The Repressed is a film about the lives of homeless people in Odesa, serving as a political manifesto.

A conversation with Maryna Ya and Kostiantyn Maleonyuk by kateryna babych

In 2023, the Filma festival has already addressed the topic of housing and social (in)security. Together with Anastasiia Bobrova, the festival’s collective curated a program that highlighted the topics of housing precarity, poverty, gentrification, and homelessness. The curatorial text emphasized that homeless people are left out of political discourse and reconstruction plans. That year’s program illustrated the need for affordable housing for everyone, drawing examples from Bangladesh, Canada, the United States, South Africa, and Italy. This time, Filma once again talks about the rights to housing, although now we invite our audience to immerse themselves in the Ukrainian context.

In The Repressed, activists from the Odesa anti-authoritarian initiative SAD intertwine political reflection on the causes of homelessness with a physical examination of this phenomenon through the personal stories and drawings of homeless people. The initiative mainly focuses on direct aid, mutual support, and political education. kateryna babych spoke with two directors, Maryna Ya and Kostiantyn Maleonyuk, about the initiative’s activities and the process of making the film.

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Let us walk into the garden. I will show you the garden… 
Mykola Vinhranovsky

Ontological security is the sense that the stability of the world can be taken for granted. It is the emotional foundation that allows us to feel at ease in our environment and at home in our housing.
Peter Marcuse, David Madden

kateryna babych: Please tell us how the initiative started.

Kostiantyn Maleonyuk: SAD emerged in 2021 as a leftist book club. It started as a group of five activists, including several people who already worked with the homeless. For instance, one of our friends, who had already been involved in helping homeless people, was also a former member of the “Khlib Nasushchnyi” (“Our Daily Bread” in Ukrainian – edit.) vegan cooperative in Kyiv, which prepared food for homeless people using freegan ingredients. We were united by the issues of poverty and homelessness, so we decided we wanted to make an impact on these problems.

Have you noticed the impact of the pandemic on homelessness? The years 2020–2021 were especially tough for homeless people in Kyiv, as many lost their ability to earn from short-term jobs due to the lockdowns.

К: Yes, COVID hit really hard. Precisely in 2020, I started working as a social worker – first volunteering during the pandemic, and later joining a charity fund. That’s when I started critically examining the way social workers interact with homeless people. Not everything about it sat right with me. I’d invite friends to help out, since I initiated a kind of outreach: we’d feed people at various spots around the city. My friends also noticed the unfairness in how social workers treated the homeless, like clients or wards who needed to be “set on the right path.” The fund’s frequent contacts with the police were harming them too. Eventually, we decided we could do things differently on our own.

Maryna Ya: I didn’t get involved in the initiative right away, but I would like to tell how the idea for the film came about. During the COVID-19 pandemic, when many businesses were closed, Kostia (Kostiantyn Maleonyuk) walked around the city and noticed numerous spaces were sitting abandoned and unused, even though they could have served as homes for people. The same logic applies to wartime, especially in Odesa, where many businesses have left the country, leaving their offices empty–along with other commercial spaces, factories, and apartments. Meanwhile, the city lacks shelters for those who need them.

Certainly, the film features numerous shots of rental listings. It becomes clear that the problem isn’t a lack of housing itself, but rather its accessibility. Could you tell us more about the people you help? How do you address them? Why don’t you consider them clients?

M: As I understand it, at the very beginning our comrades weren’t interacting with that many people — about 15–20. They knew Kostia well, since he was a social worker, so a certain level of trust formed right away. The approach was not to gather these people in a convenient place for the activists to do distribution, but instead to go where the homeless already used to hang out. For example, that’s how they chose the Rozy Vitriv park (“Wind rose” in Ukrainian – edit.), located across from the train station. Our interactions aren’t “top-down,” but “bottom-up”, since there are other aid spots nearby on the same day, we try to adjust to the people we support so that it’s more convenient for them and they don’t waste their time. Or we pick the spots they already know about. How do we address them? Well… homeless, or the people who come to us, the people we help. Yesterday, at our film screening, I referred to them as comrades during my talk. We’ve gotten close with some of them and have become friends; we call each other about once a week. They are the people we know, our acquaintances, comrades, but definitely not clients or beneficiaries. I’ve heard that term used too.

I follow your Instagram page, and I’ve noticed that you sometimes organize creative sessions, such as drawing sessions together. The film also features some illustrations. Are those drawings by one of your comrades, Serioha?

