Founded in 1794 by Catherine the Great, Odesa was designed to be Russia’s gateway to the Mediterranean. Its strategic location turned it into a bustling port, attracting merchants, artists, and adventurers from across Europe. The city’s iconic Potemkin Stairs, immortalized in Sergei Eisenstein’s 1925 film Battleship Potemkin, became a symbol of its grandeur—and later, its struggles.
Odesa’s identity was shaped by its diversity. Ukrainian peasants, Russian aristocrats, Jewish intellectuals, Greek traders, and Italian architects all left their mark. The Odesa Opera House, a masterpiece of Baroque architecture, hosted performances that rivaled Vienna’s. Writers like Isaac Babel (a native son) captured the city’s gritty charm in stories like Odessa Tales, where gangsters and poets coexisted in a chaotic harmony.
The 1917 Russian Revolution shattered Odesa’s cosmopolitan dream. Bolsheviks, White Army loyalists, and anarchist militias fought for control, while the city’s Jewish population faced pogroms. Under Soviet rule, Odesa became a hub of black-market trade—a trait that would later fuel its reputation for defiance.
Nazi occupation in 1941 brought unspeakable horror. Over 25,000 Jews were murdered in Odesa, many burned alive in warehouses. The city’s catacombs, once used for smuggling, became a hideout for partisans. Post-war Soviet propaganda sanitized this history, framing Odesa as a "Hero City" while suppressing its multicultural past.
Russia’s annexation of Crimea sent shockwaves through Odesa. Pro-Russian protests erupted, culminating in the May 2, 2014 clashes at the Trade Unions House, where 48 people died in a fire. The tragedy galvanized many Odessites to reject Kremlin influence—though the city remains a linguistic patchwork of Ukrainian and Russian speakers.
When Putin launched his full-scale invasion, Odesa became a critical lifeline. Its port, once a symbol of commerce, now feeds Ukraine via the Black Sea Grain Initiative. Russian missiles target the city weekly, yet its spirit endures. Street artists paint murals of sunflowers (a Ukrainian national symbol) over bomb shelters, and the Opera House defiantly hosts concerts in candlelight during blackouts.
Russian attacks have damaged landmarks like the Transfiguration Cathedral (rebuilt in 2010 after Stalin destroyed the original). UNESCO has labeled Odesa’s historic center a "World Heritage in Danger," but locals prioritize survival over restoration. "The soul of Odesa isn’t in its buildings," one architect told me. "It’s in the dark humor we use to cope."
Pre-war, 85% of Odessites spoke Russian daily. Now, many switch to Ukrainian as an act of defiance—though the city’s dialect, surzhyk, blends both. Schools teach Ukrainian, but the Odesa Film Festival still screens Russian-language classics, sparking debates about cultural "decolonization."
Just 60km away lies Moldova’s breakaway region of Transnistria, where Russian troops have lurked since the 1990s. If Putin opens a second front from there, Odesa could become a battleground. Yet fishermen still crack jokes on the beaches, and jazz clubs play on—because in Odesa, stubbornness is an art form.
Odesa is more than a strategic port. It’s a microcosm of Ukraine’s fight to preserve its identity against imperial erasure. When a Russian missile damaged the Odesa Fine Arts Museum in 2023, volunteers formed a human chain to salvage paintings—a scene echoing the 1941 Siege of Leningrad. The message is clear: Odesa won’t let war rewrite its story.
As the Black Sea glimmers under drone-filled skies, the city’s motto—"You can kill us, but you can’t make us disappear"—feels less like bravado and more like a prophecy.