between those two worlds — my father’s discipline and strength, and my mother’s artistry and sensitivity. I think that mix really formed who I am today.
In fact, the image I have now as a rap artist feels like a continuation of that inner teenager — the one who questioned everything, who wasn’t afraid to disagree with her parents or teachers. Because when you have your own opinion, you might be wrong sometimes — but it’s still important to express it. That’s something I learned early on.
Nik Lysytskiy Would you say freedom, for you, is more of an inner state — or about being free from external limits and restrictions?
Blackfish For me, freedom means having your own opinion and standing up for it. Even if you’re wrong, it’s about being honest enough to admit it. That’s also freedom — to make a mistake and own it.
Right now, I feel like we’re living through a time of searching — for new meanings, new values. That’s what my work as Blackfish is about: finding new words to describe the Ukraine I see today. Because people have changed. We’re no longer the Ukraine that existed before the war.
I call that “the old Ukraine.” Now we’re forming a new one. I first felt that transformation at the front, when I was singing for our soldiers. The values I saw there — resilience, sincerity, love — they completely changed me.
Now I try to express all that through my music, to describe what’s happening between the military world, the civilian world, the volunteers, the community — all of us together. I’m also a volunteer myself, and that gives me another perspective.
And if I make mistakes along the way — that’s part of freedom too. The freedom to say, “Yes, I was wrong,” and keep going. That’s what it means to be a grown person — to choose, to act, to admit, and to move forward.
Nik Lysytskiy It actually takes a lot of strength to be able to admit your mistakes.
Blackfish Yes, absolutely. Because freedom isn’t just about expressing yourself. Being free doesn’t mean doing whatever you want — it also means taking responsibility for your choices. If you make a mistake or your actions lead to something harmful, that’s on you. You have to face it.
In my family, that’s sacred — you can’t just forget or pretend something didn’t happen. We were always taught to be accountable for our words and our actions. That’s what integrity means to me.
Nik Lysytskiy How often in your life have you had to say “no” — to stand up for your freedom or your beliefs?
Blackfish That’s actually my favorite word. Really. I don’t know why, but when I hear something being offered to me, I often react instinctively — “no, no, I don’t want to, I won’t.”
Lately, I’ve been feeling a kind of inner pause — I wouldn’t call it weakness, more like stillness. I just don’t want to take on too many new things right now. It’s hard to move in every direction at once.
Maybe I’ve found a state of mind that’s precious to me — or maybe, after everything we’ve been through, the war just drains your emotional and psychological energy. So I’m learning to say “no” to things that don’t feel right, things that might drain me or push me into discomfort.
It’s not always easy — people have expectations. But for me, saying “no” is part of staying free.
Nik Lysytskiy Was there ever a moment when you felt truly free? A time in your life when that feeling was at its strongest?
Blackfish Yes. When we performed in Donbas with the cultural landing team. We spent a week there — Olya the photographer, Dima the bandura player, Valera who was our commander. It was such a close-knit group, and that trip gave me an unforgettable sense of freedom.
There was something in the air there — the spirit of the East, maybe — something raw and alive. I haven’t felt that same freedom since.
It was also the time when we were facing one of the first major counteroffensives, and that came with both hope and disappointment. Before it started, there was this wave of pure patriotism — I remember singing with that energy, like the whole land was breathing with us. And after the setback, everything changed — there was pain, disbelief.
So now, for me, freedom feels fleeting — something you can catch for a moment, but can’t hold onto forever.
Nik Lysytskiy Do you think that freedom can also show itself in smaller, everyday things — like in how a person dresses, eats, or lives? Can willfulness show through in those simple choices?
Blackfish You know, independence — it’s something deeply rooted in us, especially in Ukrainian women. I’ve been thinking about this a lot. It’s incredibly important for us to be heard. That’s something that truly distinguishes us from the women of our enemy.
Ukrainian women have always been outspoken, independent, and proactive — even rebellious. Yes, our country is quite patriarchal, but everyone knows that women here have enormous influence over what men think and do. And it’s not something we force — it’s just the way nature works.
I remember in philology school, one of our professors in Ukrainian literature told us that Ukrainian women are descendants of the Amazons. And I love that idea — that somewhere in us there’s this ancient Amazonian strength, this inner gene that gives us the courage to speak our minds without fear.
You can see it everywhere: in how Ukrainian women run businesses, think creatively, volunteer, and take the initiative. And most of all — in the women serving in the Armed Forces of Ukraine. The women who chose, voluntarily, to put on a uniform and go to the front — I have enormous respect for them.
That courage — that will to express yourself — that’s what inspires me the most.
Nik Lysytskiy Speaking of freedom in folklore — there’s a beautiful image that comes to mind. You probably know it. It’s the povitrulya — a Carpathian mythological spirit.
Do you know her story?
Blackfish I actually have a story related to that — I’ll tell it later.
Nik Lysytskiy Alright. The povitrulya’s freedom lies in her wings. A man can only make her his wife if he steals and hides them. But if she ever finds her wings again, she immediately flies away — back to the mountains, to her sisters and her mother.
She’s the embodiment of a free woman — one who values her freedom more than even her marriage. And, in general, Ukrainian folklore is full of such strong female figures. Take the wise girl archetype, for example — a character you won’t find in Russian folklore. She can solve problems herself, defeat evil, even save the hero — she’s an active, self-determined figure who governs her own life instead of submitting to a man’s will.
That spirit has been in our DNA since ancient times.
And since you’re a philologist, let me ask you this: how do you think Ukrainians’ love of freedom shows itself in our language?
Blackfish That’s a tough question — one I probably should’ve prepared for. But if I think about it, I immediately recall the words of our national anthem: “We will lay down our soul and body for our freedom.”
To me, Ukrainians are inseparably associated with bravery and freedom. But also with deep sentimentality — a bright, creative emotionality that defines us. Courage and freedom belong equally to men and women, and that’s something constantly reflected throughout our history.
