How to Work in Advertising During the War

The dream used to be to work for a Western agency or win a Cannes Lion; today it is to return home

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Editor’s note: As part of our coverage of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, Adweek has been reaching out to creative professionals who remain in the country. Oksana Gonchar, creative group head of [isdgroup] agency based in Kyiv, shared the following dispatch. This piece has been edited for formatting and clarity.

The first thought that popped into my mind when I woke up was, “Have I been exposed to radiation?” I checked the news—the fire in Enerhodar had been put out. So I breathed out. OK, not today. 

Today is a good day. The ninth day of the war.

Enerhodar is the largest nuclear power plant (NPP) in Europe. It has six nuclear units. Last night, Russian tanks were shelling the station. If Enerhodar blows up, the explosion will be ten times more powerful than Chernobyl. The toxic cloud will cover Europe and, of course, the adjacent regions of Russia. So, practically speaking, the Russian tanks were shelling their own people that night, too.

On the third day of the war, my colleagues and I launched a brief asking all creatives around the world to help prevent World War III with their campaigns. At first, we wondered, “Does this sound too scary?”

But at midnight the same day, I woke up and saw an NPP burning in my country. At five in the morning, I added to the brief: There are 15 (!) nuclear units at four NPPs in Ukraine in total. I don’t see a more effective way to explain that our entire country right now is one gigantic atomic bomb, which a Russian soldier boy can detonate with his finger.

I’m getting dozens of new responses to the brief every day. One person sends a poster. Another person sends a deck with an idea, a pitch, as if we are having a competition. A creative director from London asked if he and his colleagues can help us during the war, pro bono, so that we keep our salaries if we are unable to work.

But the thing is, we don’t have any commercial projects to work on. In Ukraine, there are no more (OK, for now) marketing budgets for international brands.

I try to reach our art director Maryna … but Maryna, an intelligent and graceful illustrator who studied in Barcelona, has gone to sign up for the Territorial Defense.

—Oksana Gonchar, creative group head, [isdgroup] agency

No one is launching a beer campaign for the summer season. All Ukrainian creatives now have one client: our country. And while that country is being bombed, all of us—no matter how corny it may sound—comprise one creative front.

Never before have I seen 25,000 advertising professionals unite in one chat in two days. Yes, we do have such a chat. It has copywriters, sound designers, directors and even professional TikTokers. Hundreds of creatives are born in this chat every day, aiming to reach the Russians with the truth.

But just as I finished writing this line, Russia started blocking Facebook. So tomorrow, it’s going to be that much harder to get through.

There are five thousand people in our social media squad. Someone throws out a link: “Here you go—these guys have made 500 banners for you already; take them for free.”

I try to reach our art director Maryna to select the best ones but Maryna, an intelligent and graceful illustrator who studied in Barcelona, has gone to sign up for the Territorial Defense. Maryna returns, infuriated: They didn’t accept her, as there have been too many volunteers to protect the country.

I’m lucky to live in relative safety and comfort. My parents’ village is in the middle of nowhere—we have a shower in the house, and no sirens. Sometimes I have to climb a ladder near the barn to get a better Wi-Fi connection and join a meeting, but that’s the lesser evil. Our manager turns on his camera during our call—he is in the bathroom because there is an air raid alert in Kyiv. “Guys, can we push this back half an hour, please, he asks. Our copywriter Aliya apologizes in the chat: “Peeps, I won’t be able to help you tomorrow. I’ll be crossing the border to Romania with my kid.”

My editor buddy, the best damn editor in the country, got a job as an assistant to a military surgeon. “The food here is better than in the bomb shelters,” he jokes. My ex-colleague Vika, a brand manager of a large spirits company, spent 30 hours getting to the border with a one-year-old child in her arms to cross on foot.

Our team is not in Kharkiv, which will soon be destroyed like Dresden. And it’s not in Mariupol or Kherson, where people have been trembling in basements without heat, water or food for seven days now—such as my friend Masha and her three small children. She lives near a maternity hospital that was destroyed by Russian bombs. I haven’t heard from her for seven days.

None of my colleagues have given birth in the subway, as is currently happening in Kyiv. In fact, an estimated 80,000 women will give birth in the next three months in Ukraine—many of them without access to critical health care. At least 160,000 lives are in danger, both mothers and babies. We are the lucky ones.

I have never had much sense of national identity. I was born in Western Ukraine; I often spoke Russian in Kyiv and have always belonged to the apolitical privileged who consider themselves citizens of the world. The war that started in 2014 in Donbas passed me and most of my creative friends by. And for the last eight days, I have felt overwhelming shame for that.

My friends and I launched the brief only when the bullets whistled over our houses in Kyiv—but not eight years ago when they started killing Ukrainian soldiers in eastern Ukraine. I, a Russian speaker, did nothing to stop those who came to “rescue” the Russian-speaking people in Donbas. I helped Putin, as did everyone who shook hands with him at summits while he bombed Georgia, killed children in Syria and targeted political refugees in London. I finally remembered that I was Ukrainian when I had to flee from home.

Before, the everlasting dream of most Ukrainian creatives was to relocate and work for some Western agency. To study at Miami Ad School. To win a Cannes Lion with AMV BBDO. The Ukrainian advertising market is still too young to be a real dream. And we can get work permits in any European country. So, I ask my friends today if they want to relocate. “Yes,” they say. “To Kyiv, back home.”