М: Yes, those are Serioha’s drawings. He has been coming to us from the very beginning. Kostia has known him since Depaul¹. Serioha knew the drawings were for the film, so he said yes. We didn’t know how to thank him, so he said, “A pack of cigarettes, please,” so for each drawing we bought him a pack of cigarettes.

We draw together with the homeless during every distribution. Then, one person decided to take over this process; his name is Illia. He is an artist, so it was interesting for him. Illia comes up with a topic and suggests it to the people, and since he’s quite charismatic, they are happy to join in. He chats and interacts with them, cracking jokes and even doing little stand-up bits. They’ve built a good connection.

К: This wasn’t even our idea—it came from our artist friends. They had a collective called “Atelier Jelly”, which didn’t last too long. Once, they just showed up at a food outreach. One of their participants already had experience working with marginalized people. They had an idea to not only draw, but to use these drawings for prints—on T-shirts, postcards—and let the homeless people know about it, to get them involved in the process. We sell these items and put the money back into aid, buying the things we distribute. This is also a way to overcome their lack of agency. People kind of “get stuck” in homelessness. They’re very atomized, they don’t feel part of the community, and often fight among themselves and divide. Creative practice is an opportunity to bring them together and shape a situation where people help one another.

Agency seems like a good bridge to shift directly to the film discussion. How did the idea to create it come about? You are the main authors, but the credits include many people you thank for their advice and contributions. We also hear an off-screen voice, but can’t see the face, meaning the protagonists themselves are co-creators, too. Why did you decide on this format? How did you bring together your anthropological and sociological reflections, your critiques of capitalism, and people’s personal stories?

M: The idea was to make a very short film–up to five minutes–and to focus solely on hostile architecture, showing it quickly and vividly without diving too deep. During our conversations, we realized the topic was much deeper and broader, and this film could essentially go on forever. We gathered many stories, so the blocks we conditionally divided the film into — ‘safety,’ ‘sleep,’ ‘work’ — emerged naturally from our informal anthropological process. We’d just show up and talk, and in our conversations, it became clear what the people living on the street, as well as generally poor people, actually face.

K: As Maryna already mentioned, the idea came up during lockdown through the walks around the city and observations. An important part of our film is showing everything that usually goes unnoticed. Before I started working with homeless people, I really didn’t notice the amount of hostile architecture in the city and the buildings left abandoned for years. However, once I began interacting with people living on the streets, everything became clear to me.

We chose the genre of documentary video essay. I like this format because, on the one hand, it features the voices of the homeless, and on the other hand, we develop a conceptual language that transforms personal stories into political commentary. We talked to the people coming to our distributions, and read some literature—that’s how the script came about. I think, from the very beginning, the film was intended not just for the general public, but for the homeless themselves. We wanted them to hear themselves – and us – in our conversations, to feel our genuine care and interest in their experiences. We hoped they would see that these experiences might run deeper than they think, both personal and shared at the same time. We wanted them to know that they are not alone.

What I liked about this film… Well, ‘like’ is probably the wrong word. The absurdity and sadness it evoked came from realizing it’s not rocket science: people just need housing, and it needs to be provided. Nevertheless, we live in a world where this still hasn’t happened, although the situation got worse with the pandemic, and now it’s rapidly deteriorating due to the full-scale war, when people flee into nowhere and sometimes end up on the street. But it seems to me that you managed quite well to strike a balance between your own commentary and personal stories.

Talking about the latter, materials about homelessness often indulge in excessive analysis. They angle the information from a neoliberal perspective, leaving the systemic aspects of homelessness on the side. The other extreme is immersion in the drama. The more tragic the homeless character’s story and the more positive and “fitting” their experience is—finding a place to wash up, do laundry, read a book, earn some money, etc.—the better. As if basic empathy is something that needs to be earned. However, your work avoids this exaggeration, somehow incorporating ontological anxiety. This resonated sharply with me, and it appears that many people share the same sentiment today. How did you manage to achieve this?

M: We wrote the script together. We also took the interviews together–on different days, either Kostia or I spoke with different people who had agreed beforehand. Later, we would transcribe the materials, consult with each other, and check what could be added. It was a purely collective work. Although Kostia did more editing because I lack the necessary experience. You are asking, how come our film talks about ontological vulnerability, housing, and the extension of the body? I think, during that period, we read Peter Marcuse in our book club meetings, and talked about housing, so it sort of suggested itself. At the end of the day, lack of affordable housing and homelessness are strongly connected. That’s how the phrase we discussed, from his work on housing, In Defence of Housing, ended up in the film.