We’ve had countless incredible women who embodied that strength through their lives and choices. And that line — “Body and soul we will lay down for our freedom” — it’s powerful. Because to truly live by it means not only to be ready to die for your country, but to live for it — to build, to create, to protect.
I think that’s what we often forget: freedom isn’t only about sacrifice. It’s also about the will to live — to live with dignity, with meaning, and with joy.
And that’s another thing about us — our openness. Ukrainians are a welcoming people. Our rituals are all tied to renewal, to the birth of new life, to cleansing from darkness. We have so many traditions connected to light and goodness.
Even our talismans and protective symbols — they all reflect this constant striving toward the bright side. That’s what I love about our culture: how, through our rituals, our calendar, our holidays, and our connection with nature, we keep rediscovering who we are.
Nik Lysytskiy And this closeness to nature probably also left a mark on how Ukrainians lived and sought freedom. In Western Europe, people mostly lived behind city walls — protected, but confined. Ukrainians, on the other hand, lived in open spaces — in villages, by rivers, forests, and wide steppes. From one side, danger could come at any time, but from the other — you could always move forward into the unknown if you wanted more freedom.
Blackfish Exactly. Just think of the Cossacks — how they left everything behind during the time of serfdom to become free people. They were born here, in Ukraine, but went east to the wild steppe. The Zaporizhzhian Cossacks built their community literally from nothing — from the open, empty steppe. People fled there simply to live freely.
That says a lot about who we are. One of the most defining periods in our history — the very foundation of our statehood — was built on the desire to be free, to live on our own land, and to create life with our own hands. That’s where our culture was shaped.
And that spirit — the Cossack will, the idea of Maidan — it’s still with us. It’s like a tradition that never left.
Nik Lysytskiy So what do you think — does this love of freedom come from the time of the Zaporizhzhian Sich, from that image of the free Cossack, or is it something even older, something more ancient in Ukrainians?
Blackfish It’s hard to say — I wasn’t there in ancient times, so I can only speak from what I see now. From my experience, I can say this: Ukrainians are incredibly diverse. But whenever real danger comes, we somehow manage to unite. We come together and do amazing things.
At the same time, every one of us has a strong sense of individuality, pride, and character. We’re all so different — sometimes even completely opposite — but still, we hold on. That’s something I really admire about us.
And I wish we could always hold on like that — to keep finding bridges between us instead of breaking apart into little groups or echo chambers.
That’s why I can’t stand this nonsense about dividing people by where they’re from — like people from the East or the West, or someone from Kharkiv. Even with all the conflicts, we still find little keys to understanding each other.
Because normal, mature, healthy people don’t shout at others for being from a different region or having a different background. We respect other people’s experiences — that’s something deeply Ukrainian, in my opinion.
For me, being Ukrainian means being human. I want our country to be built on the value of the individual — not on conformity, not on systems that tell everyone to be the same, like in Soviet times. We’re not system people.
Anyone who isn’t part of the system knows this: our strength lies in individuality. In creativity, in initiative, in the courage to build and to do things differently. That’s why our entrepreneurs, our inventors, our volunteers — they’re all unique. They don’t fit molds.
And when someone new comes along — someone different — we still call them “ours.” Maybe they’re different, maybe they’re “another kind of ours,” but they’re still part of us. That’s what unites us: even in our diversity, we recognize each other as our own.
Of course, there’s still some xenophobia — I’ve studied it, and we’ve discussed it many times, like when I was at a philology forum in Kryvyi Rih. We talked openly about those issues — but the fact that we’re talking about them, analyzing them, means we’re growing.
It was 2012. I was in my fourth or fifth year at university, and even back then we were already talking about how certain forms of xenophobia existed among us — and sadly, they’ve only gotten worse since. Russia is exploiting that masterfully, playing on our weakest points. But despite everything, we’re still holding on to common sense.
As a philologist, I want to say this: we often focus on the language we speak, but we forget that language doesn’t exist without the person behind it. Whatever language you use, what truly matters are your values — the kind of person you are and what you communicate through that language.
I’m not saying this to downplay the importance of Ukrainian — I’ve spoken Ukrainian all my life, I’ve sung in Ukrainian for fifteen years, and I write rap in Ukrainian — but forcing it through violence or humiliation is not our way. We shouldn’t build our identity through destruction.
It’s essential to support and to understand that everyone carries some kind of trauma. People are different — neurologically, psychologically — not everyone can adapt or learn at the same pace. My grandmother in Kryvyi Rih and my grandmother in Odesa, for instance — they’re completely different in how they process new things, how their minds work.
We need to respect the elderly. We need to respect those who carry trauma from war or loss — their worldview has also been reshaped by pain. And that’s why psychological adjustment is so important for the way our language will evolve.
If we talk aggressively, if we use language as a weapon — it only destroys. But at the same time, we can’t lose the sense of its value.
Since I teach Ukrainian, I’ve noticed a decline lately. I work with IT companies, business owners — and at the beginning of the war, the demand was huge. Everyone wanted to learn Ukrainian. Now, not so much. The interest has dropped.
But what’s really inspiring is seeing Ukrainians abroad — those who emigrated long ago — coming back to their roots. Parents in the U.S. are now looking for teachers for their children. For example, there’s a girl in New York — there’s no Ukrainian school, no Ukrainian teacher, no structure. And New York is tough — the pace, the schedule. So they’re turning to online lessons.
Nik Lysytskiy It’s the same in Kyiv.
Blackfish Well, not quite like in New York. But yes, people realize they can save time — and often money — by studying online with a Ukrainian teacher.
Still, I think we need new motivation, new meanings that will encourage people to improve their Ukrainian instead of staying at a basic level — that “I already know the language.” Because honestly, most of us don’t know it as well as we think we do. I’m still learning all the time.
Sorry — I know we started this conversation about freedom, and somehow I always circle back to language. But that’s just my favorite topic.
