This week, I did a panel at George Washington University, hosted by the Organization of Slavic Studies. My co-panelists were career Ukrainian diplomat Kateryna Smagliy and prominent Ukrainian academic Roman Kalytchak. And while it’s probably odd to leave a formal panel on a horrific conflict with a sense of hope — that is what happened.
We discussed Russian atrocities, Putin’s desire to destroy the very concept of Ukraine, and the way that Ukraine was failed by the international community in the run-up to February’s massive invasion.
Kalytchak talked about how this war may drag on and, while it was hard for me to admit it, I think that’s entirely possible. Smagliy wryly noted that Ukrainians are not talking about all of the specifics of the military aid they’re receiving from the U.S., because they want to keep the Russians “surprised.”
It should not have been a hopeful event. But it was for me. Afterwards, as I stood waiting for my ride in the fading twilight over my nation’s capital, listening to the birds settling down for the night, my heart forever split between continents, I asked myself why I felt so good.
The answer that lay on the surface was that it was because students were taking a genuine interest. They asked interesting questions and engaged with the topics at hand. They didn’t even seem particularly outraged when I suggested that Putin needs to have a nice, pre-arranged heart attack; that it would save many lives.
It should not have been a hopeful event. But it was for me.
It felt like being part of an ad hoc community. It felt like something good was happening as the result of the horror. I wish we didn’t have to do this, I wish we didn’t need to gather in this fashion — but I’ll take it.
But here is the other answer — it was simply good to be in the same room as Ukrainians. Even as the vortex of history screams all around my people, they are doing their jobs. They are fighting, each and every one, in their own way.
As a naturalized American, I want more of my fellow Americans to witness this everyday heroism. I wish Ukrainians weren’t asked to be heroic now, I wish I could wind the clock back, let the bodies be reassembled and breathing again, let the invaders walk backwards and disappear into the horizon, never to return. But I can’t do that, so instead I bear witness to the grit and spirit and determination of the people I was born among.
The world’s a stage. I’ve felt that to be true throughout my life, even before I fully grasped the significance of the words of William Shakespeare. I understood, with a part of myself I can’t begin to name, that the only thing that could be stranger than fiction, stranger, is reality itself.
There is always something tragic about having to play an inspirational role on the rickety stage that is the human existence
There is always something tragic about having to play an inspirational role on the rickety stage that is the human existence — because there can be no inspiration without pain.
But here’s the thing: you will always play your part, whether you do it well, or you do it badly. And I want the world to see the Ukrainians as they play theirs today.
We think of heroism as a grand, cinematic display but it can be simple, really. A lot of it is just showing up when it’s hard to show up, even when the world bares its teeth and rains down blood. Even when your heart is broken. Especially when it is broken. This has been true of many countries, many societies. It can be easy to forget — but eventually, you will remember.
“I couldn’t imagine,” my fellow Americans tell me when they speak about Ukraine today.
Yes, you can. Because it’s all right in front of you. Your fellow human beings, caught in the crucible. Doing what needs to be done anyway, simply because they are alive.
Image credit: Max Kukurudziak