Beyond the Ivory Tower Interview with Orysya Bila

Of course, history is important, but it is not decisive. As we are not slaves to the current conditions, we are not slaves to our history. We are not really defined by what was said. We are creators of ourselves. I think it is in the dialogue, in thinking and in the exchange of thoughts that we can decide what we want to be, what is really important to us. And that is the moment where philosophical thinking becomes not just a matter of academia but a matter of public strength.

This is the latest interview in the Beyond the Ivory Tower series and part of our series dedicated to the war in Ukraine. Costanza Porro spoke with Professor Orysya Bila about the value of teaching philosophy and her experience of teaching in wartime Ukraine. Bila is the director of the philosophy department at the Ukrainian Catholic University. She holds degrees from Ukrainian Catholic University and a PhD from the Taras Shevchenko National University of Kyiv. Her research interests include the philosophical legacy of Michel Foucault, ethics and global political theory, the ethics of memory, as well as Christian theology in a postmodern context. Together with Joshua Duclos, she wrote an essay on teaching philosophy, originally published in a special issue of Studia Philosophica Estonica dedicated to the war in Ukraine, which we published in an edited form as part of our ongoing series on the Russia-Ukraine War.

CP: In the essay that you wrote for the edited volume, you focus on teaching philosophy in wartime Ukraine and the ways in which that experience has informed your thinking about the value of philosophy. You say that at the start of the war you were at a loss as to how to approach your teaching, and that resuming your usual spring semester course on metaphysics and ontology felt devoid of meaning and even inappropriate. After that initial period, however, you discovered in your students a renewed appetite for philosophy and in yourself a renewed appreciation of the value of teaching it. What brought you to that conclusion? And how did the way in which you were teaching philosophy change since the start of the war?

OB: When the war began, none of us truly believed it would happen. The morning after it started, we had a big philosophy conference scheduled at my university. I remember talking to my father on the phone, and he told me I needed to go to work and fulfill my obligations. So, I got on the bus and went to the university. That morning everyone was silent on the bus; it felt surreal. Russian forces had already started advancing on Kyiv. In Lviv, where I live and teach, we were closely following the news, but we had no real sense of how events would unfold. It felt strange and surreal.

Shortly afterward, we began to ask ourselves: what are we supposed to do with our students? Should we continue with classes? At that time, we would go to the shelters every time the air raid sirens sounded, unsure of what would happen next. Now, we’re accustomed to it, but back then, it was new and terrifying. So, we decided to conduct some online classes, mainly to support each other and build resilience. But when I realized I needed to say something meaningful to my students, I felt I had nothing to offer. Suddenly, all the high, abstract concepts I usually taught felt hollow. I was at a loss for words. It was a moment of deep fear, a sense that our world had collapsed.

I also teach in the theology department, where students are used to discussing profound questions of higher reality and transcendence. Yet, in those early days of the war, it felt as though that transcendent reality was obscured, separated from us by a cloud of bombs and air raids – all the violence directed against us. The questions that were then left unanswered, and I think couldn’t be answered at that moment, were: why is that happening to us? Why are we going through this? And finally, what can we expect?

At the time, we were closely following the narratives coming from Russia, listening to what Russian politicians had to say about their reasons for invading Ukraine. It was a blend of history and fiction; they spoke of ‘de-Nazification,’ claiming they needed to ‘demilitarize’ and ‘de-Ukrainize’ us because we were supposedly a threat to their peaceful existence. None of this made any sense to us.

After the initial shock, our students began searching for meaning and reasons to live and survive. They sought answers to questions like: What are we really about? What defines us as a people, and what defines me as an individual? What is truly the value of my life? And, perhaps most painfully, why is this evil happening to us? For theology students especially, these questions became deeply tied to matters of faith.

This was also a difficult time to talk with students, as they came from different parts of Ukraine, and some had endured truly terrifying experiences. In September 2023, I had a student from Kharkiv in my class with a freshly shaved head bearing a visible wound. I sensed it was recent but didn’t feel it was my place to ask what had happened. Months later, in conversation with his high school teacher, I learned that he had been through some terrible things and had been very brave. He was very interested in philosophy, which initially surprised me given what he had just been through. For him, however, it was a way to set things right around himself, to have clear meaning in a moment in which everything seems to be crashing down. Other students had similar needs. In another class, we read Simone Weil’s Gravity and Grace. Initially I was concerned that the intensity of Weil’s reflections on the presence of evil in the world might overwhelm some students, especially as the war had become their new reality. Instead, I was surprised to find that they quickly became deeply engaged, and a few students were so inspired that they went on to start a philosophy club. While exploring various thinkers, they found themselves particularly drawn to Weil’s philosophy. For them, her idea that God, in His goodness, must ‘withdraw’ to make room for something other than Himself resonated profoundly. This concept opened up for them the possibility of evil alongside the possibility of freedom – a freedom that includes the potential to choose evil, yet without diminishing the fundamental goodness of God.

