GREGORY: That’s a very valuable quality — no matter what a person does. Tell me, how did your life turn in that direction? Was it already in childhood when you suddenly decided to take this path?

OLEKSANDR: You know, it all began in a very simple, even funny, childlike way. A girl… A girl who was taking dance classes — I was absolutely in love with her. Unfortunately, she’s no longer with us, but I still remember her with warmth and gratitude. One day, a tall, handsome, confident man came into our class and said: “Kids, I’m forming a new dance group. Whoever wants to join — come. You won’t regret it. We’ll tour, go to the seaside, perform at concerts…” So, being a kid, I went — I followed that girl. She soon quit, but I stayed. They noticed me, started paying attention — and that’s how it began.

GREGORY: So where did you go exactly?

OLEKSANDR: It was an amateur folk dance group at the Darnytskyi Palace of Culture in Kyiv. I danced there for about a year and then entered the Institute of Culture. And that’s where the interesting part of the story begins. At the institute, I met people who personally knew Pavlo Pavlovych Virsky. To be honest, when I enrolled, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. I could draw pretty well, thought about studying architecture, but something kept pulling me toward dance. So I applied to the choreography department to become a ballet master. And I was truly lucky — I met Virsky’s widow, who taught Ukrainian folk dance. It was thanks to her that I finally decided to devote myself to dance professionally. After a few rehearsals, she came up to me — she was short, and I was tall — looked up and said: “You know, you’re one of ours.” I didn’t understand. “Ours? Whose?” She smiled: “Pasha would’ve taken you.” I asked, “Who’s Pasha?” — and everyone burst out laughing. No one could believe I didn’t know that “Pasha” was Pavlo Pavlovych Virsky. When I realized it, I felt both embarrassed and honored. She started paying special attention to me, correcting me, guiding me — and that meant the world. Later, while still a third-year student, I decided to join the Virsky Ensemble’s training studio. I was lucky — I managed to graduate from both places at the same time: two years at the Virsky Studio and four years at the Institute of Culture. That was in 1984. The same year I finished both the institute and the studio. After that, I was drafted into the army. And after completing my service, I was accepted into the ensemble. That was pure happiness. You know, it was like winning a million. Joining the ensemble was very difficult — twenty to twenty-five people auditioned at once, and when I did, only two were accepted: me and one girl. That was it.

GREGORY: And what does it actually mean to become a soloist of the ensemble?

OLEKSANDR: That’s a good question. A soloist is someone who performs solo parts, who shows mastery, charisma, and expression. You know, in the ensemble, many people stood out — they could be spotted from the audience immediately. They had presence, grace, and style — and the audience’s eyes were drawn to them. Moreover, feedback would come — even to our director, at that time Myroslav Mykhailovych Vantukh — people would say: “Who is that new guy? He stands out so much — such beautiful movements, so professional!” And that kind of praise meant more than money. Because when recognition comes from people outside the ensemble, it’s priceless. And our director would often respond — raise your salary right away — because you’d been noticed. I remember when I first joined, I was on probation — technically they could’ve let me go anytime. But still, they took me on tour to America. In 1987 we went there for the first time. Shortly after that, I received the highest rank — “ballet artist of the highest category.” At that time, it was 180 rubles. For comparison, my father, an engineer, earned 120. We traveled abroad often, saved our daily allowances, spent little, and of course brought things back to resell, bought clothes, apartments, cars. Back then, that felt like the peak of success.

GREGORY: Well, that’s serious, of course.

OLEKSANDR: At that time — very serious. You see, back then, in the late ’80s, from 1987 to 1991, only diplomats, artists, and athletes could travel abroad. That’s it. Well, maybe sailors too. Everyone else — never. So when we arrived abroad, people looked at us like something extraordinary, almost unreal.

I remember coming back from America — at that time, acid-washed jeans and jackets were in fashion. And I came home dressed like that. I couldn’t walk unnoticed — neither in the subway nor on the bus. People would stare and whisper: “Sokil Kyiv!” I could hear them — they thought I was a hockey player. Broad shoulders, athletic build, tall. “Sokil Kyiv! Sokil Kyiv!” — I still remember it. It was funny.

GREGORY: You know, as you talk, it brings back memories of those years... Of course, so many stories come to mind. Back then, it often happened that soloists from the Bolshoi Theatre defected abroad, or hockey players, like the ones you mentioned. Even people working at the UN — anyone who had the opportunity to travel — many stayed abroad. There was quite a wide circle of people who had the privilege to travel and chose not to return. Were there any such cases in the Virsky Ensemble?