Your essay is substantial and meaningful, yet still concise. Kostia, would you like to add anything?

K: We definitely talked a lot to a lot of people, and we used a questionnaire. Since we were interested in many topics, particularly hygiene and transportation, some shots did not make it into the film. After transcribing, we selected the most interesting moments, which came together as a collage. We combined bits of quotes from different people to form a single coherent narrative. If the connection seemed missing, we added our own text to fill the gap. The collaging was unconscious, spontaneous, and without a pre-planned structure – it emerged once we assembled the most interesting quotes.

You showed the film to the people whose voices are featured in it, their comrades, and other homeless people. How did they react to it? Were they the first audience? Have you made any changes after receiving feedback, or even planned a follow-up film?

M: Our first screening was in Odesa, it was open to the broad public, including the people whom we filmed. We brought one comrade from the shelter, whom we helped, and who also features in the film. She watched attentively and liked it. She agreed that everything was portrayed honestly and truthfully, but in the end, she got very upset because it reminded her of her situation again. She is over 50, so it’s unlikely her life will change radically, or she will get a chance to feel differently. She shed a tear, got sad, but thanked us. About a month ago, we did a screening just for the people we distribute aid to. The film protagonists were there too. They nodded when agreeing with something — some experiences were universal for many people living on the streets. That’s when we realized we probably touched on something. We already have ideas for the next films. We don’t want to stop here.

K: Our next idea is documenting the dreams. We’ve already started recording interviews with people and collecting stories. It will have a somewhat different format, combining semi-documentary and semi-fictional elements, with staged dreams, meaning it will feature actors, sets, and animation. However, we are already facing some issues: the people we talk to often don’t consider their dreams valuable or important, so they tend to forget them quickly. In fact, all of us do, except those who see a psychoanalyst three times a week.

M: Perhaps they should note their dreams in some sort of diary. Well, I was talking to one person the other day, and the first question she asked before telling her dream was: “Does it matter? What do you need it for?” I explained to her, and I think she herself started to believe that it’s important, that it’s an interesting dream, an interesting story. She even started analyzing it, saying, “My children come to me in dreams, I wonder why I dream of them?” Kind of a self-reflection during the interview. Sometimes I see that the person doesn’t want to or simply can’t keep telling or thinking about something. Then I know it’s too much for them, so we stop the conversation and turn off the recorder.

K: Their dreams are rarely positive, so talking about them is quite tough. And while we get to go home and feel safe after discussing the negative experiences, as we did in the first film, the protagonists do not have this option at all.

Coming back to The Repressed, where else would you like to screen your film?

K: We’re interested in informal spaces where one at least doesn’t have to pay rent: student cinema clubs, bars, shared spaces. We’ll go wherever we get invited. Our friends living in Europe have already offered some ideas. They asked us to make English subtitles and come.

Why did you decide to submit your film to this festival? Do you consider your work feminist?M: Yes, we consider this film a politically charged manifesto, at least that’s how I describe it. It’s created on principles of intersectionality. The spaces where we show it are usually run by left-wing activists; for instance, last autumn, we did two screenings in Kyiv upon invitation from the student union “Priama Diia” (“Direct action” in Ukrainian – edit.). The Filma festival stands on values close to ours as people working with marginalized groups and women survivors of gender-based violence. This topic is important to us. It’s incredible that the festival is free, so people who can’t afford to pay 500 hryvnias for a ticket can still watch the film. Odesa currently has very few cultural events, especially those with a political agenda. As SAD last year, we helped organize a screening for Filma. That’s how we met and got close.

You mentioned that at first you were planning to focus only on hostile architecture. Why was it important to you? Does the Odesa context play a role in it? For instance, in Kyiv, such architectural forms are quite common, including gated residential complexes or locked dumpsters. The same goes for Europe.

K: We focused on hostile architecture because it’s a universal phenomenon, I think it exists everywhere. We realized it after talking to our friends. Sonya from “Khlib Nasushchnyi” once made a zine about freeganism, describing how she got food from supermarkets. She’d have to go to the dumpsters, usually hidden behind wire fences that you have to climb over and act very quickly, because security might come out and try to detain you. Talking to the homeless people, we wanted to find out how they sleep, how it feels to be constantly sleep-deprived, how they search for food, and what obstacles they face along the way. 