Nik Lysytskiy Well, language is a marker — one of the core markers of a nation. It’s absolutely natural to talk about it in a conversation like this.
But returning to freedom — we know this much: Ukrainians are individualists. We care deeply about our homes, our families — and yet, when danger comes, we immediately care for our entire country.
And we saw that clearly in 2022.
Blackfish Yes, and we’re seeing that now too.
Nik Lysytskiy Exactly. Even though, as you just mentioned, there’s a noticeable decline in interest in learning the language. People are tired — that’s probably the main reason. Everyone has their own burdens, their own priorities.
But this individualism we talked about — it has a dual nature. At some point, it starts working against us. Love of freedom can become a problem. When we have to unite quickly against an external threat, Ukrainians do it instantly. But when it comes to long-term, systematic work — when we have to move together toward a common goal for years — that same love of freedom can start breaking us apart.
Everyone starts saying, “I’m an independent person, I have my own vision, my own approach.” And that’s when internal tension begins — first within ourselves, and then between people. So I want to ask — in your opinion, when does this love of freedom stop being positive? When does it start causing harm?
Blackfish You know, I think when we talk about something like freedom, we have to look at it as a whole — as a complete concept. Freedom always has two sides. One is the desire to be free, and the other is the fear of being limited. They’re inseparable.
We just need to recognize the full emotional range behind it — and not all of it is conscious. Everyone is at different stages of self-development, in different life circumstances, dealing with their own inner crises. For some, willpower and freedom manifest as altruism — a willingness to work hard, help others, and stay steady. For others, it’s more about self-protection — they withdraw, they conserve energy, they become “healthily selfish.”
And that’s not necessarily bad. It just means their focus has shifted — they’re trying to survive, to protect their boundaries. They might think, “I’ve already done enough,” and pull back. So I think it all comes down to resources — emotional, physical, and psychological — and to resilience.
What we’re lacking right now is discipline. A steady, systematic routine. Because the war has become part of our daily life — not just militarily, but also informationally, culturally, psychologically, economically.
And while soldiers are living through unimaginable things, civilians often can’t even begin to compare their fatigue to that. People say, “I’m tired, I’ve donated, I’ve helped, I want to rest, I want to live my best life.” But sometimes, we forget the price being paid.
I think civilians need to be reminded — gently but firmly — that the cost is enormous, and we can’t afford to lose focus. We need moral leaders, people who act as reminders, as a kind of backbone.
In pedagogy, there’s a simple rule: repetition builds understanding. You repeat something again and again — maybe in different ways — and it starts to sink in. It becomes part of you. That’s what we need now: repetition of basic truths.
Because this disappointment and fatigue you mentioned — it’s very real. It comes from the war dragging on, from the shortage of people at the front, from the emotional and physical exhaustion of volunteers. The volunteer movement is still holding the line, but the support behind it has weakened.
People still help, but not as much. Donations come inconsistently. Even I notice it personally — in summer, it’s always harder. Fundraising drops, meetings slow down. And then autumn comes, and something shifts — people wake up a little again. But the pattern repeats.
Nik Lysytskiy That’s when the business season starts.
Blackfish Yes, yes, maybe that’s part of it — people simply don’t have as much money. And in summer, the attacks always intensify. I’ve already noticed this pattern — the Russians, well, let’s just say, become especially active every summer. It’s like clockwork with them.
And that’s exactly when donations drop, motivation drops, and the military needs help the most. You start to see this pattern — and it’s something we need to explain to people in new ways. Because just showing it through the news no longer works. Everyone’s seen everything already.
Honestly, from my own experience, I’d say this: we love freedom, but we’re also a bit lazy. That’s very Ukrainian too. Freedom often comes with the attitude of “I’ll do it if I want to.”
Sometimes we really need a mentor figure — someone who can explain why it matters, why we need to act. Ukrainians need leaders — not in a monarchic sense, not someone to command us, but someone who constantly inspires.
We need fresh voices. Someone says something new, something resonates, and people wake up — “Oh, that’s cool!” That’s how you reach Ukrainians. Because we’re unpredictable, restless, each with our own opinion, our own character. As the saying goes — “three hetmans for every two Ukrainians.”
Nik Lysytskiy Or even four.
Blackfish Exactly, I’d say four by now. Because every free-spirited Ukrainian naturally turns into a bit of an egocentrist — “I know best,” “I’ll do it my way.” That’s why it’s so important to self-reflect: are you mature enough to tell others anything at all?
But on the other hand, you also need enough self-esteem to value yourself — to know that your voice matters. It’s a very delicate balance.
Sometimes the best people — the ones who actually do the most — are the quietest. They don’t speak up or give themselves enough credit. And maybe they should speak more.
And those who shout the loudest — it’s often just noise. Usually, the ones who talk the most are the ones who do the least. And yes, we have plenty of that too.
Nik Lysytskiy I remind our viewers that today, in the studio of the project Archetype of the Nation, we are talking about freedom with rap artist Blackfish. Do you often go to the front?
Blackfish Not that often.
Nik Lysytskiy Not that often?
Blackfish I go about once a season. Sometimes for a week. I went in the spring, but I didn’t make it in the summer because I had a trip to Europe. So, some people say that’s often — but compared to those who go every single week, it really isn’t.
Nik Lysytskiy Let’s put it this way — you visit regularly. You talk with soldiers — both career military and those who were mobilized in 2022. And that brings us to another side of freedom: on the one hand, you join the army to defend freedom, to fight for it, but on the other hand, the army itself is a system where freedom simply doesn’t exist. It’s structure, hierarchy, discipline. There’s no room for personal liberty.
Have you ever talked to the military about how they deal with that internal conflict — between fighting for freedom and having no freedom inside the system?
Blackfish Actually, yes — just yesterday I was talking about this with a soldier, a volunteer, a really decent person. We were discussing the news that China had held its biggest military parade in 80 years. I said, “Can you imagine? They’re all standing there, stone-faced — I can’t even say what I really think of them — celebrating some strange holiday of theirs.”