CP: Thank you. What, in your view, are your students looking for when they turn to philosophy in these difficult times, and are there differences that you have noticed in the way in which they engage with philosophy since the start of the war? You have spoken about some of this already, is there anything else you would like to add?

OB: Yes, another interesting aspect of this first emerged during my teaching with Joshua Duclos. We were teaching an extracurricular course on a utopia and dystopia, reading Huxley and Orwell. After the first few sessions, Josh remarked with surprise that students didn’t seem inclined to talk directly about the war; they didn’t even mention the word ‘war.’ In some ways, they seemed to think and live as if the war wasn’t happening around them. This surprised me as well, as I hadn’t fully realized that I was doing the same to some extent. For all of us, thinking became a space where we could simply be ourselves, free from the weight of this harsh reality. Outside class, we were under the heavy weight of the war, but the classroom became a space where we could think, and we were free in that thinking.

CP: In your essay, you talk about philosophy as a form of consolation. There is a way to think about this idea of consolation which is similar to what you were just saying, namely that philosophy is a kind of retreat from the world and its problems, a kind of refuge of abstraction. But then many of the examples that you talk about are of you and your students thinking together about philosophical questions which very much speak to the reality you are living in, such as the question of why there is evil in the world. Can you tell me a bit more about the tension between these two aspects?

OB: The idea of philosophy as a source of consolation is challenging for me to fully embrace. ‘Consolation’ might not even be the right word here, and I certainly don’t mean it in the way Boethius did. When you are living through a war – not as a distant concept seen on TV or heard on the radio, but as an immediate reality with missiles flying overhead – you develop an urgent need to understand that this is not the reality you are condemned to, that it is not something that will last forever. In that sense, allowing yourself to imagine, think out loud, and engage in discussion becomes a way to find relief from that heavy reality. It’s not about making peace with the situation, but rather finding an escape and discovering new ways to live. This is the creative potential of philosophy.

Recently, I was reading Plato’s Republic with my students, and they observed that philosophers are not just theorists; they are also, in Platonic terms, those who can align the life of the community with universal ideals. In this way, philosophy can be profoundly productive – not because we must believe in Platonic eternal forms, but because we can hold onto the belief that the reality around us is changeable, that we are not trapped in our current predicament. I have students who have gone to fight in this war, but for those who remain in the classroom, it is an opportunity to understand that they, too, can become agents of change.

CP: As you discuss in your essay, philosophy has a creative and transformative potential because it allows, and maybe even forces, students to reflect on who they want and ought to be and which kinds of community and society they want to live in. Philosophy can foster self-reflection but also a sense of responsibility and authorship of our lives. You just spoke now about why this is important in times of war not to feel like you are trapped in your current situation. But at the end of the essay, you also gesture at the idea that it is also key to build the conditions of peace. How do you see this kind of transformative power of philosophy? Why do you think this is crucial not just to escape the condition of war but also to build the conditions for peace?

OB: This is connected to questions about why this war was started and what our role in it is. One narrative often put forward by Russian politicians in their public discourse about the war is that Ukraine and Ukrainians are inherently part of Russia, that there is no Ukrainian identity or self-determination independent of the Russian state. Essentially, we are denied the right to exist on our own. This view reaches back to our colonial past, when we were part of a vast empire with Russia at its centre. A caricatured image of Ukrainian culture and language was constructed by the central power, and we internalized it. We were told who we were, and for a long time, we believed it.

The war has become a profound moment for us to engage in what Mikhail Epstein calls ‘projective metaphysics’ – to reflect on who we are, envision who we want to become, and imagine a different world. In this war, Russia keeps referring to the past, telling us that history is really important. Of course, history is important, but it is not decisive. As we are not slaves to the current conditions, we are not slaves to our history. We are not really defined by what was said. We are creators of ourselves. I think it is in the dialogue, in thinking and in the exchange of thoughts that we can decide what we want to be, what is really important to us. And that is the moment where philosophical thinking becomes not just a matter of academia but a matter of public strength.