OLEKSANDR: I want to say right away — no. And I say this with great respect, even reverence — about Pavlo Pavlovych Virsky. During the entire history of the ensemble under his leadership — and he directed it for twenty years, until his death in 1975 — not a single person ever stayed abroad. No one ran away. No one.

He had immense authority. People looked up to him almost like to a god — and that’s not an exaggeration. It’s true. They adored him, trusted him as a father. His authority was absolute, unquestionable. Of course, as in any theater company, there were internal challenges, creative tensions, personal conflicts — but the respect for Virsky was unconditional.

GREGORY: What kind?

OLEKSANDR: What kind? Again — competition. And not only professional, but also behind-the-scenes. Intrigues, gossip, anonymous letters — all that existed. During Virsky’s time, there were many anonymous denunciations. The KGB worked at full capacity. And unfortunately, some of those reports were directed even against Virsky himself.

You probably know that Virsky suffered greatly after the ensemble’s tour in Spain, when Otto Skorzeny came to their concert. Skorzeny was a close associate of Hitler — an extraordinary, well-known figure, though of course a fascist and a criminal. He was a professional intelligence officer, the same man who rescued Mussolini from captivity and brought him to Hitler. He was daring, yes — but a fascist, a scoundrel. After the war, thanks to cooperation with Western intelligence services, he avoided punishment: he provided information, and many of his crimes were “forgiven.” He lived quite comfortably afterward.

So, he came to the Virsky Ensemble’s concert — not ours, I wasn’t with them yet. During the intermission, he went backstage. Who exactly brought him there — still unknown.

GREGORY: They say it was the interpreter.

OLEKSANDR: Yes, that’s what they say. But the problem is that Virsky had no idea whose hand he was shaking. And someone immediately took a photo — and, of course, reported it. You see, during concerts and after them, there were always crowds backstage and outside the venue. People wanted to see us, touch us. I remember being grabbed by the legs more than once — people asked: “Do you have springs in there? How do you jump so high?” It was normal back then. So I can imagine — a tall, handsome man approached Virsky, shook his hand, thanked him through an interpreter, and said: “I remember your Russian winters — they’re very cold, but your dances are very hot.” Those were his words. Virsky just smiled, said thank you — he didn’t know who the man was.

But once he returned to Kyiv — that was it. The KGB immediately targeted him. For almost three years, the ensemble was banned from traveling abroad. But that wasn’t the worst part. They began destroying him morally.

Virsky, like any true artist, was deeply emotional. On stage, movement comes from emotion — without feeling, there is no art. And he was a man of great sensitivity. They broke him. His hands trembled, he smoked constantly, tormented himself inwardly. He could have lived much longer.

Later, thanks to the support of Volodymyr Shcherbytsky, he was publicly congratulated on his anniversary, and suddenly everything changed — the phones started ringing again, those who had turned away came back. But the wound remained in his heart for the rest of his life.

You see, you can’t treat a person like that — someone who choreographed with genius, who shaped Ukrainian culture, and even the cultural image of the Soviet Union across the world. But, sadly, nothing surprising — it was that time, that system. The Soviet Union didn’t like people who had real authority and talent. They wanted everyone to be equal — and the only “talents” were supposed to be in the Central Committee of the Communist Party. Everyone else — was just ordinary.

GREGORY: That’s true. You know, the story with Otto Skorzeny is one of the most remarkable — and, I’d say, one of the most tragic in Virsky’s life, because it truly affected him — both physically and emotionally. But let me tell you this: nowadays, everything is online, and I came across a report written by two state security officers who accompanied the ensemble on that trip. In their memo — apparently written to excuse themselves after they were dismissed — they claimed that they knew in advance that Skorzeny and his family would be sitting in the tenth row, and that they planned to go backstage during the intermission. I don’t know how true that is.

OLEKSANDR: It’s true. Moreover, when it all happened, Virsky didn’t say a word to anyone. Only later, when he was cleared, he asked just one question. I know the KGB supervised us — I remember that clearly, I experienced it myself later. And he said: “How could you allow that man to come backstage? Where were you?” That was all he said. He didn’t look for someone to blame. He just asked, “Where were you?”