And then I said, “But we, Ukrainians, we stand for democracy, for individuality, for human rights.”
And my friend replied, “You know, I don’t feel any individuality in the army at all. I don’t feel like I have any rights.”
That really stuck with me, because it’s true — for both men and women in the military, it’s an enormous test. Especially for women. There are many cases where female soldiers face unfair treatment, simply because they’re women.
Right now, the army is at a turning point. The old system — the bureaucratic, Soviet-style, staff army — is being replaced by a new one. It’s being reshaped by volunteers and professionals who came from civilian life: businesspeople, innovators, bright individuals who had already built something in this world.
These people don’t obey blindly. They bring initiative, creativity, independence — and sometimes, yes, they break the rules. They clash with old-school commanders who can’t handle that kind of thinking.
But I’m proud of them. Because that tension — that friction — is exactly what creates transformation.
I see it everywhere: in the army, in civilian life, in culture, in politics. Everywhere you look in Ukraine right now, something is transforming. It’s an alchemical process — what it turns into depends on how strong each element is.
If I want Ukraine to become the country I dream about, I have to start with myself. I know I can’t change everything, but I can influence my own little circle — 5,000, 10,000 people — and that’s already something.
And if more of us do that, little by little, we’ll transform the whole country.
Nik Lysytskiy So you’re saying that this love of freedom, even inside the army, actually drives change?
Blackfish Exactly. I think it’s because of that love of freedom that the army even holds together. Because if it worked strictly like the old Soviet-style system — by rigid hierarchy and fear — it would have fallen apart long ago.
Nik Lysytskiy The small Russian army.
Blackfish Well, yes. I’m not trying to downplay the importance of the professional army — there are things there that come from years of military experience, things that truly work and keep structure. But the spirit — the victorious spirit of Ukraine — comes from the volunteer movement.
The professional military gives us the framework, the structure, the “body” of the army, if you will. It’s like a machine that holds everything together and knows how to distribute forces, how to plan, how to manage. But the soul — that’s the volunteers. The people who came from civilian life, the ones driven by conviction, not by orders.
And one without the other can’t survive — they need each other. But if you ask me, the spirit is decisive. The inner drive of people — that’s what moves the body. And I hope that it’s precisely this volunteer, freedom-loving spirit that will ultimately shape what our new army becomes.
Nik Lysytskiy Here’s a more philosophical question: why, in your opinion, has the love of freedom become such an essential part of Ukrainian identity?
Blackfish I can’t speak for all of Ukraine. Like I said, it’s hard for me to judge historical processes I wasn’t part of. But I can speak for myself.
At the beginning of 2022 — even before the full-scale invasion — I already knew war was coming. Friends offered to help me leave, but I refused. I said, “No matter what happens, I’ll stay.”
When Kyiv was under threat, I spent about a month and a half in Lviv. Friends invited me to go abroad then too — and again, I didn’t go. I felt this very clear inner certainty, like something inside me had already made the choice.
And when I look at other Ukrainians who stayed, I feel that same inner harmony — as if we all heard one call and made a collective choice. Not everyone, of course, but the majority. And I don’t focus on those who didn’t. I focus on those who did — people I admire deeply, people who inspire me.
Some of my friends, commanders, volunteers — they do incredible things. What they do is much greater than what I do. I look up to them.
That inner choice, for me, comes from conscience. There’s this voice inside — if I do something wrong, I feel it immediately. It’s uncomfortable, even painful. And I think if a person silences that voice once, compromises once, then it becomes easier to silence it again — until you stop hearing it altogether.
That voice of conscience, I believe, comes from our parents, our grandparents, our folklore — from the songs, stories, and atmosphere of our childhood. It’s embedded in us. It’s the same voice that says, “Don’t do that, Vasyl Telesyk,” or “Be careful, Veronika.” It’s our inner folklore, a moral echo passed down through generations.
And when you listen to it — when you really hear it — it leads you to the right choice.
Nik Lysytskiy Let’s talk about that voice — about Blackfish. About your new project. You said it was born during volunteer trips to the Donetsk region. But you’ve been singing since childhood, and as you’ve mentioned, it runs in your family. Though I suppose it wasn’t always rap?
Blackfish No, definitely not. But for me, rap is poetry — literally. The word “rap” comes from “Rhythmic American Poetry.” It’s a poetic genre, and what makes it powerful, especially now in Ukraine, is that it’s tied to human rights — to truth, to freedom of expression.
There’s a culture within rap that I’ve always wanted to see more of in our own music. Where I used to sing, everything was beautiful, lyrical — but I missed honesty. I missed truth.
So when I started studying literature again — I’m a philologist by education — I realized that rap could merge everything I love: poetry, music, and truth. I’ve always written lyrics, composed songs, created both text and melody. But words have always meant more to me than the music. I pour my essence into them.
And now, rap gives me that space. It’s a genre of freedom — and, importantly, of protest. But not destructive protest — a healthy one. Rap, for me, is about saying what you really see. It’s social. It’s about people.
If you look at American or British rap, it’s full of stories about society, about relationships between people, about injustice, about hope. That’s what I want to bring into Ukrainian rap — that depth, that honesty.
When I first started experimenting with it, my band didn’t really understand what I was doing. But my granddaughter — she got it immediately. She told me, “I don’t know what this is yet, but it’s cool. Keep doing it.”
She inspired me to continue. She said, “Find someone who can help you refine it — but don’t stop.”
And you know, what I’m doing isn’t traditional rap. It’s closer to spoken word — a more poetic form. It’s rhythmical, but it’s complex, with layered rhymes and meanings. People expect simple, direct rhymes, but mine are more intricate — internal rhymes, cross-rhymes, ideas that echo across lines.
It doesn’t always follow the usual structure — but it sounds musical. And for me, that’s what makes it alive.
