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There are interviews that arrive already humming with urgency, and Uliana Klimchuk’s is one of them. Some artists talk about war from a distance; she talks from the middle of it, carrying lived experience into every line she writes and every room she walks into. SELEDKA isn’t just a play—it’s a pressure valve, a reckoning, a refusal to let anyone else tidy up the truth of what displacement feels like.
What struck me most while preparing this piece was how naturally Uliana moves between clarity and candour. One moment she’s discussing the mechanics of institutional support; the next she’s describing Kyiv summer days punctured by missiles. Her answers don’t posture. They don’t reach for grand statements. They simply insist on honesty, and that insistence becomes the spine of the work.
This interview isn’t just about a show heading to Edinburgh. It’s about ownership—of story, of identity, of the right to define home even when history tries to redraw the map. It’s also about collaboration, resilience, and the strange, stubborn hope that theatre can still make people look up from their routines and feel implicated in the world again.
You describe SELEDKA as a political satire born from the “cultural chasm” between Ukraine and contemporary America – when did that gap stop being an irritation and start becoming an artistic obligation?
Every single day in my life, as well as millions of other Ukrainians in the past 4 years, was marked by war. The feeling that I need to talk about it boldly has been growing since day 1. I think I needed to accumulate all of the stories from home, moments of ignorance abroad, people really willing to learn all over the world, but being able to fully comprehend what it’s like to live with war, stories of my family, friends and strangers being so resilient and joyful, happy to share another day summer day in Kyiv, even if it’s followed by missiles and terror at night. I couldn’t have written the play if I didn’t live through it myself, haven’t met all of the courageous people, and wasn’t hurt by the indifference of others. So at a certain point writing became a necessity, because all I had to say was too much to keep in my head. Besides, I really believe asking questions and learning about someone else’s reality, even if it puts us in an uncomfortable position, is what’s gonna ultimately help us be better people. Better citizens of the Earth.
The play asks who gets to claim ownership of a country. That’s a huge, loaded question. In performance, do you want audiences to feel unsettled by it, or implicated by it?
We don’t want to prescribe an experience to the audience, that’s why theater is so compelling, because everyone takes it in their own way. But the hope is that the audience will feel like they can’t turn away from it any longer. And I believe both of these options are a part of one. You can’t feel implicated without feeling unsettled. The world is full of bystanders, I am one sometimes, and so is everyone else. It does not make us monsters, but it definitely provides us with an opportunity to act. To change something. To stand up for what we believe. War is a macro-issue, and because of that it very easily gets overwhelming. We aren’t in charge of war, the government is, therefore we can’t end it. But the truth is, even asking the smallest question can change someone’s life. Ask and continue being curious. Opportunities to help will present themselves. And if we can’t stop the war, we definitely can help people suffering from it. If you don’t know what’s the best way to help, asking that question can create connection, therefore a sense of security and make tangible changes. Seledka, however, forces the audience to question where they stand by arguing for the “other” side, calling it righteous and inevitable. The history is painfully repetitive and we’ve learnt a while ago that all villains believe in their cause thinking they’re saving the world. So does Seledka. The audience then is asked to check in with their values, beliefs and simple acts of will. Do they follow his orders or do they sabotage the troupe?
You’ve lived through invasion, displacement, reinvention – Kyiv to Bulgaria to North Carolina. How much of SELEDKA is theatre, and how much are you refusing to let anyone else narrate your story?
The war has forced people to leave what they love behind. Millions have fled and some never came back. What most Ukrainians now consider the “norm”, should’ve never happened to anyone. But every day our people are exercising their resilience and freedom by just going to work, drinking coffee at a local cafe, watching plays and going to a rock concert. People are living their life to the fullest in the face of danger. That is the most outstanding act of bravery. As for myself, I won’t let Russia tell me where my home is or how to live my life. I come back to Kyiv whenever I have a chance. I use the curfew inflicted by war to spend time with my loved ones under the same roof. The blackouts in the city as an opportunity to connect the way we used to, not through instagram. I have never seen people as kind, generous and loving, as Ukrainians during times of need. Russia tries to turn us against each other, but for the past 4 years we’ve been standing strong and united. That is real defiance. And even though my studies brought me to North Carolina and now my work is taking me to Edinburgh, Kyiv is the only place I call home, and I have never yet been to a city where I felt like I could stay, but my hometown. That is why the play is partly a love letter to the country, the city and the people who bring its streets to life.
SELEDKA has already travelled from Winston-Salem to Washington D.C. to New York. Did American audiences respond with curiosity, confusion, or that particular brand of polite distance people adopt when war feels far away?
I think because the war, not just this one Ukrainian, but any of them really, feels so far from America, people were really moved hearing real stories, to hear more than news headlines. Many have never met anyone from Ukraine, and most definitely haven’t heard stories from people who lived there, so the play changed their world view and the sense of distance between these worlds. Americans most definitely didn’t know a lot about Ukraine, what it looks like, what the weather is like and sometimes even where it is on the map. Good thing, that lesson is learned very quickly during the show. I am very curious to see the audience response in Edinburgh as people in Europe are more aware of the fact that Ukraine is serving as a man shield for the Union. And I have no idea what the reception of the play would look like, but I know it will make people reevaluate the importance of the end of war.
You talk about similarity – that “we are more similar than we think if we learn from our history.” Do you find that audiences resist that idea, or do they secretly crave it?
Audiences do crave it, the mass media just puts way too much effort into creating chaos between people. As a result we all feel separated, scared to offend if we try to relate, forced to live our lives as a routine where we don’t take in what’s going on around us. However, all the great books, movies and stories that we’ve been passing on through generations show the same thing. History is circular, humanity has repeatedly struggled with the same patterns over and over again, and we won’t get any further if we let ourselves forget what we’ve already been through. So to share that experience with thirty or so strangers in a theater, to face the same villain, to really take in the stories of those who have been standing up for the villain is an act of unity we all crave for.
