No war has ever kept bloodshed on the battlefront. At the outset of the Russo-Ukrainian war in February 2022, art stood firm on the ideological battlefield, resisting with unyielding resolve against becoming a victim of the war. The Ukrainian Freedom Orchestra, established shortly after the first Russian incursion, simplified this message: “Slava Ukraini,” or “Glory to Ukraine.”
Anything that was Russian became contraband. The musical front of this war is merely a broadcast of Russian art deteriorating under global scrutiny, where the fear of underlying political messages outweighs the virtuosity of any composer. Ukraine, compared to other countries, has been the least forgiving of Russian culture throughout this war, and amidst the early-war frenzy of 2022, the Ukrainian parliament officially banned all music created or performed by any Russian citizens past 1991. The punishment of playing any Russian music resulted in drastic fines, ranging from 5,100 to 8,500 Ukrainian hryvnias for a single infraction, and up to 25,500 Ukrainian hryvnias for multiple offenses. For Ukrainians, the retributions would be substantial, yet the implications of this ban extend beyond Ukraine’s borders.
Countries continue to grapple with the overlap of performance and Putin’s intentions, where long-deceased composers such as Pyotr Tchaikovsky, Sergei Rachmaninoff, and Dmitry Shostakovic are centrally debated to the extent modern politicians are wrangled over. On the other side of the siege on art, however, Putin not only acknowledges the damage to Russian artistry, but strongly condemns it. Putin refers to this ‘cancel culture’ as “The West’s Russophobia,” and considers the banning of Russian books, music, and paintings comparable to the Nazi destruction of literature. Putin argues that,“it is impossible to imagine such a thing in our country, and we are insured against it largely thanks to our national culture. For us, it is inseparable from our homeland, from Russia, where there is no place for ethnic intolerance, where representatives of dozens of nationalities and ethnic groups have lived, worked, and raised children together for centuries.” Ironically, Russia has equally intensive music bans as Ukraine — if not, worse — as they blacklist musicians from publicly performing in response to any anti-invasion thought, even if not voiced publicly. The blacklist extends to nearly 80 bands and artists as of 2024. However, 19th-century composers are not the only artists facing scrutiny under the pressure of the global spotlight — so are the very performers of each of these pieces.

Within months of the start of the Russo-Ukrainian War, Ukraine expelled nearly all Putin-supporting classical artists from performing in any orchestra or concert hall. Protestors, too, are stepping onto the frontlines and engaging in the anti-war effort, with citizens abroad encouraging the banishment of Putin-supporters from world-class concert halls. In 2022, conductor Valery Gergiev and pianist Denis Matsuev, avid pro-Putin and pro-war performers, were permanently banned from Carnegie Hall due to the overwhelming dissent from their listeners. Although they no longer perform in New York City, public disapprobation follows them in every new performance, and their names ring with an ignoble trace of Putin devotion. Nevertheless, Gergiev and Matsuev are not the only musicians under worldwide condemnation.
In 2024, pro singer Grigory Leps was barred from performing in Kazakhstan for his political stance in the war. Conversely, Filip Kirkorov, Stas Mikhailov and Lusia Chebotina (all pro-Putin) were invited in August 2024 by President Sadyr Japarov to perform in Kyrgyzstan — much to the censure of the general public — but Kyrgyz Culture Minister Altynbek Maksutov believes that their disapproval is negligible, as the “minority must submit to the majority.” He continued to argue that the majority of the audience will rejoice and cheer at the end of the performance, leaving the bitter minority to stand up and clap alongside the rest. Yet this statement stirs a deeper conversation about the role of music in politically charged climates, where the stage becomes more than a platform for performance — it becomes a symbol of which voices are elevated and which are silenced. As these artists take their places on the global stage, nd their presence reverberates beyond plain music, forcing both audience and performers to reckon with the ways in which art is inseparable from the ideologies it reflects.
Despite the burgeoning intensity of the musical front of the war, there is no winner in sight. We observe war-stricken communities, families, and the climbing casualty count, and only feel the despair of yet another stalemated battleground. When Russia wins territory, it deteriorates its own musical acclaim, and when it loses, the more Putin weaponizes music against Ukraine.
Undeterred by this sorrow, the war does not end here. Though Putin reacts with strong distaste to the cancellation of Russian works in its entirety, his indignation extends past music, composers, and performers to a new front. Through bombed museums and scattered, irreplaceable pieces of art, Putin finds his solace in the possession of Ukrainian art.