Nik Lysytskiy Archetype of the Nation is created with the support of the Ukrainian Cultural Foundation. The project is published in several formats — so you can choose the one you like: watch, listen, or read our episodes, and be sure to share your thoughts in the comments. Because in this project, every thought matters.
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By the way, about your earlier work — I came across one description that called it “a chronicle of our time.”
Blackfish Yes, that’s true. I started that project during the Revolution of Dignity, and my previous work was closely tied to those events. For me, that was the first wave of protest music — a time when musicians were not just performing, but standing up for something.
And now… I feel that many of my colleagues from that protest wave have, well — deflated a bit. Sorry to say it so bluntly, but that raw protest energy is no longer there. Unfortunately, the industry has become more commercial, and given the financial crisis, it’s really hard to survive as a musician. It’s tough to stay true to yourself, to work, and still earn a living.
I see how hard everyone’s fighting just to stay afloat. Music isn’t a profitable field in Ukraine. So at some point, I decided: I’ll just do what I want — not for money, but for creative satisfaction.
I freed myself from financial pressure and from the expectations of the industry — from that whole system of “you have to sound like this,” “you have to perform like that.” In the mainstream scene, so much depends on who you know, what connections you have, who your manager drinks with. It’s all politics.
And I’ve always been someone who speaks my mind. I tell people the truth directly — and not everyone likes that. So I didn’t always feel comfortable in the industry.
But when I discovered rap, I thought — “This is it. This is my community.” In rap, no one cares about who you know — they care about your words, your rhythm, your authenticity. You’re judged by your skill.
There’s competition, but it’s healthy — not fake. You’re not promoted because of connections, you earn respect by being real. And for someone like me, who values honesty above all, that felt like home.
Nik Lysytskiy Would you say rap follows certain rules, or is it more of a reflection of the times we live in?
Blackfish It’s both — it has its own rules, but it’s also very much a sign of the times.
In my opinion, rap now carries the truest reflection of Ukrainian society. We criticize, we speak honestly, we don’t sugarcoat. There’s no hidden agenda — no one pays us to say certain things. For real rappers, it’s not about profit. It’s about truth.
Of course, there are commercial artists too — technically skilled, professional — and I respect them. But at its core, rap has always been an underground genre, born on the streets. And the streets — that’s where the real voice of the people lives.
It’s funny, but even in global culture, the streets are what set trends now. Anti-fashion is in style. I was just in England, talking to a young fashion student. She told me that in London, they’re inspired by parodying luxury — mocking big brands like Gucci or Chanel, creating “intellectual knockoffs” that flip the meaning.
That says a lot about how the world is rethinking values — moving away from wealth and status toward individuality, humor, and authenticity.
Meanwhile, in Ukraine, we still sometimes chase luxury — that desire to own something expensive, even if it’s just to hide our insecurities. But in Europe, people realized long ago that true value lies in taste, in self-irony, in personality.
And I think the same shift is happening in music. The old, oligarch-driven pop culture — the one that served the interests of media bosses and moneyed artists — is collapsing.
Now we’re seeing a new wave of musicians who are inspired not by luxury, but by life — by their friends at the front, by volunteers, by people doing real, heroic things.
You just can’t look at what’s happening and stay indifferent. That’s why, when I see someone driving a fancy car, bragging about their wealth, I honestly don’t care.
If you’ve never been to the front, never sat in a trench, never seen the faces of those defending us — then your wealth means nothing to me. None of it.
Because those who’ve faced war — they’re the ones who know real value. Everything else is just a cover for people’s insecurities.
And you can feel that very strongly in Ukraine right now.
Nik Lysytskiy You said the goal of your project is moral and psychological support. Why rap?
Blackfish Well, in principle, rap itself is moral and psychological support — at least for me personally. Let me explain why.
When I went on tours with our cultural landing group, we performed as musicians. I sang songs, and I could see the shift in our soldiers — that feeling of disappointment after the first counteroffensive, then the second. Everything inside them changed.
I saw how my music affected them — how it resonated before the counteroffensive under Zaluzhnyi, and how differently it was received afterward. The emotions, the conversations, the exhaustion — all of that shaped me deeply as a person.
Then, in the summer of 2023, I hit a really tough inner crisis. I felt useless in civilian life — like nothing I did mattered, like my music wasn’t reaching people, like I wasn’t myself anymore. I wasn’t happy.
At moments like that, I always want to escape to the front, to join my friends in the army. But they always ask me, “Are you sure you’re doing it for the right reasons?” They’re right — running from civilian life isn’t the right motivation to enlist.
And then there’s my dad. He’s serving now. He told me flat out: “I forbid it.”
So I was stuck — lost, not knowing what to do. I didn’t even want to sing anymore.
But since I had started taking literary courses — and I’ve always been someone drawn to books, culture, psychology, and the human soul — I just kept learning, reading, thinking. At some point, all that new knowledge, those conversations, and the experiences I had gathered created this huge need in me to speak.
And when I started to speak — to say things out loud, to put them into words and rhythm — it helped. It healed something inside me.
That’s how I see moral and psychological support. It’s actually a term used in the military — it means supporting soldiers emotionally and mentally during combat.
We used to go as a group — musicians, chaplains, psychologists. We’d perform, talk, listen. That combination — art, spirit, and psychology — that’s moral and psychological support. It’s not just about entertainment; it’s about helping people hold on to their humanity.
There weren’t only musicians, by the way — there were magicians, illusionists, artists of all kinds. It struck me how important that work is — because we are that invisible force that helps people stay sane in inhuman conditions.
But it’s hard. When you go to the infantry — to people who’ve just returned from missions — and you look into their eyes, you see things that words can’t describe. You see fear, trauma, disbelief. You realize how deep that darkness goes.
Sometimes I think — if someone here, in civilian life, feels unmotivated or lost — I’d just send them to spend a day with those soldiers. The motivation would appear instantly.
