by In this candid and powerful conversation, a few hours before the inauguration event of MANTOVARCHITETTURA 2025, Ukrainian architect and historian Ievgeniia Gubkina opens up about her personal and professional journey through conflict, displacement, and activism. From the origins of the Urban Forms Center to her reflections on trauma, heritage, and reconstruction, Gubkina’s voice is both unapologetically critical and deeply human.
Interviewed by Frontiere, she talks about how architecture can serve as a tool for collective healing, community empowerment, and political resistance in wartime Ukraine.
I was impressed by your career and research journey.
I was trained as both an architect and an urban planner, in the very Soviet tradition of designing massive masterplans. I graduated in the early 2000s, and I can openly say I received a very Soviet or post-Soviet education – very classical, very structured. So, I know how Soviet architecture and theory treated cities – how to create entire new ones from scratch. But then everything paused for a while – I took maternity leave.
After those years, I dove deep into research: PhD studies, work on the socialist past, heritage, urban planning. I became a historian of Soviet architecture and urban planning in the 1920s – 1980s being focused on a variety of experiments starting from worker’s settlement and socialist cities to nuclear cities or atomograds built for nuclear power plants workers, such as a town of Slavutych in the North of Ukraine, built after the Chernobyl disaster for Chernobyl NPP staff.
My first books were published around the anniversary of Chernobyl. That led me from niche academic texts to more public-facing, journalistic storytelling – talking about architecture as memory, as catastrophe and trauma interpretation and overcoming. So, I’ve always been on the edge between history and public narrative. From the beginning, I was dealing with dramatic contexts – totalitarian architecture, contested heritage, disaster zones. It shaped the kind of interdisciplinary work I felt called to do. Mono-disciplinary architectural history wasn’t enough. I needed memory studies, feminism, activism… Because I was researching architecture after 1986 – late socialism before the Soviet collapse – and its complexity demanded more.
Then the Maidan Revolution happened. And in Ukraine, revolutions are transformative. Suddenly, you had amazing grassroots initiatives popping up across the country. We all knew each other, built networks, became activists. But informal activism wasn’t enough – we had to enter the legal sphere. That’s how the Urban Forms Center came about.
Probably your most important initiative. What’s its mission, and how is it carrying on its activity during this time of war?
We founded an NGO because we were deeply frustrated by the lack of protection for our heritage – especially postwar modernist buildings from the 1960s. They were neither listed nor protected. And developers kept tearing them down.
We fought for heritage, for equality in architecture. We began with pop-feminism in 2013 and organised workshops and lectures in the spirit of the “hipster revival” era. Then moved into intersectional feminism. We realized injustice wasn’t limited to gender. Everything was connected. We organized conferences with titles like Violence in Architecture and Urban Planning. We didn’t shy away from the dark themes. In Ukraine, activism isn’t just about opposing the state. Civil society is powerful. Independent institutions have voice. Even when it’s tough – financially, politically – we keep going. And when the war started, we shifted again.
Suddenly, architecture wasn’t just theory – it became documentation, evidence, storytelling. I found myself working like a journalist, cataloguing damage, capturing narratives. So yes – it’s been a long journey. I’m 40 now. I’ve seen a lot of change.
You talked about how Ukraine signed the decommunization law, but also how Soviet heritage was mostly targeted by capitalism, not politics. Can you explain more about this relationship with the Soviet past and why preserving those buildings matters?
Yes, this is one of the most conflicted areas of our history – but not just ours. Contested or “difficult” heritage exists everywhere. It’s part of culture. Structures tied to war, genocide, oppression… They’re everywhere. The question is always: what do we do with this? Libeskind often talks about trauma in architecture, and I agree: even painful memories need preservation. Because without remembering them, how do we move on? Even when we – or our ancestors – weren’t just victims but also aggressors. That complexity matters.
In 2016, Ukraine passed a law for decommunization – aimed mostly at propaganda art, not architecture. Architectural demolition wasn’t about political cleansing. It was about profit. Developers wanted land to build shopping malls or glass towers where Modernist cultural clubs or kindergartens once stood. But this isn’t only Ukraine’s problem. It happens in Italy, in the US – everywhere. It’s driven by economic interests more than historical ones.
Before the full-scale war, I organized public forums around these issues. We saw Soviet architecture as a kind of mirror – a way to reflect on repression, memory, and responsibility. It’s not about glorifying. It’s about facing the truth, the complexity. Like, in the 1930s, Ukraine saw mass repressions. Not all families were victims. Some were collaborators. Same with the Holocaust. Architecture gives us a way to talk about those uncomfortable realities. It shouldn’t be erased – it should be exposed.
That’s how we heal, as individuals and as societies. We expose the shadow, not suppress it.
How can architecture and historical heritage help in understanding and overcoming trauma?
Just before the invasion, I had a discussion with Professor Maxime Forest from Sciences Po in Paris. We talked about architecture as a transitional object – something that allows society to discuss trauma, not just hide from it.