GREGORY: And why do you think that, at such a difficult moment for the ensemble, Volodymyr Shcherbytsky — head of the Communist Party of Ukraine — suddenly intervened, called Virsky, and congratulated him on his 65th birthday? Why did he defend him?

OLEKSANDR: I know the reason — one hundred percent. First of all, everyone missed the Virsky Ensemble. And second, don’t forget — the ensemble brought foreign currency to the country, and a lot of it. We regularly brought in large amounts of money for the Soviet Union. I can’t give exact figures, but they were huge. Most of it went straight to Moscow, while part of it stayed in Ukraine. Of course, we were a state-funded organization, but our tours generated revenue many times greater than our budget.

Think about it: 100–180 rubles a month — that’s what, thirty or forty dollars? An engineer’s salary. Meanwhile, we had five or six international tours every year — serious tours. The impresarios who hired us made fortunes. One of them, Frédéric Squarra, after our first tour, bought himself a Rolls-Royce and an office in central Paris. That says a lot, doesn’t it?

Shcherbytsky understood that the Virsky Ensemble was not just a troupe — it was a national treasure, the pride of Ukraine. How could such a company, with that potential, sit idle? Of course, he stepped in.

There were tensions, of course — a silent rivalry between Virsky’s and Moiseyev’s ensembles. They were often considered “number one,” and we were “number two.” But you know, the best judge was always the audience.

I remember New York. Paris. Luxembourg. Monaco… Especially Monaco. We flew there on a charter flight to give a single concert. Before us performed the Cuban Circus. It was at the Monte Carlo Casino — the most prestigious stage in Monaco. The audience was full of billionaires, sitting at tables with flowers, drinking champagne, smoking — watching lazily.

Then our music started. The first number — they watched calmly. The second, the third — they started putting out their cigarettes, leaning forward, getting drawn into our performance. At first, no applause. But when we finished — the entire hall stood up. They began stomping their feet in applause — and then started pulling flowers from the vases and throwing them onto the stage.

And these weren’t ordinary people — these were those who had seen everything. The wealthiest, most refined audience. That was the highest praise we could receive.

I think it was always that way. Wherever Virsky performed — in his lifetime there was always success. You can see it in the old films, the newsreels, and even online today. Anyone can watch and see for themselves. It’s true. And I’m proud — deeply proud — that I was part of that ensemble.

You know, I’ve been retired for twenty-five years now, but my soul still burns, and my heart still remembers.

GREGORY: Still, if we talk about your personal achievement in the ensemble — in this team, I’d say of like-minded people, though I’m not sure they all were like-minded… You didn’t personally know Virsky, did you?

OLEKSANDR: No, I was in fifth grade when he passed away.

GREGORY: So then, what would you say was your personal achievement in the ensemble?

OLEKSANDR: My greatest achievement? You know, I had the privilege of doing something I truly loved for many years — and that’s priceless. Looking back now, I can say this with certainty. Here in Canada, I had to work for many years doing something I didn’t love. Life was hard. I worked physically, and it was tough. In the Virsky Ensemble, I also worked hard — but it was a joyful kind of labor. The kind that fills you with purpose. The satisfaction I felt there — I’ve never felt it here in Canada. Except maybe later, when I started my own business — which, in its own way, was also creative.

I spent twenty years in the ensemble, and throughout those years I experienced incredible joy — from the stage, from the audience, from applause, from people coming up to you afterward and looking at you as if you were something special, almost sacred. It made you feel unique. Of course, there were many talented people — all of us were. The ensemble took only the best. But when you’re young, you think, “I’m the best.” And, honestly, that’s how an artist should think. Those are healthy ambitions — not the kind that put others down, but the kind that make you grow. You carry culture; you represent your nation. People watch you and ask, “Teach us, show us.”

That’s what I did in my first years here in Canada, among the Ukrainian diaspora. I taught, I even created a small children’s dance group — not for long, but with love. However, the values here are a bit different, and I had to earn money — to support my family, my home, my children. It was impossible to live off dance alone, so I went into construction.

But you know, I’m happy. Because I’ve experienced everything in life — joy and sorrow, success and struggle. Now I’m content, my life is good, and I regret nothing.

I’m deeply grateful to Pavlo Pavlovych Virsky and to the ensemble — because if it weren’t for them, I probably never would have come to Canada. Yet I love Ukraine dearly — it’s my homeland. I worry for it, I help however I can. My family members are fighting: my nephew, my sister’s husband — they’ve been on the front line for three and a half years already. God willing, they’ll be safe.