Just sit down with them, talk, listen. You’ll see what real strength and pain look like.
And that’s why news alone doesn’t work. News gives you information, but not meaning. Moral and psychological support is about restoring inner meaning — about the soul, about consciousness.
And to form that inner state, you have to go through your own journey — like I did — and find something new within yourself. I think, in a way, that’s how I saved myself from my own crisis.
And maybe, through my music, I can help someone else do the same.
Nik Lysytskiy By the way, we’ve already had a military chaplain and a military psychologist as guests on this project.
Blackfish And today, you have a musician.
Nik Lysytskiy Exactly. So, I hope that by watching our program, this can also serve as a kind of moral and psychological support for someone. That’s really what we aim for.
Now, another question — still about the theme of freedom. Do you think that in modern Ukrainian music there’s still a continuation of the folk tradition — that spirit of freedom and willfulness?
Nik Lysytskiy Do you think that spirit of freedom — the love of will we find in Ukrainian folk songs — still exists in modern Ukrainian music? I mean not literally quoting folklore, but in the content, in the lyrics. Because even though folk songs don’t always speak directly about freedom, the spirit of freedom is there — in Cossack songs, in riflemen’s songs, in lyrical songs, even in the epic dumy. It’s in the DNA of our musical tradition. Do you feel that same energy today?
Blackfish Yes, absolutely. There’s a lot of it. I’m just not as immersed in all of today’s music right now — honestly, I simply don’t have the time or emotional resources to follow everything that’s happening. I’m very focused on my own field, on what I write about, on what’s close to me.
Lately, the folk side doesn’t attract me as much as the literary one. I’m more interested in words — in texts and meanings.
Nik Lysytskiy I mean the lyrics too — that emotional and symbolic connection, not the literal folklore quotations.
Blackfish Right. Well, to me, Ukrainian music — like literature, like theater — has always been a reaction to what’s happening in society. And now again, all the tension, all the pain, all the searching we’re living through is reflected in art.
I see it everywhere. I see it in the literary scene — there’s a real explosion of creativity now. People are reading, writing, buying books. Literary festivals are full. Audiences line up to listen to poets. It’s beautiful — because it’s a response to destruction. When someone tries to erase us, we instinctively want to preserve ourselves, to understand who we are.
So we study our language, our culture, our literature — and that’s where our freedom shows.
This isn’t so much about creating something “new,” but about rediscovering the power of being ourselves. There’s so much energy now — because there’s demand. People are opening up again.
Ukraine has always had incredible talent, but in certain periods those voices were silenced — censored, hidden, banned. Many were born in the wrong time, like under the Soviet regime, and paid for it with their lives. And only now are we finally hearing them, realizing their true value.
So when we sit in a café, talk freely about books, about poetry — we are continuing their work. That, to me, is freedom.
It’s not only about creating art — it’s about living creatively. We’re a very artistic nation. Everyone here sings, paints, makes something by hand. Even our homemakers are artists — look at how they decorate food, houses, embroidery. Everything around us is filled with beauty.
I don’t separate the author from the listener or the reader. It’s one creative process. When someone listens to my songs, they’re part of the creation too — they complete the meaning.
And the truth is, I’m not writing songs about myself — not “I’m so in love,” “I’m sad today,” “what a lovely day.” We had plenty of that before — and it’s fine, but it’s flat.
Most of what dominated before — that whole oligarchic pop tradition — was about superficial things. Sex, money, glamour. Empty words, fake emotions. Those songs weren’t real, and they certainly weren’t ours.
Because our reality — Ukrainian reality — is deeper. Much deeper.
Now, people are incredibly sensitive. They crave authenticity — real stories, real emotions. And as an author, I feel that too. I care deeply about what happens to my people.
I used to cry a lot about it — truly. But at some point, I couldn’t anymore. You reach a stage where pain becomes so constant that it freezes, and you start analyzing it instead — coldly, rationally.
That’s where my current work comes from. It’s not just emotion, it’s reflection.
I’ve seen so many of my friends — soldiers, volunteers — go through impossible things. Some were wounded. I’ve known their stories for years. And when you see what they’ve been through, you just can’t afford to waste your time on nonsense.
You can’t complain about little things. You can’t act like nothing’s happening.
Some people choose to close off, to live simply, to make money and not think about it — and that’s their right. But for me, that’s no longer possible.
We’re living in a time when pain has reached a critical mass. And I believe that pain will ultimately lead to justice — that voice of conscience we talked about earlier will put everything in its place.
Maybe those changes haven’t reached everyone yet. But I can feel them. Deep inside — they’ve already reached me.
Nik Lysytskiy By the way, how did your family react to this new format — to you switching to rap?
Blackfish Honestly? I couldn’t care less what my grandma thinks. She knows I have songs with swear words, and at first she was like, “Oh God, you were raised better than this — what are these words?” And I told her, “Grandma, I can’t write about pain and guilt without swearing. There just aren’t enough clean words for that.”
My dad, on the other hand, is more skeptical. He always says, “I miss your old music.” And I tell him, “Dad, I just don’t feel like singing that way anymore.” He shrugs and says, “Do what you want.” So, he’s not really my listener. Neither is my grandma.
My mom — she’s my favorite person — but even she isn’t exactly my target audience. And that’s fine. Because if I made music for my parents, then probably only my parents would listen to it.
When you start saying things that make even your family uncomfortable — that’s when you know you’re touching something real. You’re doing something right. That’s what it means to be an artist — to keep your hand on the pulse of what’s human.
And yes, that’s also about freedom. The freedom to be yourself, even when it’s messy, imperfect, or uncertain. I’m not saying I’ve figured everything out — I’m still searching. But I need that range — the freedom to explore, to make mistakes, to be wrong sometimes.
