ZMINA: Rebuilding - Babyn to Bakhmut: Connecting Ukraine’s Frontlines and Villages Through a Shared Audiovisual Journey
The Babyn to Bakhmut project, led by multimedia artist Olia Mykhailiuk, takes viewers on an audiovisual journey that bridges the gap between rural communities in western Ukraine and those fighting on the frontlines in the east. The documentary captures the daily realities of life during war and the resilience of tradition, culture, and human connection across regions. While the project touches on the broader context of wartime life, the focus of the video notes is more on the journey itself and the connections between people, showing how relationships persist and grow stronger, even across great distances. By following the volunteers from Babyn as they deliver supplies—and symbols of their heritage—to their fellow villagers in Bakhmut and Huliaypole, the project encourages dialogue on the evolving ties between Ukrainian regions and the significance of shared values, music, and memories amidst the ongoing war.
We spoke with Olia about the challenges of documenting such personal stories, the regional diversity woven into the project, and how war is reshaping people’s relationships with both community and nature.
The filming took place in various regions of Ukraine, each with its own unique culture and atmosphere. How did this regional diversity influence the overall narrative of the video?
Right now is an extraordinary moment for the connection between different parts of Ukraine, as they are getting to know each other. This interaction is happening under difficult circumstances, and it’s not easy—but it’s happening. That’s what the protagonists in our video notes talk about. You can also see it in the landscapes through which the red volunteer van travels—from the mountains to the steppes. It’s even reflected in the project’s poster, which features both slag heaps and Carpathian mountains. Interestingly, soldiers from the Carpathians said the slag heap in the poster reminded them of Mount Khomiak.
As a director, did you feel any pressure or responsibility while creating this project, knowing that it reflects such important aspects of life during wartime?
In the spring of 2023, right before Easter, I was in the Carpathians. I happened to witness volunteers from a village in the Hutsul region gathering supplies and heading off to the frontline to support their fellow villagers. By that time, I had already been volunteering in Kyiv for a year, seeing various humanitarian hubs in the Kyiv region, Dnipro, and other places. But here, it was something different: a small red van, locals with their special pride—Babyn’s pysanky, Easter bread, the sound of tape being ripped, church bells, and a mountain stream clashing all at once. I realized this had to be documented. It was this desire to preserve the connection between those in the village and those at the frontline, to maintain tradition even in such untraditional circumstances. On my next trip, I went along with the volunteers and began filming.
I didn't choose the format of video notes randomly. I was fully aware that I couldn’t process everything I saw just yet. It was too emotional. Filming the green Carpathians in spring, recording the sounds of cymbals and sopilkas, promising to deliver all the letters and gifts to the frontline, then traveling 1,400 km from Babyn in Ivano-Frankivsk region to Kramatorsk and further along the frontline, watching the landscape change outside the window—it wasn’t just about how the streams turn into large rivers, and the mountains become cliffs and hills, eventually giving way to the Donetsk and Zaporizhzhia steppes. It was also about the increasing destruction, signs warning of mines, and military equipment. For the time being, I was just documenting, which gave me some freedom in the editing process.
In the first story I recorded, one of the protagonists talked about being caught in a shelling with his brother. His brother said to him, “Don’t be afraid. Let’s sing.” Maybe that’s why there’s a lot of music and conversations about music in the video. During my last trip to Huliaipole, I met a chaplain who was also from the Carpathians. Once again, we were driving through endless steppes. He sang Cheremshyna. All in all, I created conditions where the subject didn’t weigh on me.
After all, I’m not documenting the war itself, but how people are trying to preserve their traditions, songs, spirit, and themselves as a community in the face of this horrific war. I met incredible people along the way.
multimedia artist Olia Mykhailiuk
You document the lives of rural communities during the war, particularly their traditions and culture. Have you noticed any changes or adaptations in cultural practices due to the war?
Yes. This year, I was in the Carpathians again for Easter. Many people came to church in traditional clothing—embroidered shirts and sheepskin vests. The people I spoke to talked about how, before the war, absolutely everyone wore traditional festive attire. Now, many no longer care, and they include themselves in that group. Some have recently returned from the frontline due to injuries, while others have lost friends and loved ones. That’s why many people are now dressed in black. A similar story applies to weddings. Before the war, it was customary to set up two tents—one for 150-200 guests—where people would feast in one tent and dance to Hutsul music in the other. In the last two years, there’s been only one wedding in the village, and it wasn’t traditional—there was no music, and it was held with a small circle of relatives. Yet at a soldier's funeral in Kosiv, they sang Popid Hayem Zelenenkym—it was his final request, which showed exactly how the traditions are changing, as songs like this are not usually sung at funerals.
