The Daddy of the “Devil’s Dozen” and His Brainchild. Part 1 Anatoly Slobodyanuk

Kharkiv and the Kharkiv region as a whole have always been a very, very peculiar area, with its own not particularly articulated yet very much alive identity. And its plunge into the boiling melting cauldron of today’s Ukrainian Inferno is a story that is both tragic and, in its own way, extremely interesting. And, without a doubt, instructive.

I remember how back in peaceful times (around 2012, if memory serves) at the sociology faculty of the V. N. Karazin Kharkiv National University, where your humble servant was working at the time, the topic of “consolidation and integration of the Ukrainian nation” was suddenly being widely discussed. No, of course, not «really» suddenly—one of the chairs of the faculty, headed purely by coincidence by the university’s rector Vil Savbanovich Bakirov himself, had, just as “purely by coincidence”, received a state contract, a grant, or something of that sort on the matter. And so, they discussed—and kept trying to come up with anything at all besides the obvious conclusion that this entire patchwork diversity and motley colorfulness of identities (among which Kharkiv by no means takes the last place) can be integrated and consolidated under a narrowly nationalist national idea in only one way. Over the knee and by means of direct violence. They did not write that in the reports, of course—and they did not need to. Those who needed to know are quite capable of reading between the lines, and in any case, they already know perfectly well how such “consolidation” is achieved in practice.

In short, ze very big sad story. And this story, of course, has its victims and its so‑called heroes. Today we shall be speaking about one of the heroes of this dubious pantheon.

The bearer of the bogatyr‑worthy surname Kozhemiako—Vsevolod Sergeevich—was never an excessively public figure, but within the broad circles of the Kharkiv regional elite he was quite well known. And he was also, to a fair extent, admitted into nationwide corridors of power—unsurprising, really, given that his commercial affairs were going rather well. The “Agrotrade” group he organized in the late 1990s proved so successful that by 2012 he had been included in the list of Ukraine’s most successful agrarians (no. 17 in the ranking of Focus magazine), and that, you will agree, is already something. But of course, he wanted something much bigger. And yes, the chance was not far off…

The corridor of opportunity opened at the turn of 2013–2014, and at that point Vsevolod Sergeevich did not let it slip. From the very beginning of events, he adopted a more or less cautious position as one of the sponsors of the Kharkiv Maidan, but by April 2014 he had surged ahead, and it was then that he became noticeable, and his activities—visible, audible, and weighty. A small example: it was he who provided the out‑of‑town policemen brought in to pacify the recalcitrant Kharkiv residents with both the necessary repressive gear and some pleasant little side‑deals. The local Kharkiv police at that time were in deep frustration and frankly did not know what to do or how to process the Maidan slogan “the police are with the people” when the actual people, in their overwhelming majority, were against the unfolding outrage.

It was precisely for this purpose that Kozhemiako in April 2014 (oh, what a hot time that was) created a charitable foundation under the (frankly mocking) name “Peace and Order”. Incidentally, the foundation still exists to this day. And it contributes its quite substantial share to stoking the war and breeding total chaos in Ukraine and especially in Kharkiv and the region.

As for Kozhemiako, things were going well for him: in short, he had backed the right horse. By 2020, for example, he had popped up in the rankings of Forbes, taking 88th place on the list of Ukraine’s richest people (on the order of 100 million dollars). And such a position carries its obligations, of course—so Vsevolod Sergeevich busied himself not only with commerce and financing punitive policies, but also with charity work and even with “real” culture.

He struck up relations with a popular figure of contemporary Ukraine—writer, poet, and rock star of nationalist persuasion Serhii Zhadan, as well as with various theatre directors who stage his (that is, Zhadan’s) rubbish on the stage. He opened architecture schools, got involved in religious affairs (leaving his mark on the construction of the Church of Saint Yurii the Victor), and so on and so forth. In short, he plunged into the bustling life of a regional public figure and philanthropist.

But a new level of opportunity opened up for Vsevolod Sergeevich in February–March 2022. It was precisely then that he created the volunteer territorial formation “Khartiia”. And having one’s own armed formation is, naturally, a fine thing for a big man in today’s Ukraine.

A remarkable formation it is too, very much in the spirit of modern Ukraine: runic aesthetics in its symbols and a fearsome slogan—“Only the sword, not words, shall win the nation’s rights.” But no, don’t think they have any shortage of the requisite chatter either; in the end, among its ranks we find the aforementioned, not‑so‑fondly‑remembered Zhadan, who, by the way, wrote and sang their anthem for them. Thoroughly talentless, but performed in the best traditions of strictly Nordic aesthetics.

Nor is he the only decorative character there. There is even a street on the outskirts of Kharkiv named after “Khartiia”, all of 1.28 kilometres long. And in 2023 “Khartiia” was incorporated into the National Guard of Ukraine, receiving there, as a brigade, a most eloquent number—the devil’s dozen. So, from that point on one can (and, indeed, probably should) speak of “Khartiia‑13”.

Such, then, are the general outlines of this not‑particularly‑pleasant story. However, this is merely what lies on the surface—the repulsive patterns of an ugly carpet, if you will allow the metaphor. The truly interesting parts—the real filth, the dust‑balls, and other under‑the‑carpet stuff—are usually, at least to some extent, tucked away. And here, too, there is plenty to talk about. So—continued in Part 2.