Nestled in northeastern Ukraine, Sumy is a city that often flies under the radar—yet its cultural heritage is as vibrant as its sunflower fields. Founded in the 17th century as a fortress against Tatar raids, Sumy has evolved into a hub of Ukrainian identity, resilience, and artistry. Today, as the world’s attention fixates on Ukraine’s struggle for sovereignty, Sumy’s local traditions offer a poignant reminder of what’s at stake.
Sumy’s culture is a mosaic of Cossack bravery, Soviet-era industrial grit, and modern Ukrainian creativity. The city’s architecture tells this story: Baroque churches like the Holy Resurrection Cathedral stand alongside Soviet brutalist apartment blocks, while street murals now bloom with themes of resistance and hope. The local dialect, a blend of Ukrainian and Russian with a distinct regional twang, mirrors this duality—a linguistic dance that reflects Ukraine’s complex history.
Since Russia’s full-scale invasion in 2022, Sumy has faced artillery strikes, occupation, and a mass exodus of its people. Yet, its cultural pulse hasn’t faded. Instead, it’s transformed.
Traditional petrykivka painting—a UNESCO-listed folk art known for its floral motifs—has taken on new meaning. Local artists now weave symbols of resistance into their work: sunflowers (Ukraine’s national flower) intertwined with anti-tank hedgehogs, or vyshyvanka (embroidered shirts) stitched with bullet casings. “Art is our weapon,” says Kateryna, a Sumy-based painter. “Every brushstroke is defiance.”
Sumy’s jazz scene, once thriving in cozy cafés, has moved underground—literally. Musicians like the Sumy Brass Band now perform in subway stations-turned-shelters, their trumpets echoing against concrete walls. Playlists on Spotify? Try Telegram channels sharing wartime folk ballads. The lyrics have changed, too: ancient kolomyiky (dance tunes) now mock Putin or honor fallen soldiers.
Food is culture’s most visceral expression, and Sumy’s kitchens are no exception.
The city’s iconic beet soup has become a lifeline. Community kitchens—many run by grandmothers (babusyas)—serve steaming bowls to displaced families and soldiers. Recipes adapt to scarcity: no meat? Use beans. No gas? Cook over open fires. “This borscht tastes like home,” says Oleksiy, a soldier on leave. “It’s why we fight.”
No discussion of Ukrainian food is complete without salo (cured pork fat). In Sumy, it’s both a snack and a meme—slabs of it were famously “donated” to the military as “anti-tank ammunition.” Jokes aside, salo represents endurance: preserved, unyielding, and unapologetically Ukrainian.
With over a third of Sumy’s population displaced, culture now thrives online.
Teens in Lviv or Berlin film traditional hopak dances in subway stations, hashtagged #SumyStrong. Virtual museum tours showcase artifacts saved from Russian looters. Even Sumy’s famed pysanky (Easter eggs) are now NFTs, with proceeds funding drones.
Ukrainian-language classes, once niche, are now packed—online and off. “My kids refused to speak Ukrainian before the war,” admits local teacher Mariya. “Now they correct my grammar.” The shift is seismic: in Sumy’s cafes, Ukrainian eclipses Russian, a quiet revolution in every “dyakuyu” (thank you).
War reshapes culture, but doesn’t erase it. Sumy’s vyshyvanka festivals may now double as fundraisers, its poets write in bomb shelters, and its theaters stage plays via Starlink. Yet the essence remains: a love of land, a wry humor, and an unbreakable spirit. As the world debates aid packages and geopolitics, Sumy’s culture whispers a truth: Ukraine isn’t just surviving—it’s rewriting its story, one sunflower at a time.