In 2024, volunteers no longer brought Easter eggs or Easter bread from the Carpathians. They asked everyone to donate money for drones instead. I contributed to it too, but beforehand, I stopped by the market in Kosiv and bought cheese horses and painted Easter eggs. When I delivered them to the head of Babyn, who is fighting in the Siversk direction, he instantly, and without hesitation, identified the Easter egg as one from Kosmach and the horses from Brustury. In the Carpathians, they can tell where each village's colors and patterns come from. In Huliaipole, they were also delighted and immediately suggested we unsaddle the horses—an invitation to share a meal together. It was just 10 minutes together, but it felt like a true celebration. Traditions are evolving.
The project connects different regions of Ukraine through personal stories. What, in your opinion, makes these narratives so important for the broader Ukrainian context?
Those who are currently defending the country are, of course, in extremely dangerous conditions, often not even allowed to use their phones. Meanwhile, life in their villages and towns goes on without them.
Without a connection between those who have gone to fight and those who have stayed behind, there’s a risk that the distance will grow not only geographically but also in people’s mentality.
multimedia artist Olia Mykhailiuk
And this doesn’t just apply to the Carpathian village of Babyn, but to all of Ukraine. Moreover, our story isn’t generalized—it’s about real people. The village head, who is now evacuating the wounded from the battlefield near Bakhmut; a veterinarian, who had just four days to become a military medic and has now served more than a year and a half on the frontline…
Do you have a particular story or shot that you believe best captures the essence of this project? What would you like viewers to feel or understand when they see it?
Music. Cymbals in the middle of the steppes. For me, it's about searching for our sense of ‘us’ right now. Who are we, Ukrainians, as a community? What are our defining traits, patterns, and markers—especially visual and musical ones?
Documentary videos often become a powerful tool for conveying reality. Was there a moment or episode during filming that particularly moved you and made you see the situation in the country differently?
There’s something irrational yet incredibly strong about these people, ready to leave the Carpathians for Zaporizhzhia and Donetsk, to defend the country. The red volunteer van in Babyn really left an impression. As I mentioned before, the villagers raised funds for military supplies, but also carefully sent Easter bread and eggs, symbols of their traditions. The following Easter, it was all the same. I’ll never forget seeing one of the men cry as he held a cheese horse—these small traditions hold immense emotional weight, even, and probably especially during war.
The project Babyn to Bakhmut focuses not only on people but also on the environment, culture, and architecture. How do these elements interact in your film, and what do they say about modern Ukraine?
The Hutsuls on the frontlines have discovered Zaporizhzhia and Donetsk, their landscapes, traditions, and ways of life. Many people from the areas where the fiercest battles are taking place have had to move to the western part of the country. It's happening under harsh circumstances, but we are becoming closer.
How do you personally perceive the idea of an ecological approach to the environment in the context of war? Do you think the war is changing people's attitudes toward nature?
This is a big question, one that not only relates to the Babyn to Bakhmut project but also to the broader work of our ArtPole Agency. Before 2014, my colleagues and I organized the ArtPole international festival in different parts of Ukraine. The main focus was on exploring and preserving our landscapes, traditions, and music, with the key artistic directions being land art and world music. We started in the Carpathians, and that’s where we realized how deeply ecological issues are connected to preserving our culture and identity. For example, for a floyara to sound just right, it needs to be made from beech wood. So, to preserve local traditional music, we need to stop deforestation and protect the beech forests. We suggested to the locals that the festival, along with green tourism, could be an economic alternative to logging. We weren’t always successful in convincing them.
Now, with the full-scale war and many people from the Carpathians finding themselves in the east, I’ve heard them say many times how lucky they feel to live in the Carpathians, how valuable clean drinking water is, and how important it is not to pollute the rivers or cut down the forests. I hope this awareness lasts beyond the war.
Recently, we were in Kherson, and I was struck by the sight of fields that had 'mined' signs posted just last year, now being harvested. In 2022, I made the film Irpin. Chronicles of Renewal, which tells the story of how plants helped people return to life. Now I see this happening in Kherson.
Despite the danger and the ongoing war, people are planting and harvesting, interacting with their land, and helping it heal, and in turn, they are healing through their connection to it.
multimedia artist Olia Mykhailiuk
How do you see the future of this project? Do you plan to continue documenting similar stories, and if so, what topics are you interested in the most?
Yes, I’d like to continue observing how events unfold. I don’t want to shy away from the tough issues, and there are plenty. I want to see how people come together and find answers. I want us to remember those who have fallen and respect those who have returned from the frontline. I hope that next year, we’ll once again have both cheese horses and Easter eggs. The interactions within one village community can be reflected in society as a whole.
Authors: Mariia Akhromieieva
ZMINA: Rebuilding is a project co-funded by the EU Creative Europe Programme under a dedicated call for proposals to support Ukrainian displaced people and the Ukrainian Cultural and Creative Sectors. The project is a cooperation between IZOLYATSIA (UA), Trans Europe Halles (SE) and Malý Berlín (SK).