In a world where everyone gets used to merely surviving, she chose — to be present.
No, not just to live. Not just to write poems. To be. In the center of events, in the center of truth, in the center of Kyiv — a city shelled by history but still breathing through poetry.
Her name was Olena. In her passport — Teliha, in her voice — dignity, in her gaze — directness that never looked for excuses.
She wasn’t born already wearing an embroidered blouse. Her childhood — between Moscow, Kyiv, and the streets of Prague. At school, she was just a girl with character. Not an icon. Not a heroine. Just a girl who wanted to write in Ukrainian and never betray herself.
Imagine returning to your city.
After years abroad. After bombings, losses, betrayals, and letters with no reply. And returning not for shopping or for coffee. But to raise culture from the ruins.
In 1941, she returned to Kyiv — as an editor, a poet, a person who knew they would come for her.
And when someone told her: “Olena, leave. There is still a chance.” — she answered:
“I won’t leave Kyiv for emigration again.”
She knew how it would end.
But she stayed.
Because someone had to stay — with a voice, not in silence.
Because poetry is also resistance. Because culture does not serve the tyrant.
Because even in prison, one can remain free.
She was shot in Babyn Yar. Together with her husband.
She didn’t cry. She left an inscription on the cell wall:
“Here sat and from here goes to be executed Olena Teliha.”
No drama. No complaints. Only presence until the very end. Today her name can be found in textbooks. But if you strip away all the official titles — only the main thing remains:
to be the one who never betrays oneself.
Even when it’s scary.
Even when it costs your life.