So yes, I’m grateful for my life — and especially for the fact that the Virsky Ensemble was a part of it.

GREGORY: By the way, I just remembered something interesting. At one major Soviet meeting — I don’t recall exactly which anniversary it was — Volodymyr Shcherbytsky was giving a speech. As usual, he was listing Ukraine’s achievements: farmers, miners, shipbuilders, fishermen, oil workers — the standard Soviet list. And then, at the end, he suddenly said: “And, of course, I must also mention the Virsky Ensemble and the Dynamo football team.”

OLEKSANDR: Absolutely true. Those were the two diamonds of Ukraine. You see, at one time, the Soviet national football team was practically based on Dynamo Kyiv. Thank God for Valeriy Lobanovskyi — he did something truly remarkable. That was another source of national pride.

And, by the way, we had a very warm friendship with Dynamo Kyiv. Sometimes we’d meet — for instance, when we’d see off friends retiring from their careers. We’d sit together at the same tables — the dancers and the football players. Those meetings were unforgettable. I can’t even describe the atmosphere — so much laughter, energy, and camaraderie. Sadly, many of those people are gone now, and I really regret that we didn’t have video cameras then to capture it all. We danced, told jokes, shared memories… It was magical.

GREGORY: Let me ask you this. You mentioned Igor Moiseyev and his famous ensemble. As a professional, how would you compare the Virsky Ensemble and the Moiseyev Ensemble?

OLEKSANDR: Very easily. Quite simply, actually. You know, Igor Moiseyev was originally from Kyiv — born in Ukraine — though fate led him to live and work in Moscow. But that’s not the main point.

The key difference is this: the Moiseyev Ensemble is an ensemble of the dances of the world’s nations. The Virsky Ensemble, on the other hand, is the Ensemble of Ukrainian Folk Dance — we performed exclusively Ukrainian numbers.

Of course, in Soviet times we also had “brotherly” pieces — for example, the Russian dance “Utushka,” choreographed by Pavlo Pavlovych Virsky himself. I think it was one of the best numbers ever created. It was full of culture, simplicity, and grace. The music was extraordinary, and every pair expressed a unique character. You couldn’t look away. “Utushka” was loved in every country we performed in — proof of Virsky’s genius.

Later, under Myroslav Mykhailovych Vantukh, we also had numbers like “Friendship,” where all nationalities of the Soviet Union were represented — as required by the authorities at the time.

As for Moiseyev’s ensemble — they had an outstanding school, incredible professionalism, and tireless dedication. No one disputes that. But their approach was a bit different. In our ensemble, every dance was like a small theatrical performance — with drama, emotion, and storytelling. That’s what set Virsky apart from Moiseyev.

OLEKSANDR: With Moiseyev, for example, take “Evening in a Tavern.” It’s exactly that — a tavern, people dancing. Yes, they dance beautifully, but it’s just dancing. Or take the “Greek Dance.” It’s a wonderful number — elegant music, graceful movements — but it’s purely aesthetic.

With us, it’s different. “Why the Willow Weeps” is not just a dance — it’s a drama. A deeply modern piece that speaks about life today, about war. It tells the story of a young Cossack who meets a girl, they fall in love, but then war begins, and he goes to fight for his land and his beloved. He dies in battle, but his friends return home with his hat and sabre. And in the final scene, as a sign that life goes on, a small boy — his son — appears and receives those symbols. Ukraine will never die. Ukraine knows how to fight.

How did Virsky know that such times would come? He simply turned to history — but history is cyclical. It repeats itself. And now we see what Russia is doing — something beyond comprehension.

Perhaps I even praised the Moiseyev Ensemble too much. I have friends there — and many of them support Putin. It’s unbearable. A moral collapse. You can’t wish death upon people like yourself — yet they do. And worse — they act on it. So perhaps now is not the time to compare the Virsky Ensemble with the Moiseyev Ensemble. Maybe one day, when time passes, we can do it calmly. But not now. We don’t want to look in that direction.

And yet, they’re always watching us. I can see on YouTube who views Ukrainian dances — Russians do, constantly. They copy and steal everything. Recently I searched “Russian dance ‘Utushka’” — and what do I see? A 2023 video from Donetsk — the Donetsk dance ensemble performing our “Utushka” by Virsky! But now it’s all Russians dancing a “Russian dance.” I’ve also noticed them reworking our Cossack-style pieces, like “The Zaporozhians.”