These spaces offer post-conflict potential. They help communities find common ground after deep pain. Again, I go back to Libeskind – how architecture can hold pain without being consumed by it. It’s memory you can walk through.
On that note, I read you’ll be speaking tomorrow at the inauguration of MANTOVARCHITETTURA about trauma and architecture. Do you think public space helped Ukrainians unite since the war began?
Absolutely. Post-war reconstruction isn’t just about new buildings. It’s about agency. Can the people who suffered be part of the design process? Or are they just “users” in glossy development plans? Real healing comes when architects collaborate – not only with each other but with citizens.
We talk about co-design. But how often do we actually invite people into the process? Especially people who went through trauma – who lost their homes, their neighbourhoods, even their families. It’s not just about budgets and competitions. It’s about respect.
Ownership matters. Who owns the space, especially when it’s marked by trauma? It’s strange – how can someone design a “memorial” or redevelopment plan without ever meeting the locals? That lack of connection is dangerous.
What are your concerns about the official rebuilding process? I read that you didn’t quite agree with the initiatives in Kharkiv, especially the ones led by Norman Foster. Is that right?
Yes, and it’s funny – I feel like journalists always ask me about Norman Foster! I’ve never met him. I respect his work, of course – he’s a legendary architect.
But I’m from Kharkiv. I’m one of the locals. And sometimes, I feel like I’ve become the object of someone else’s fantasy – which, if you think in terms of feminist theory, can be problematic. What struck me wasn’t Foster’s and his teams’ intention – it was the process. My criticism is about the lack of transparency and involvement. Ukraine has gone through multiple revolutions – we value democracy and people-centric procedures.
So, when Foster was placed in charge of such a huge project without a public competition, it felt wrong. It’s not about style or shapes or father figures – it’s about respecting the people and the process.
What else made you sceptical?
Honestly? The lack of trauma-informed planning. From what I saw publicly, they weren’t working with deep psychological aspects of displacement or war-related loss. Instead, it was mostly about humanitarian stats – how many square metres were lost, how many homes needed to be rebuilt. That’s valid, but incomplete.
Architecture isn’t just rebuilding physical space. It’s about memory. Even the most modest Soviet prefabricated apartment might hold emotional significance. People lost homes they loved, whether they were ugly or not.
Do you think this time could be different? Can the reconstruction process evolve into something more hopeful and people-centred?
Maybe I’m not pessimistic – maybe I’m just realistic. I believe in criticism. Not just to challenge, but to take responsibility. As a theorist, it’s my job to reflect deeply on what’s happening. And not just criticize – but propose ideas, whether in my own writing or within public dialogue.
What I hope for is a shared platform – where international architects and Ukrainian thinkers come together. During war, we don’t always have the time or resources to organize big conferences. That’s where international institutions can help: hosting safe spaces for serious discussions. We’ll gladly contribute – we just need the invitation.
If I may ask – what is your life like now? If I’m correct, you currently live in London. Can you return to your city, or is that impossible for now?
Yes, I’m currently in London, teaching at the Bartlett School of Architecture. I’ve been here for three years now. It’s a strange twist of fate – war and displacement always bring surprises. You may have lost your home, but you’re giving a lecture in Chanel boots.
War disrupts everything, including how we understand exile and privilege. It triggers memories – of World War II, World War I. I moved to Latvia first, then to Paris under a short-term PAUSE program fellowship for scholars at risk at Sciences Po. After that, I moved to London through the CARA program – originally set up in 1933 for Einstein (he chose the U.S., I chose the UK!). These parallels with past wars have shaped my intellectual journey profoundly.
Is it hard to stay involved in Ukraine’s reconstruction from abroad?
During the first year of the war, I was extremely productive – I wrote like crazy. Daily articles, reflections, documentation. Eventually, I published a collection of essays called Being a Ukrainian Architect During Wartime. Writing was my therapy. Even when everything felt dark, writing helped me interpret and survive.
And from the very first week of the full-scale invasion – I remember it clearly; we had already fled Kharkiv and were in Western Ukraine – people from UNESCO were already contacting me about reconstruction. I thought: Wait, it’s too early! Bombs were still falling. We didn’t even know the full scale of destruction yet.
I’m an urban planner. You can’t design a masterplan – not even a short-term one – if you haven’t surveyed the damage. So, when Norman Foster entered the conversation one month later, it felt premature. We hadn’t even buried our dead. You can’t rebuild a city while it’s still burning.
There are great precedents from other conflicts – especially in Yugoslavia. I remember the films by Jean-Luc Godard on Sarajevo, the architectural texts from British deconstructivists. That level of intellectual reflection was vital.
But this time, we skipped that phase. Instead, we jumped straight into conceptual drawings and competitions. In reality, each day Kharkiv still faces shelling. We don’t even know what tomorrow looks like. How do you plan reconstruction in that chaos?
This moment is actually an opportunity – a space – for global intellectual engagement. We’re not the first nation to experience war. We won’t be the last. Let’s not rush to build. Let’s rush to understand.
So now that the war continues, do you have any ideas or concrete updates on reconstruction?
