We can expect happy endings in fairy tales. But in politics? Well, perhaps, sometimes, in snowy landscapes far, far away. Last winter, two equally heroic figures dominated Ukraine’s orange revolution, the peaceful uprising in which pro-democracy protesters overturned their country’s corrupt regime. The first, Yulia Tymoshenko, brought a mesmerising passion to events. A firebrand political orator, she addressed almost daily the demonstrators thronging the Kiev streets in support of the second, the opposition leader Viktor Yushchenko. The government had tried to prevent him from winning the presidential election by organising massive fraud; it had also allegedly poisoned him, leaving his face disfigured.
The demonstrators, sometimes a million strong, draped in orange flags and clothing, fell a little in love with the beautiful Tymoshenko and the once-handsome Yushchenko, who promised to rid Ukraine, a country larger than France and with a population of 50m, of an authoritarian regime that mingled the stagnation of its Soviet past with banana-republic ruthlessness. Persevering in the cold, they forced an election that Yushchenko won.
Tymoshenko’s reward was her appointment as prime minister. To many Ukrainians, the Yushchenko-Tymoshenko partnership promised their country an inspiring new story. But fairy tales can disguise a more complex narrative. Today the pair still display a public show of harmony, declaring they will stand united in next spring’s parliamentary elections to reinforce Ukraine’s journey towards democracy. Yet tensions between them are evident, exacerbated by her rising popularity even as his support slowly ebbs. Both their parties – Yushchenko’s Our Ukraine and Tymoshenko’s eponymously named grouping – have similar agendas: strengthening democracy and human rights, economic reform, ending corruption, and joining the EU and Nato. But this political harmony is marred by personal rivalries: the premier’s position is coveted by some of Yushchenko’s political coterie, and even members of his camp are dismayed by his occasional envy of Tymoshenko’s poll ratings. This is a story in which the heroine, though she would never admit it, seems more interested in sitting on the throne than being the power behind it. But does that cast her in a good or bad light? Is she offering Ukraine a magic wand or a poisoned apple?
We begin to answer that question in her office on the seventh floor of the cabinet building in Kiev, as her team awaits her 9am arrival. An eastern European version of a West Wing team, there are 10 of them, all men, from different backgrounds – academia, business, politics, journalism and the intelligence services. Their mission is to remodel Ukraine for the better, and with over 18,000 state officials from the old regime sacked in the first weeks of the new administration, between February and April, there is much to assess. They agree privately, with comments by her opponents, that unless rifts are healed, Tymoshenko’s party may break the orange coalition and contest the parliamentary elections to secure a pivotal role for itself, one that would provide the springboard for her own bid in the next presidential election, scheduled for 2009.
It is a surprise to hear her greet staff and guests in a quiet, almost self-effacingly polite voice. With a few exceptions, as we observe her over the following days, she uses the same gracious tones with everyone. It’s a different but equally effective tone to the strident one used in public oratory, suggesting she has the strength not to strive to continually impress. She laughs easily and often blushes if given praise. Does the fairy-tale heroine have grace? Apparently so.
The friendliness is genuine but it is obvious she works hard on her image. She employs a photographer who has chronicled her looks and life for the past seven years, and likes to keep fit, usually starting her day with a run. She said: “I used to run 10 kilometres a day but I’ve had to do less since I became prime minister.” Breakfast is a cocktail of vitamins and fruit juices, and she does not seem to eat anything during her working day, which often lasts late into the night. She is often dressed in expensive designer clothes and high heels.
She says she does not like being photographed, yet in recent months she has appeared on the cover of some of Elle magazine’s European editions and Poland’s May issue of Playboy, where she appeared – fully clothed, of course – because readers had said she was the woman they most respected. Many view her as a sex symbol, and Tymoshenko admits she sometimes exploits her femininity, but claims her best weapons are sound and persuasive arguments.
One morning is devoted to presiding over a meeting with the French ambassador, some of the top executives from one of France’s most prestigious companies, several of her ministers and representatives from Ukrainian business. Tymoshenko is the only woman in the room with 18 men. It’s clear that her intellect and glamour hold a fascination for most in the meeting.
Another day, Tymoshenko discovers that her government’s attempt to regain control of a large smelting plant that had been auctioned off at cut-price rates to an ally of the former regime is being undermined, minutes ahead of a crucial board meeting. She telephones the state official who is scuppering her plans. Dissatisfied with his explanation, she tells him to reconsider for 10 minutes, after which time she will talk to him again: “You’re supposed to be serving the state, not helping out a crook.” During the interval she furiously works the three phones on her desk and two mobile phones to get information about him.
It emerges that the official was appointed by the former president Leonid Kuchma, the procedure for firing him has to be approved by parliament, and he is probably in league with the businessman. When Tymoshenko calls him again, he prevaricates. Without raising her voice she says: “If you continue to side with this criminal who’s been ripping off Ukraine, things will end badly for you. I’m going to adjourn the meeting for one hour to let you change your mind.”
After finishing that conversation she phones one of her staff and says of the errant official: “The man is corrupt and is not going to change his mind. Find out how we fire him.”
A conversation for our benefit? Probably not. After a few seconds she resumes our interview, perfectly composed, and talks about her early life. Does the fairy-tale heroine have a rags-to-riches story? Of course. She was born Yulia Hryhyan in 1960 in one of Ukraine’s biggest industrial cities, Dnipropetrovsk, when the republic was part of the USSR, an only child raised by a mother she adores. Tymoshenko is reluctant to talk about her father, except to say he was not around to bring her up. Even by the then prevailing Soviet standards, she says she and her mother were considered poor and able to afford few comforts in their tiny flat in a dilapidated high-rise. She did well at school and went on to study economics at Dnipropetrovsk University. And it would seem fate played a part in her story. She said the course of her life was changed by a chance phone call made by a man who had misdialled. She was pleased when he rang again, this time deliberately. After a series of conversations, the two agreed to meet. They swiftly fell in love and married in 1979. Her husband, Oleksandr Tymoshenko, was also an impecunious student. When their daughter was born the next year it was a mixed blessing. The couple continued their studies and took back-breaking jobs for paltry wages in their spare time to get money to buy food and clothes for their baby. One of Yulia’s jobs was shifting and stacking huge tyres, twice the size of a man, in the factory where they were made.
In the second half of the 1980s, things were changing as the Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev embarked on his perestroika reforms to liberalise the centralised economy that had forbidden private endeavour and enterprise.