But “Utushka” is not just a dance — it’s the face of the Virsky Ensemble. It was, is, and will remain. No one today can match what Virsky created.

And beyond “Why the Willow Weeps,” there are other masterpieces — “The Buchenwald Alarm,” “We Remember” — war stories, full of emotion and narrative. “Podolyanochka”, “The Needleworkers” — all of them tell stories. Every number has its own dramaturgy. The music flows perfectly, the action develops naturally, and there is meaning behind every movement.

People don’t just look at beautiful dancers — though our women are indeed beautiful — they follow the story, the emotion, the message. That’s what matters most. That is the genius of Virsky. He is still alive — in his dances, his school, in every movement carried on by new generations.

GREGORY: I can’t call myself a real expert in this genre, but I do remember that whenever the Moiseyev Ensemble returned from an international tour, there were always stories in the press about the new dances they had seen abroad and how those would soon appear on Soviet stages. With Virsky, as far as I know, that never happened — right?

OLEKSANDR: Exactly. You’re absolutely right. The Moiseyev Ensemble was conceived from the very beginning as a troupe that would perform the dances of the world’s nations. And, by the way, many of the numbers performed by the Moiseyev Ensemble were not choreographed by Igor Moiseyev himself. He had many invited choreographers. And yes — they often brought material from other countries: Greece, Spain, Bulgaria, China… They learned from local groups, adapted the choreography, made cuts and changes — and created new versions.

GREGORY: So, in a sense, it was like a replica, an adaptation?

OLEKSANDR: Exactly. Of course, no one denies Moiseyev’s talent. He was a genius, and he had brilliant musicians who knew how to perfectly match movement to music, as well as gifted rehearsal choreographers who refined everything to perfection. It was a high level, no question about it.

But Virsky — that’s something else entirely. Everything he created came from within — from the Ukrainian spirit itself, from the soul of the people. Take, for instance, the dance “The Needleworkers.” It’s about young women weaving a cloth from multicolored threads. A simple idea — labor, craft — yet what Virsky turned it into was pure art. He found a striking visual image: as the dancers move, the threads intertwine to form a pattern. The girls, dressed in traditional Ukrainian costumes, weave living color through movement — it’s mesmerizing.

I used to watch from backstage — the audience would sit wide-eyed, mouths open in awe. And when, at the end, a real woven cloth appeared as the culmination of the dance — the hall would erupt in applause. Nothing like that ever existed in Moiseyev’s ensemble.

And the most amazing thing — Virsky came up with that number right on a train platform! It happened during a tour, I believe in China. The journey was long, with many stops, and at each station he would take the dancers out onto the platform, show them new movements, experiment. Then he’d return to his compartment and refine the choreography. By the time they came back home — the dance was finished.

That’s Virsky. Not just a name — a phenomenon. One of a kind.

GREGORY: You know, Virsky was, of course, a genius. It’s hard to argue with that — and pointless to try. But tell me, was there any criticism of Virsky back in those years when he was active?

OLEKSANDR: Oh yes, there was — everything. Criticism, envy, intrigue. Above all, envy. Unfortunately, it’s human nature. And not just in theater or in the ensemble — in any creative collective, anywhere, really: in a factory, on a farm. Her Majesty Envy lives in everyone — some have more of it, some less. People envied Virsky. They truly did.

And even during his lifetime, there were those who dared to say hurtful things to his face — right in front of the whole ensemble. I won’t name names, but there were such people.

GREGORY: So you mean not outside criticism — not from the press or officials — but inside the ensemble itself? How could anyone envy him? They were dancers, he was the creator.

OLEKSANDR: That’s exactly what they couldn’t grasp. They envied his talent, his authority, his position. They wanted to take his place. But there can be no second Virsky. He didn’t just choreograph dances — he birthed them. He always had several versions of each piece in his mind. He could, in 10 or 15 minutes, create a full scene, offering three or four variations at once. And he valued those who could immediately memorize the movements.

His true disciples — my own teachers — told me that he would often say during rehearsals:
“Alright, tomorrow we’ll do not the version we did today, but the one from the day before yesterday.”
And everyone would grab their heads, trying to remember what that was. Then the next day, he might say:
“No, forget that one — let’s go back to yesterday’s version.”
And that’s how it always went.

