PAVEL ROMANIKO

WORDS

For several years now, I have been in possession of a kilogram of a fluorescent organic green dye—an intriguing substance both in hue and history. Commonly referred to as zelyonka, this chemical compound is largely unknown outside of the post-Soviet sphere, yet it holds a peculiar and enduring presence in countries such as Ukraine and Russia. Officially known as brilliant green, the dye has long been employed for its antiseptic properties, staining the elbows, knees, and foreheads of generations of children across schoolyards and playgrounds. Any scrape or abrasion is quickly baptized in this emerald tincture, a ritualistic gesture against infection, passed down instinctively through decades of household practice.

Despite the global availability of more advanced and arguably less abrasive over-the-counter antiseptics, zelyonka has stubbornly resisted obsolescence. It remains not only accessible but firmly entrenched in domestic and institutional medicine across much of the region. Pharmacies still stock it, hospitals still apply it, and many families still trust it. The dye's tenacity is not merely chemical but cultural—it has etched itself into the fabric of post-Soviet daily life.

Yet, zelyonka is more than a medical relic; it has evolved into an instrument of psychological and political warfare. Because it is cheap, ubiquitous, and almost impossible to remove without the aid of harsh acids, the dye has been weaponized in recent years—hurled at journalists, opposition figures, and presidential candidates as a means of public humiliation and physical harm. Its intensely pigmented stain lingers on skin and clothing for days, a symbolic mark of dissent or repression, depending on one's perspective. Moreover, its volatility under UV light and potential to cause eye injuries underscore its dangerous duality. The phenomenon has grown so prevalent that it now has its own Wikipedia entry under the term “Zelyonka attack,” documenting these politically motivated assaults and cementing the dye's notoriety.

This double life of zelyonka—as both healer and aggressor—makes it a potent object of study. It operates at a crossroads between folk remedy, ideological residue, and semiotic weapon. My interest lies precisely in this intersection, in the semiotic weight that zelyonka carries within the mythology of post-Soviet culture. It is both archaic and active, banal and violent, intimate and theatrical. It marks bodies and memories alike. This project is conceived as an open-ended, collaborative investigation. It does not seek resolution or closure but rather invites perpetual participation. It exists only as a set of instructions—an open invitation to engage with, interpret, and transform the material. As long as there are contributors willing to explore and expand upon the symbolic afterlives of zelyonka, the project will continue to unfold.