For Ms. Ivanova, whose house lost its roof and windows to Russian shelling in March, and who speaks Ukrainian as her mother tongue, this newfound fame in Russia is bewildering and unwelcome, she says. Her real-life story is far more complex than the tale multiplied by Russian propaganda. It is steeped in the tragedies wrought by this conflict—and by the huge social toll of the Soviet Union’s collapse.
“I wish I could call Putin and tell him: Why was it impossible to solve this question without war, so neither their boys nor ours would have to die? It’s a huge calamity, for Ukraine and for Russia,” Ms. Ivanova said in her garden as artillery exchanges between Ukrainian and Russian forces raged just a few miles away, interrupting the conversation. “What have we, Ukraine, done to Russia so they have to kill us? Russia started it. Ukraine didn’t touch them.”
Much younger than her portrayal in Russia and not an actual grandmother, Ms. Ivanova is only 69—the same age as Mr. Putin, who is touted by Moscow’s state media for his strength and virility. She lives with her husband, Ivan Ivanov, a native of Russia’s nearby Belgorod region, in a dilapidated home that hasn’t had any electricity or TV signal since Russian armored columns raced toward Kharkiv on Feb. 24.
Because Ms. Ivanova is unable to charge her phone, she is only vaguely aware of the course of the war. Hardly any of her neighbors remain in the village, which was on the front line until Ukrainian advances cleared a belt north of Kharkiv, the country’s second-largest city, in early May. Some of those who haven’t left no longer speak with her.
Ms. Ivanova’s life story reads like a heart-rending list of catastrophes that began with the Soviet Union’s collapse in 1991. For many Ukrainians, especially in the big cities, independence meant newfound freedoms and opportunities. But for a working-class woman like Ms. Ivanova, a former grain-elevator employee, the reality of independent Ukraine turned out far less promising.
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