M: Hostile architecture is very insidious. A person who doesn’t think about homelessness will find a steel bench looking modern, almost like a sculpture. Like the ones placed in Shevchenko Park. In my opinion, that’s absolute fascism, because even someone who doesn’t need to sleep on it for 8 hours will feel uncomfortable sitting there. They’re often justified as being stylish or fashionable, but their actual purpose is often one of restriction.

With this film, we wanted to show that what’s beautiful isn’t always good—and often the opposite. It’s better to build a regular wooden bench where people can rest, lie down, or just sit. 

As for Odesa, I wouldn’t say there’s as much conventional hostile architecture there as in Europe or the US. There are bizarre benches, but most often it’s some DIY hostile architecture that people or businesses construct themselves, such as adding spikes to deter pigeons. Sometimes, the benches are simply removed, so a homeless person can’t sit down, and then everyone is left without a place to rest.

We talked a lot about invisibility. Homeless people in urban spaces are often invisible and are perceived more as part of the landscape. In my childhood, there was a popular myth that they were part of a “mafia” that supposedly pooled the money they begged. For the state, they’re invisible too: there are no programs for homeless people, so it’s impossible to provide them with shelter. Even the statistics are tricky. And it’s not just about a lack of budget, but also about a lack of any interest in addressing this topic. I was shocked by a number in your film — 60 people died in the streets of Odesa. I don’t even know how to phrase it without sounding horrific, but I was thinking that if 60 people died in a fire, natural disaster, or airstrike, everyone would talk about it, including the media. But here, hardly anyone noticed…

M: It’s true, homeless people often die in winter, and no one talks about it. Our friend and SAD activist, Vira, who works as a local journalist, submitted a request to the police department to find out how many deceased people were found on the streets of the city without documents or who fit a certain description. To grasp the unofficial statistics of casualties. But that’s only possible once someone cares as much as Vira does. Regarding those 60 people, that’s unofficial data too. That number could be higher or lower. But the fact that people die on the streets — and that it happens frequently, for various reasons—is undeniable. Obviously, the main reason in winter is the cold. The film features people who were no longer alive by the time of editing. There are shots of those who are no longer with us — and it’s not just one person.

I was also wondering about the surveillance camera episode. Notably, for some film protagonists—and homeless people in general—cameras serve as a source of threat, a surveillance tool. Because of them, homeless people can get into trouble, for example, if they are caught washing in a public space. For others, cameras become an element of protection from violence. One of the protagonists even said, “Thank God that He made cameras.” What do you think about this contradiction?

K: We first heard about it from the homeless people, and then started reading various studies. It’s actually all about the feeling of safety. You’ll find cameras not only on the streets but also inside shelters.

Homeless people are always under surveillance, but it’s more of an illusion of protection. In reality, violence happens constantly—both on the streets and in shelters—and no one intervenes. The police don’t react. No one comes to help. It’s even unclear if these cameras work or if anyone watches the footage. Homeless people avoid the police, as it often leads to more trouble for them.

M: A lot of homeless men are dodging military service. They say if they return without legs or arms, they’ll definitely die on the streets, while now they can at least get by working construction or collecting cardboard. On the other hand, we have actual war heroes with three or four medals, titles, veteran status, the whole set. They wear uniforms and are currently living on the streets.

If someone reading this interview wants to help homeless people, what is the best way to do it?

K: Acting on your own is an option, but I’d recommend looking for organizations in your city that already help homeless people, even if you don’t fully align ideologically. It’s worth looking for ways to join existing efforts without duplicating work. That’s our principle too — we don’t distribute food because others in the city already do it. Instead, we try filling existing gaps. There might be some religious organizations in your city — you can collaborate with them. Start talking to homeless people to identify unmet needs. Involve your friends. If we want to help as many people as possible, it always requires collective work.M: On an individual level, you can always buy water for someone in summer or something warm in winter. If you see someone lying on the street and aren’t sure if they are sleeping or unwell, approach them and ask if they need help; then, act accordingly. If you know of a homeless person near your home or in the area, you can always share warm clothing with them if they need it.

Notes

1. The Charity organization “Charity Fund “Depaul Ukraine” supports homeless people and other vulnerable groups. It offers emergency aid (food, shelter, medical services), helps with social reintegration (restoring documents, job placement, housing search), and advocates for rights. ↩︎