A friend who was forced to flee the city of Kharkiv — a city of Russian-speakers that fascist Russian Vladimir Putin has sought to “liberate” by bombing civilians — recently said, “It’s still February.”
Seasons change, friends come and go, doors are opened and closed, but in her head, it’s still the first day of the Russian invasion. I feel the same. I relate hard to insects stuck in amber.
Both of us were entertaining major life plans by the time the invasion rolled around. I cradled mine knowing that this invasion was inevitable — I’d been calling attention to the situation for months — but I still needed to make my plans, because this is what my life has always been, in a way, the constant, almost instinctual resistance of powerful madmen.
This isn’t to say that I’m brave. I just have my habits. I prefer to thrash very hard in the grip of darkness. I recommend it to everyone. You build quite a bit of muscle mass that way, and get a healthy glow.
We have mourned our plans and we have mourned our friends. We’ve done our best to support the war effort, with varying results.
I’ve entertained a revolving door of would-be do-gooders, people who insert themselves into our existence in order to make themselves look heroic. In a few months, I have learned more about unseriousness, selfishness, exploitation, manipulation, and simple stupidity than I have over the course of a lifetime. We all have.
We have also learned that most people trying to help are basically good and decent. Predators and manipulators are prolific and prominent, they skew appearances. If you push through your disappointment, you discover that the world is alright, always. The world is worth saving, every time.
The word for “February” in Ukrainian coincides with the Russian word for “fierce.” Another sign that the universe has a sense of humor, even though it’s dark at times. I have been lucky to know many fierce individuals, but none as fierce as Ukrainians and the people who are helping them. Even Putin’s nuclear blackmail, the surest sign of a failed leader and a deranged narcissist, has not put a dent in their resolve.
Having your back against the wall is a terrifying, but also good and sobering feeling. If you’ve never known it, I don’t envy you. Fear is a gift, but so is learning to deal with fear.
I haven’t spent many Februarys in Ukraine, but one will always stand out in my memory. My family and I called it “the magical winter,” a play on the Russian title of Moominland Winter. The snow was piled high in Kyiv, and everyone grumbled about the infrastructure. A swine flu scare and a fateful election had just passed us by. My father and my grandmothers were still alive. The cat was nimble and perched himself on the huge windows in our kitchen, watching birds on a grapevine tattered by winds, but holding strong.
Among the people I hung out with on those black winter evenings was Oleg Zaitsev and his wife Nataliya. When I wasn’t a journalist, I was a theater person, and the theater was where we met. Our sprawling group of actors, writers, costume designers, managers, and others had parties after closing hours, exploded into righteous arguments, bashed the piano keys, and took care of each other as only annoying theater people can. Oleg was killed in action earlier this year. He walks through my dreams sometimes, just as my late father, another warfighter, does.
In times like these, I wonder why I live. It’s not an act of self-pity, though it can hurt. Examining an existence is important.
Obviously, I am a mother, and that purpose has always been clear to me. I am a sister too. A daughter. A niece. A cousin, aunt, and friend. But what do I give to the people around me? Maybe, in the end, it’s just these words.
Maybe it’s this image of Oleg, cupping a cigarette. Wait a minute. Did he ever smoke, or was it me? Still, I have this image of his face bent down in profile, lit by a flame. He’s about to say something funny. The winter stars are out above the city and the country that we love. My friend is turning to say something. Church bells ring in the distance. My friend is turning to say something. He is forever alive.
Image: A drone over Obukhiv, Ukraine in the snow by Anton Sharov