He watched, analyzed, and chose the best. It was an incredible school. The people who envied him thought they could do the same. But no one could — and no one ever will.

When I first heard this story from an older colleague, I was stunned. I imagined myself in his place and couldn’t believe how calmly he handled it. But Virsky behaved with great dignity. He didn’t shout or insult anyone. You know what he did? He scheduled double rehearsals. So that by the end of the day, those who had spoken out barely made it out of the hall. Brilliant move.

He could deliver a sharp remark — everyone knew his wit — but he never stooped to pettiness. He carried himself like a nobleman. People respected him, called him The Patron. For most, he was like a father. Yet, as always, there were a few who couldn’t stand it. Envy — it’s a dangerous thing.

GREGORY: Did he have his favorites?

OLEKSANDR: Yes, he did — but not in the sense of “teacher’s pets.” His favorites were the ones who worked the hardest, who gave everything to the stage. He respected true professionals, tireless workers. And if he saw real dedication, he helped however he could — even with housing or personal support.

There was one story — about an artist named Rechkalov, a wonderful man who, sadly, passed away this year. He had nowhere to live, so Virsky gave him his own office! Imagine that — he and his wife lived in Virsky’s office for several months until Virsky managed to get them an apartment. What kind of person does that? He was like a father to him — though Rechkalov wasn’t even family. That’s the kind of man Virsky was: he cared for people, he valued them deeply.

He didn’t tolerate laziness. He could look someone in the eye and say, “No. I don’t believe it. It’s not right.” Or, “You’re not the one for us.” But he never humiliated anyone. And if he saw talent — he’d say, “You’re one of us.” He was straightforward. A man of action.

Once, a Party official made a remark to him right during rehearsal.

GREGORY: Wait — they came to rehearsals?

OLEKSANDR: Of course. They were always supervising. And here’s what Virsky did: during one rehearsal in a concert hall, he turned the entire ensemble around — so they faced away from the audience — and he himself crossed to the opposite side of the stage. The ensemble continued rehearsing with their backs to the Party representatives. “Let them watch from behind,” he said. That was Virsky.

GREGORY: And there were no consequences for that?

OLEKSANDR: Oh, there were. They told him things like, “We’ll remove you, we’ll replace you…” And he calmly replied, “Fine. I can leave, wherever you say. But who will work with the ensemble then — you?” A few days later, that same official came back to apologize. Apparently, someone explained to him: “You can’t argue with Virsky. He’s a genius. Whatever he does — it’s right.”

Yes, there were people who disliked him. But as I said — it was simple envy. Plain human envy.

GREGORY: When you learn about Virsky’s life and the history of the ensemble, what’s striking is not only the scale of his talent but also the time he lived in. The ensemble was founded, if I’m not mistaken, in 1937, right?

OLEKSANDR: Exactly.

GREGORY: Then there’s one topic that can’t be avoided. All the Soviet republics were under strict control back then — especially in the arts. Russification was everywhere. And in Ukraine, anyone could be labeled a “Ukrainian nationalist” — writers, actors, composers. We all remember how the Ukrainian language was treated, how few hours of it there were in schools... Everyone who lived through that era knows it well. So, how did that affect the ensemble? Was it easy for them to be accused of “Ukrainian nationalism”?

OLEKSANDR: Absolutely right. Excellent question. And, you know, there was even some dark humor in it. Sometimes we were called “Russian artists from Ukraine.” Funny, isn’t it? But that’s how it was. To them, we were all just — Rasha, Rasha, Rasha.

GREGORY: That was abroad, outside the Soviet Union?

OLEKSANDR: Of course, I’m talking about the times when we toured abroad. Back then we used to say “over the hill” when we meant “abroad.” And no matter where we went — the Sukhishvili ensemble from Georgia, the Zhoc ensemble from Moldova, or us, Ukrainians — everyone called us the same: “Russian Georgians,” “Russian Moldovans,” “Russian Ukrainians.” You see? For them, everything was Soviet Union. And Soviet Union meant Russia.

But it wasn’t out of malice. People simply didn’t understand, and Soviet propaganda made sure the whole world thought the USSR was just Russia. Moscow was the center, the patron. Everything else was secondary.