Honestly, not much has changed since the very beginning of the invasion. Back in March and April 2022, even in emergency mode, we – meaning NGOs, architects, historians – already started discussing what needed urgent attention. The most pressing thing was documentation. If you don’t document damage, you can’t restore or conserve anything.
One major issue is heritage protection. And I don’t know why, but it’s still unresolved. Take Kharkiv, for example – my home city. It has true architectural gems from the 1920s and 1930s. One of those is the Derzhprom building – a concrete masterpiece in Constructivist style. We’ve been trying to get it onto UNESCO’s permanent World Heritage list since the 1990s. It passed all procedural steps. But even now, three years into war, it’s still not listed. It’s only on a temporary list. UNESCO made a separate list for objects “under threat” in Ukraine. Legally, that’s a different category with quite a vague status – it’s not the same protection level the UNESCO’s World Heritage List can grant.
That matters. Because when Russia bombs a building on the permanent World Heritage list, international law considers it a crime of war. But if it’s only temporarily listed, the responsibility and punishment is weaker. So, creating “parallel lists” of outwardly protected heritage – that’s a problem. It weakens accountability. I’ve been pretty critical of UNESCO because of this. Perhaps that is why I am unlikely to be invited to participate in public debates involving them in the near future. Still, it needs to be said.
Protecting heritage doesn’t mean the entire city can be preserved and rebuilt as it was, this will not be possible. However, individual objects can and should be preserved and rebuilt with granting them a proper legal status. That’s achievable. Kharkiv isn’t occupied. Derzhprom is still standing. Yet, no action has been taken.
Even if the war stopped tomorrow, it wouldn’t be time for reconstruction yet, right?
You’ve hit an important point. Most reconstruction plans start with speculation: What if the war ends tomorrow? But it won’t. Even if this war stopped, there would still be other wars. We’re designing policies and education programmes around false assumptions. And that’s dangerous. As architects, we need to teach reality – not utopia. This isn’t the age of Le Corbusier or Brasilia anymore. We don’t need fantasy cities. We need grounded, boring, real responses. Even if it’s less glamorous.
You said Ukrainian architects play an important role in all this. Do you see real engagement? Or are they demotivated everything that’s happened?
That’s a powerful question. I think we’re living in parallel worlds right now. On one hand, international architects and theorists discuss architecture, write essays, host panels in safe cities like London or Milan. On the other hand, Ukrainian architects – those still living and working in cities under shelling – are doing their job every day, often in silence.
Maybe their hope isn’t about winning big budgets or flashy competitions. Maybe their hope is for solidarity – just to be heard and acknowledged.
That’s why I really value collaborative projects between Ukrainian architects and the global community. It’s not just about financial help. It’s about professional respect.
Let me give you examples. There’s Kateryna Kublytska – she turned down a scholarship in London and returned to Kharkiv to help preserve heritage under fire. She collaborates directly with prosecutors to document Russian war crimes against civil infrastructure and architecture. She’s incredible – and she’s not alone. We have hundreds, maybe thousands, of such professionals doing their work amid risk and trauma.
They’re not demotivated about their mission. They’re just tired of being ignored.
Another example is Oleg Drozdov – an architect from Kharkiv. Despite the war, he continues to lead a displaced architectural school in Western Ukraine. They never stopped teaching, never stopped designing.
The international community keeps developing theories, which is great. But Ukrainian professionals – heritage experts, planners, architects – are still on the ground.
What we need is to connect those worlds. Let’s stop designing projects based on assumptions. Instead, let’s build something new and intertwined based on real wartime experience. Not fantasy. Not speculation. Real collaboration.
Out of curiosity – are there photos or videos documenting the damage to buildings?
Yes, absolutely. That’s actually a fascinating point. I’ve started wondering about the link between journalism and architecture. In the past, I thought architectural criticism was enough – writing essays, commentary, that sort of thing. But when you write about war, you start acting like a reporter. Architects become war correspondents in a way – telling stories through space.
Over the years, I’ve collaborated with amazing journalists – even war reporters who’ve won big awards. These friendships changed how I see architecture entirely.
Journalists don’t shy away from trauma. They walk straight into it. Architects, on the other hand, often keep a distance – working from models, drawings, renderings. But trauma requires presence.
And that’s something I admire about reporters – their fearlessness. We need to go closer. Architects shouldn’t be emotionally distant – observing pain from behind the glass.
Maybe that’s how we’ll finally break out of the old paradigm – move past postmodernism. The answers from the 1980s don’t help anymore. We need new responses, new tools.
That’s why we need intellectual time – to reflect, not rush into rebuilding.
Exactly. Yesterday, I saw in Palazzo Ducale the fresco cycle by Pisanello discovered in 1965 after having been hidden for centuries under plaster layers. That was powerful imagery – soldiers, ruins, death – like Picasso’s Guernica. It captured war and disaster in a way that stopped me cold.
We’re stuck in these cycles. As architects, we create new problems, then memorialize them, then repeat.
We need to break this.