As the war between Russia and Ukraine continues to devastate lives, homes, and cities, another insidious front of destruction unfolds — the systematic looting of Ukrainian art and cultural heritage. Over centuries, Russian forces have stolen over 480,000 pieces of art from Ukraine. This vast cultural heist goes beyond mere robbery; it reveals a calculated attempt to rewrite history, dominate the narrative, and erase Ukrainian cultural identity. By targeting Ukrainian art, Russia weaponizes culture in its pursuit to enforce its historical claims over Ukraine, echoing a 300-year-long refusal to recognize Ukraine as an independent entity.
One of the most striking instances of this looting occurred in the Ukrainian south. In the Melitopol Museum of Local History, Russian forces stole ancient Scythian golden artifacts, including a 4th-century helmet worth millions of dollars. Witnesses recounted the unsettling scene. Russian soldiers surrounded a man in a white lab coat as he meticulously extracted priceless artifacts with gloves and tweezers. Similarly, nearby in Mariupol, Russian forces reportedly looted the city’s three leading museums, seizing over 2,000 pieces of art, including works by famed Ukrainian artists Arkhyp Kuindzhi and Ivan Aivazovsky. The pieces were then moved to the Russian-occupied city of Donetsk, furthering Putin’s ongoing mission to prove Ukraine and its culture is merely an appendage of Russia.
The scale and organization behind these cultural crimes are staggering. Katharyn Hanson, research chief at the Smithsonian Cultural Rescue Initiative, has been investigating the Russian theft cases since the start of the invasion. She and her colleagues have found clear evidence that the looting is neither random nor spontaneous but, according to Hanson, state-sponsored by Russia.
Beyond theft, the Russian campaign against Ukrainian culture extends to the destruction of cultural sites. Estimates suggest that Russia has inflicted nearly $3.5 billion in damages on Ukrainian cultural heritage, targeting museums, libraries, and monuments. In the midst of these damages, 339 different art sites were considered substantially damaged. Throughout these attacks, the aim is not solely to damage but to obliterate Ukrainian culture, leaving a gaping void of missing narratives.
As Russian forces steal and destroy Ukrainian cultural treasures, modern Ukrainian artists and curators are fighting back, using their work to document, resist, and mourn the losses. Ukrainian artist Illia Uhnivenko’s modern piece, New Childhood, offers a visceral commentary on the war and its impact on a generation of children growing up in its shadow. The painting depicts children on a war-stricken landscape, with their innocent games punctuated by the eerie presence of toy tanks and soldiers. In the same exhibit, Daria Filipova in the piece, Window, depicts the average view that a Ukrainian may watch out their window, with destruction so thick with fire and smoke that all signs of civilization are overwhelmed and undetectable.

The extent of the war has reached locations as far as Bronx Science. “Music and art have a powerful ability to spread messages to wide audiences, sometimes more effectively than speeches or political discourse. War songs and protest art have historically galvanized public opinion, shifted attitudes, and even contributed to movements for change,” said Benjamin Gao ’25. Though we may not relate to the cultural loss on both ends of the war, the effects are starkly alarming — even though the “art war” may not be the first battle considered at the mention of Russia and Ukraine.
The stolen artifacts, paintings, monuments, and the slower replenishment of art symbolize not only Ukraine’s past but also its struggle to exist as an independent nation with its own story to tell. As Russia presses its claims through both war and cultural theft, the stakes of the conflict become clearer. This is not merely a battle over land or political power; this is a struggle over memory, meaning, and the right to self-definition. While Ukrainian artists, musicians, museum curators, and civilians fight to preserve their cultural legacy, their resistance stands as a testament to a truth that no amount of theft or destruction can erase. Ukraine is a nation with its own voice, its own story, and its own unshakable identity.
As these artists take their places on the global stage, their presence reverberates beyond plain music, forcing both audience and performers to reckon with the ways in which art is inseparable from the ideologies it reflects.