Take the Baltics, for example. Even Russians back then would say it felt like another country. You’d arrive there and immediately sense the difference — Western order, culture, discipline. The most European part of the Soviet Union — that was the Baltics.

Ukraine was different. The national spirit lived on, but no one spoke about it openly. The word “nationalism” itself was treated as an insult. Only in the early 1990s — around ’92, ’93 — people began to say: “It’s time to speak Ukrainian.”

That’s why I have two native languages — Russian and Ukrainian. I can speak and think in both. Now English has joined them. But we never had that kind of “nationalism” the Russians talk about today.

Let me say it clearly: I am a nationalist.
But what does that mean?
It means I don’t want Ukrainian children to be killed.
I don’t want women to be raped.
I don’t want the elderly to be murdered.
I don’t want our young soldiers to die.
I don’t want our cities to be bombed.

I don’t want people to be so brainwashed that, after three and a half years of war, I still hear Russians saying: “Ukraine attacked Russia.” Can you imagine that? Saying this to Ukrainians who live under daily shelling!

What kind of “war” is it when children, the elderly, civilians are being killed, when hospitals, maternity wards, and apartment buildings are destroyed? That’s not a war — that’s fascism.

So yes — I am a nationalist.
Because I stand against killing.
Because I want Ukraine to live.
I want peace in Ukraine.
And I am certain — Ukraine will become one of the most prosperous countries in the world. Absolutely certain. Europe will look up to Ukraine. Because Ukraine is the largest country in Europe — truly European in spirit and land.

Russia is Asia. Ukraine is Europe.
And I believe that after all this suffering, after all the technological advances, Ukraine will rise.

Look — our military is already developing incredible innovations. Take, for example, the new missile called “Flamingo.” A beautiful name — and I believe it will mark the final point in this unjust war.

When that monster Putin is gone — in his own lair — this nightmare will end.

And let no one dare say that Ukraine is “a beggar.” Ukraine simply trusted — one mistaken president too easily gave up our nuclear arsenal. If that hadn’t happened… If we’d kept our planes, the same ones now used to bomb us! There was a memorandum, signed and guaranteed — but who kept their word? No one.

Our soldiers see everything. They’re not blind. They understand that Ukraine’s potential — human, industrial, economic — cannot compare to Russia’s right now. But they keep fighting.

And when China and North Korea are helping Russia — why shouldn’t other nations help Ukraine? Why not? This is a just war — for life, for land, for people.

Ukraine isn’t fighting for power. Ukraine is fighting for survival.
And Ukraine will win.

GREGORY: Well, it’s hard not to agree with you — I’m actually very much on the same page.
OLEKSANDR: That’s very nice to hear.
GREGORY: I have one last short question: what’s the difference between the Virsky Ensemble — the one that existed during Pavlo Pavlovych’s lifetime — and the current Virsky Ensemble that bears his name?

OLEKSANDR: That’s a complex question, and a long one, but I’ll try to be brief. Unfortunately, I didn’t work during the lifetime of the great genius, Pal Palych Virsky. I simply wasn’t old enough. But I knew many of his students and personally knew his widow, with whom I had a very warm, close friendship. I’m deeply grateful that I had the chance to work with her — she became my teacher.

As for the current Virsky Ensemble, we must give enormous credit to Myroslav Mykhailovych Vantukh. He managed to preserve the immense artistic legacy of Pal Palych. Losing a company like that would have been easy. Very easy. After the death of such a towering figure, ensembles often fall apart — people scatter.

But Virsky’s studio — which he himself created — still exists within the ensemble. It continues to train dancers for the main troupe. Children join it at a very young age and study for four years — learning not only to dance, but to understand the essence of Ukrainian dance: its rhythm, character, and emotion.

Of course, there are no productions today quite like those that Virsky himself choreographed. Not yet. But his repertoire lives on — it remains relevant and continues to captivate audiences. Every new generation discovers those dances anew, and that’s wonderful.

Those dances are like Rembrandt’s paintings, like the poetry of Shevchenko, like the dramas of Lesia Ukrainka. They are classics.
Pavlo Pavlovych Virsky is a classic of Ukrainian art.
He is immortal.

GREGORY: Well then, thank you. Thank you for coming, and thank you for sharing your memories.
OLEKSANDR: Thank you for inviting me.
GREGORY: And I’d like to remind our viewers that our guest today was Oleksandr Borodulia — soloist of the Pavlo Virsky National Dance Ensemble.​​