Your director, Lily Afghani, works heavily with themes of immigration and displacement. What happens when two artists shaped by uprooting collaborate – does it create clarity, or does it create friction that becomes the work?
It creates a safe space. Lily being half Iranian, half Mexican and so passionate about both cultures and their heritage is the best person who could’ve possibly directed SELEDKA. They know what it’s like to talk and bring to stage things that are hard to discuss, let alone live through. We started out as friends, and many times we shared conversations followed by tears and a bond between us, because we didn’t turn away from something hard. So our collaboration thrives through that need to connect, to share things that’ve been overlooked and make a difference. Our rehearsal process is a balance of a friendly check in (that tends to last too long, cause we’re having too much fun) and then another conversation about what’s going on in both our worlds politically, what’s the overlap and what did we not yet know. Then we explore how these themes fit into the story that we’re telling through this play. The third person in our small team is Jake Bryant, a phenomenal actor, great singer, writer and luckily for us, producer in this case, is another classmate of ours from University of North Carolina School of the Arts, and a crucial part of this production. I am very thankful to UNCSA and the life that they brought us all together, because I couldn’t have managed to share this play with the world without Lily and Jake, and if I miraculously did, it wouldn’t have been as much fun.
The show was supported by the Thomas S Kenan Institute for the Arts and developed through UNCSA’s season. How did institutional support shape the piece? Did it give you freedom, or did it sharpen your sense of responsibility?
We are immensely grateful for the support from both Kenan Institute and UNCSA as they were there from the very beginning, not only supporting us financially, but guiding us in the effort to build a show from scratch. They let us figure out how to produce a show starting from creating a budget and making sense of Excel sheets formulas, but were always there when we needed advice and were the foundation for our partnership with Producer Hub who is serving as our Fiscal Sponsor. These organisations connected us with people who knew infinitely more about the Fringe, producing and marketing, and, really, all of the other aspects of creating your solo show. Ultimately they have granted us freedom to make choices and not go into debt, which is an outstanding opportunity for artists just out of college and for that I will forever be grateful.
Your background in pop singing is fascinating – pop is often dismissed as light, disposable, unserious. Has that training influenced how you deliver political material onstage, perhaps through rhythm, breath, or emotional precision?
Thank you for this question, because I never really thought about it. First of all, the teachers in my conservatory were all very tough and direct. One of my favourite stories from that time is when I got to my first voice lesson, my teacher gathered her class and after listening to me sing made them tell me one thing they thought was bad about my performance. Perhaps not the best teaching technique, but it informed the way I move through life now. That is all to say, there was nothing light or unserious about pop singing. I think it gave me an amazing training in terms of voicing what I think is important, because singing somehow is one of the scariest things I’ve done. Not only are you conveying the message of the song, but you’re doing it with your own voice. One of the most vulnerable and nerve-wrecking experiences. But having to do that in the pressure of my school where all 18 girls in my class wanted to be the next pop-star has given me the sense of confidence, without which I wouldn’t be able to share the story of Ukraine at the most renowned Theatre Festival. The vocal training has prepared me for the endurance and stamina one requires for a solo performance. And love for music has instilled in me pride for my country and its culture, the incredible music that our artists make inspires me to share that with the world and doesn’t let me stop until the whole planet knows about how talented and courageous Ukrainians are.
You’ve worked with major performers – David Harbour, Ivanna Sakhno, Kelly AuCoin, Jessica Hecht. Did seeing your writing interpreted by actors of that calibre change how you approached SELEDKA?
Most definitely. First of all, seeing your work being brought to life by people you’ve admired long before you thought you wanted to write is a very overwhelming experience. But not only did these people give voice to my characters, some of them became my life long mentors. People who I look up to and who are always there to give back to those just staring out. First of all, they really made me feel like what I have to say is important and should be told. For that I have to thank Laura Cahill, the leader of Young Playwright Ukraine, the group that brought all of these people together and created a platform for young writers like me. One of the mentors I met through that platform is a London based writer, Suzanne Heathcoat, who has given me feedback on the initial stages of SELEDKA and has been there to support it all the way through. The Alum of UNCSA, a Tony Award winner for his play “Oslo”, JT Rogers, has encouraged me and Lily to be the brave artists that we want to be, he has advised me on the writing and was always quick to respond to any email with an absurd question I had. I cannot overstate the impact these people have made on my growth as a writer and an artist, and I only hope to build a career as successful as all of them did, giving back to the next generation.
SELEDKA arrives at the Fringe at a moment when audiences are hungry for authenticity but exhausted by crisis. What do you hope they carry out of the Snug or Playground 3 – a political awakening, a cultural bridge, or simply a deeper sense of human proximity?
The hope is that the audiences will leave with a sense that they’re a part of the history of whatever happens next. That their small actions have the power of helping someone. That history is currently being written. We live in unpredictable times when every day things turn around, when the dangers are far more overpowering than they were 70 years ago and when humanity and kindness are a far more valuable currency than any other existing one.
Before the narrative settles, before the politics sharpen, before the audience fully understands what it’s being asked to witness, Stefano Pietro Detassis is already skipping, already boxing, already pushing his lungs to the edge while delivering lines with absolute clarity. Anyone who has ever sparred — even lightly — knows how quickly breath becomes unruly, how speech collapses under exertion. Detassis keeps control. It’s not a trick; it’s a statement. The body is part of the story, and he tells it without compromise.