I trust my own moral compass enough to know it won’t lead me down a destructive path. But creativity — it’s what helps me process pain, to articulate it, to survive it. And that’s not just me saying that — there’s plenty of research showing that when people go through traumatic experiences, especially extreme ones, like what we’re all living through now, it’s essential to speak about it, to express it.
That’s why art — any art — matters.
And when it comes to moral and psychological support, I’ve always had this deep urge to help the military live through their stories — to make them feel heard. I want them to know that someone from civilian life — some girl writing songs — sees them, thinks about them, appreciates them.
Because when soldiers realize that we, civilians, are grateful — that’s everything. Gratitude and respect — that’s the foundation of a healthy culture.
We can sit here, talk about philosophy, freedom, identity — and we can only do that because they give us this chance. They pay for it.
So my whole transformation — as a person, as an artist — came from contact with the front. I wasn’t there as a soldier, but even being near it, talking to those people, seeing their eyes, hearing their voices — it changed me completely. You can’t stay the same after that.
And I believe that through creativity — through art, music, language — we can help others feel that too. Because when people start to feel, empathy appears. And when there’s empathy, it becomes easier to understand others, even if their experiences are completely different from yours.
That’s the mission of creativity right now — to translate the emotions and experiences of Ukrainians into something that can be felt and understood by everyone.
Nik Lysytskiy And since I sincerely hope your rap will still be listened to a hundred years from now — what message would you want to leave for people in the future?
And since I really hope your rap will still be listened to a hundred years from now — what message would you want to leave to people in the future?
Blackfish I wasn’t ready for that question, honestly. Maybe someone else will decide later what my message was — or maybe I’ll figure it out myself one day. But right now, I don’t have a message for people in a hundred years.
I have a message for people now.
At this moment, I want people to keep searching for new meanings — and to understand that war is work. It’s not just tragedy; it’s routine. It’s something we have to learn to live with.
We have daily routines — we brush our teeth, drink coffee, drive to work, take our kids to school. We have a culture of hygiene, of food, of work, of study. But we still haven’t fully formed a culture of how to fight — how to live while fighting, how to support each other through war.
And I think we’re only beginning to realize that now. Through my creative sketches, through my lyrics, I’m trying to describe what that culture might look like — what kind of nation we’re becoming as a people at war.
Because if you look at our history — we’ve always been fighting. The field keeps rolling, as we say. Something’s always happening here. We never get to relax.
At the same time, we’re a peaceful people — farmers, homemakers, not aggressors, not conquerors. We never went anywhere to harm others. But yes, the Cossacks — they were our nomads, our warriors, our defenders.
Nik Lysytskiy Well, technically, the Sich was their home — their community — and they lived around it.
Blackfish Yes, that’s true. The Cossack was a kind of man separated from his home and family — but still with something to return to, with someone waiting for him.
And that’s how I see us now. We are, in a sense, always at war — not just literally, but culturally. It keeps repeating through generations. We just need to rethink it, structure it, and make it part of our collective routine.
For example — donations. How often do you do it? To whom? I have my own rule: I only help people I know — friends, soldiers I trust, or friends of friends who ask me directly.
And I think that’s how it should be. Everyone should ask themselves: what am I personally doing for victory? For moral support? For the survival of my nation?
Maybe you’re learning the language. Maybe you’re volunteering. Maybe you’re weaving camouflage nets. But you’re doing something.
That’s our shared culture now — the culture of participation. And I think that reminding people of the war through human stories can inspire them to act, to care, to do something meaningful.
Nik Lysytskiy Today we also talked about female figures — in folklore and beyond. Do you think there’s a difference between how women and men experience freedom?
Blackfish I can’t speak for men. But for myself — I’m very grateful to have been born here, in this country, in this family, because my parents gave me the space to explore my own freedom.
I even left home once, because I didn’t agree with the rules set for me. It was a kind of protest — a peaceful one, actually. My mom was the mediator, always trying to reconcile us.
That was my path of learning independence — learning to stand up for what I believed in.
And when it comes to my current path — this rap story — it’s the same.
I was just visiting my mom in Germany — she’s been there since the beginning of the war as a refugee. And she said, “Rap? Really? Is there even money in that?” I told her, “Mom, there’s no money in rap.”
She was shocked. “Then why are you doing it?”
I said, “Mom, please, stop.”
For her, it’s hard to understand — because she loves me and worries about me. But for me, this is my nature. I have to be myself, and I can’t live guided by other people’s fears — not my parents’, not my neighbors’, not my boss’s, not anyone’s.
That’s what freedom means to me. Not to be afraid.
And maybe that’s my feminine nature — but I can’t speak for everyone. Women are different. There are many who work in non-creative professions, who live completely different lives. I can’t generalize for them.
I can only say what freedom means for me — to live honestly, to follow my own path, and to not be afraid to be myself.
Nik Lysytskiy So rap for you — your work now — is really more about freedom and values than about circumstances or business, right?
Blackfish Honestly, creativity doesn’t depend on circumstances. You’ll agree — when someone’s creative, they crave freedom; they want to express something fresh, something new. Artists naturally have that in them — they’re open, emotionally free people. You can always feel it when you meet an actor or a musician.
For me, rap is simply who I am right now. I don’t know who I’ll be later. I hope I’ll stay a rapper and that this path will take me somewhere — but who knows.
Let me tell you a funny story about the povitrulya.
Nik Lysytskiy Go ahead.
Blackfish So, my dad and I once went with my mom to visit my grandmother for summer vacation. She lives in a village in the Rivne region. She’s the kind of person who embroidered everything by hand, remembered all the old songs and fairy tales — she carried that whole folklore world inside her.
We were talking about what my family nickname should be, and Grandma suddenly says to my dad: “Serhii, you have such a creative and beautiful daughter — name her Povitrulya.”
And my dad goes, “Mom, that’s indecent! I’m not calling her that.”
For him it sounded somehow improper, and I remember laughing so hard — “Povitrulya? No way.” But later, when you mentioned her, I had this flashback. I thought of my Grandma Halyna — she’s long gone now — but she was truly a berehynia of our family’s traditions in the Rivne region.