Mikhail Epstein suggests that there are two ways to engage with reality and develop our thinking: through analogy and anomaly. While analogy creates or reconstructs something familiar, anomaly departs from the established order. I believe that in the humanities, and especially in philosophy, we are now in a state of anomaly. We are trying to create a new world for ourselves, attempting to understand who we are without clinging to inherited patterns, as those patterns are too entangled with our colonial past. We are seeking new meanings, rethinking who we aspire to be, and defining for ourselves what is good, what is evil, and what truly matters.

During this war, evil has become something very tangible for us, forcing us to confront and reevaluate our responsibilities and obligations. Like other totalitarian states, the Soviet Empire deprived its citizens not only of personal freedom but also of personal responsibility. The prevailing idea was that life consists of vast structures we are merely a part of, leaving us as passive spectators to events beyond our control, as though nothing really depends on us. One of the profound realizations that has emerged during this war is that we are, in fact, agents in our own lives. While there are challenges that seem insurmountable – such as living next to a heavily militarized neighbour with a powerful and aggressive army – we still remain architects of our own existence.

A year ago, I was more optimistic about the outcome of this war. Now, my optimism has lessened, as it feels like an endless battle with the Hydra: no matter how many times you cut off its head, grows a new one again and again. Yet, despite this, we continue to believe in our agency, in our capacity to change things. If we cooperate, work together, create, and even just imagine and construct the future, we can build the world we want to live in.

Recently, I was reading Seneca’s letters with my students. The letters really resonated with them. They were especially moved by Seneca’s assertion that one should not fear death but rather fear never having truly lived. In our situation, with missiles falling around us, these words take on a whole new meaning. My students were also critical of Seneca, however, pointing out that he likely wrote this when he was safe. We wondered what he might say if he were living here in this moment. For their homework, I asked them to write a letter on behalf of Seneca to future generations. I encouraged them not to worry too much about demonstrating their best understanding of Stoic philosophy, but instead to focus on writing from the heart, as if they were passing on something valuable to future generations. I’m very curious to see what they come up with.

CP: This really sounds like a great exercise for them to think through philosophy about some of the things that they deeply care about. My last question is about an aspect that has been present throughout this whole conversation, namely the public nature of philosophy. Besides your teaching of philosophy, you are also the head of the philosophy department at the UCU. I wanted to ask you to share your thoughts about the value and the role that a philosophy department can have in times of war, not just for students, but the community more broadly. Do you think philosophy departments can be spaces for public reflection and engagement when the conditions are as difficult as they have been the last two years and a half in Ukraine?

OB: This is a question that has troubled me throughout the war: what do we, as philosophers, owe to society? My doctoral thesis focused on Michel Foucault, and one of his key ideas is that we are products of society and its dominant forces. Yet, in his later work, Foucault turned to the ancient Greek concept of parrhesia, the courage to speak truth. Parrhesia involves having the bravery to tell fellow citizens what is wrong with society and how it might be improved, or for the king’s adviser to tell him what is wrong with his rule. Parrhesia is always associated with risk and courage. Through this act of free speech, the speaker becomes an agent of change, no longer merely a product of external forces but someone who actively influences them and drives transformation in society. It is a way out of being confined by the anonymous forces surrounding us.

I believe one of the primary roles of academics, especially in the humanities and in philosophy, is to embody parrhesia. This role is crucial because there is a real risk of philosophy sliding into propaganda, and it’s vital to resist this. Philosophers have a responsibility to be highly attuned to societal processes, to identify them, and to make visible the aspects that might otherwise go unnoticed. For instance, as we in Ukraine reflect on questions of identity and hear various voices telling us who we are, there is a need for the courage to think independently and to propose ideas about who we truly are and what matters to us. Noticing nuances and bringing them to light for the broader society is essential.

Hannah Arendt, for me, has always exemplified this courage to think freely. Her idea that through public discussions and open exchanges of views about who we are and what we want to become, we can realize our potential as citizens. On one hand, philosophers are those who speak truth, acting as diagnosticians of society’s state. On the other, philosophy is a space for unbounded thinking, where we can envision new orders and reflect on alternative ways of living.

This war is intensely physical, full of bloodshed and ruins, yet it is also a battle for what we aspire to become. It carries immense metaphysical significance: what kind of society are we fighting for? I am particularly drawn to Avishai Margalit’s A Decent Society. During this war, one of the things that really became clear to me as a philosopher is that having a decent society is something that we truly value. The focus on respect for human life and human dignity creates a new way of thinking and creates free citizens who are agents of their lives.