I even recorded my philology practice with her — her stories, songs, embroidery. She baked bread, tended her whitewashed oven — all those details live inside me. And that’s such a contrast to Kryvyi Rih, where I grew up — a mostly Russian-speaking reality.
That’s probably why I move easily between different worlds. I understand how people from different regions think, and I always try to find those small keys that connect us.
Nik Lysytskiy So you probably inherited your love of tradition from your grandmother?
Blackfish Yes, from my grandmother in the Rivne region. My love for folklore definitely came from her. As a child I adored folk songs — I sang them a lot in music school, studied them a bit, and later at university.
At the university we even had separate courses on folklore and ancient Ukrainian literature — they’re deeply connected. Folklore keeps returning, echoing in modern literature.
And now, for example, I’m really inspired by what my granddaughter is doing — not just because she’s my granddaughter, but because she genuinely conveys something fresh. I call her the Ukrainian Björk.
To me, she’s an artist on that level — rethinking our traditions and heritage through modern, electronic sound. It’s absolutely cosmic.
Thank you.
Nik Lysytskiy
Now you’ll have the perfect chance to sing a Ukrainian folk song, because it’s time for our traditional segment — The Folklore Chest. And today, there’s a surprise inside for the performer of the song.
We’re offering you three songs. You can pick one — whichever one you’re lucky enough to get. Choose a slip of paper, read the title aloud, and sing.
Blackfish All right. Oh — “There’s a Red Viburnum in the Meadow.”
Nik Lysytskiy You’re lucky! Every Ukrainian knows that one — probably even sings it with a chord or two. And that song, I think, perfectly reflects the freedom-loving spirit of our people.
Blackfish It’s interesting that sometimes the second verse is added — I’ve seen versions that go, “Don’t bend, oh red viburnum, you have a white blossom; don’t be sad, Ukraine, you have a good family.” There are so many versions of this song.
Nik Lysytskiy Exactly — the existence of different versions is what makes it a true folk song.
Blackfish Yes, there are always variations — that’s part of the beauty.
Nik Lysytskiy And there’s a fascinating story behind “Oh, There’s a Red Viburnum in the Meadow.” It’s not technically a pure folk song, because originally it was one — called “The Steep Banks Spilled.” Then in 1914, Stepan Charnetsky adapted it in Lviv for a theatrical performance.
And that’s how the version we know — “Oh, There’s a Red Viburnum in the Meadow” — was born.
Blackfish Cool.
Nik Lysytskiy It was originally an author’s song, but later it became so popular that everyone started to think of it as folk.
Blackfish So it’s kind of come full circle. It’s like “Those Eyes That Stare, You Never Came,” sung by Trivo Marenechi — it sounds completely like a folk song.
Nik Lysytskiy Exactly. It’s the story of how a folk song became an author’s song, and then turned back into a folk one again.
Blackfish Yes, exactly. People take it, make it their own, give it new meaning. That’s how it lives.
Nik Lysytskiy Right — if a song keeps changing, that’s a sure sign it’s truly folk.
Blackfish Absolutely. It has its own life. It’s not fixed — every region adds something different, their own variation.
And I’d actually like to sing the verse that’s less known, because everyone knows the first one. But there’s another verse that reminds us we’re still in the middle of the journey, and that we need new strength.
It’s a perfect reflection of what I want to wish our listeners and all Ukrainians:
Do not bow, red viburnum,
You have a white blossom.
Do not grieve, glorious Ukraine,
You have a free kin.
And we will raise that red viburnum,
And we will cheer our glorious Ukraine —
Hey, hey!
Thank you to Andrii Khlyvnyuk for this variation — I’m honored to continue your tradition.
Nik Lysytskiy Thank you, Blackfish.
Blackfish Thank you. It was truly a pleasure to be here. This is actually my first video interview — so I’m really glad it happened within such a great project. I’m very happy.
Nik Lysytskiy Thank you.
Blackfish Thank you for the invitation.
Nik Lysytskiy Now for our quick Blitz round — seven short questions, seven short (or not-so-short) answers, whichever you prefer.
What quality do you value most in people?
Blackfish Honesty.
Nik Lysytskiy And the one you dislike most?
Blackfish Lies — when a person lies.
Nik Lysytskiy What inspires you?
Blackfish People.
Nik Lysytskiy What scares you?
Blackfish I don’t even know right now… Probably a nuclear catastrophe.
Nik Lysytskiy What has helped you get through hard times in life?
Blackfish Creativity. Songs and lyrics — everything new I create helps me cope.
Nik Lysytskiy What’s your life’s main goal or mission?
Blackfish That’s a really interesting question. I’m not sure I know it yet. I have different goals, but first of all, I want to be happy — as a person.
And I want the people around me to feel comfortable. For me to be happy — and for my happiness not to harm anyone else.
Nik Lysytskiy If you had to describe Ukrainians in three words, what would they be?
Blackfish Let’s see… Freedom-loving, brave, and proud. That’s how I see us — proud and courageous people.
Nik Lysytskiy We have one last section — Artifact. We ask our guests to leave something behind as a keepsake.
Since we have rapper Blackfish in the studio today, we thought we’d ask you to write — and read — a short rap dedicated to freedom.
Blackfish I’d like to contribute something for your museum — or your collection. Since this one already feels like a folk piece to me, let it be this:
While we’re tired here,
My father stays silent…
He actually scolded me for that line.
At the front, in the East, he says,
“No need to help with Bor, I’ll handle it myself.”
The romantic time has passed —
Now it’s time for practical people.
That’s from my track Practices, dedicated to all the “practitioners” — the people holding the front. That’s it.
Nik Lysytskiy Thank you.
Blackfish Maybe it really will end up as a museum artifact someday.
Nik Lysytskiy Thank you all for watching — and goodbye.
