Ukrainian war photographer Julia Kochetova recently wrote on her Instagram:
“I hope the war ends before my heart does.”
It’s a simple and elegant statement. Like a slap across the face.
Both far-right and far-left media in the West love to refer to Ukrainians as extremely bloodthirsty, ever hungry for war — because Ukrainians want to win, because Ukrainians do everything in their power to bring attention to the cause, because Ukrainians rightly despise those who would seek to destroy their families and identities and homes, and so on.
The truth is, every normal Ukrainian walks around with a shattered heart. The pieces are scattered in our chests like so much shrapnel. We will never fully get rid of them, no matter how this ends.
A terrifying, galvanizing moment was the on-camera murder of Ukrainian soldier and POW Oleksandr Matsiyevsky. The Russians captured him on video, saying “Glory to Ukraine” before they shredded him with bullets. Facing imminent death, Matsievsky didn’t run, or piss his pants, or beg for mercy. He said the words that were a bigger “fuck you” to his captors than any obscenity the mind can dream up. He showed them that he was more powerful than they are even as he stood before them, unarmed.
A broken heart breaks even more when it encounters another heart’s sacrifice. Then it keeps pumping blood regardless, until it is no longer required to do so.
Death is inevitable. All that matters is what you choose to do with what you have — with your time and with your strength.
A Russian-American woman I used to know has made some strange choices recently. She tried, unsuccessfully, to get me thrown off Facebook for displaying the Ukrainian tryzub tattoo I have on my arm, by labeling it “extremist.” The tryzub is an ancient symbol that has nothing to do with extremism or “Nazism,” her other favorite insult, unless of course one believes that Ukrainians having their own nation is somehow extreme.
When Facebook didn’t budge, the woman told a mutual acquaintance that she was going to report me to the authorities, the FBI in particular.
I quickly shut her down — her Instagram, public up until this week, had quite a bit of incriminating data her family would’ve found very interesting — but as satisfying as that was, I was also left feeling profoundly weary at her hatred.
I hadn’t personally inconvenienced her in any way. I merely existed.
Months before the invasion, someone who didn’t like a Foreign Policy article of mine, an article that correctly predicted what was about to happen, decided to dig up the contacts of one of my relatives and call that woman a “Nazi.”
My relative said to me at the time, “They’ll hate us for as long as we draw breath.” I didn’t want to believe her then, but after more than a year of war, I know exactly what she’s talking about.
My greatest coping method has been to practice apathy whenever I can. Sometimes, it’s impossible. The wound goes too deep. Other times, I am able to close my eyes and drift closer to nirvana.
In big ways and in small ways, and in my own, extremely bitchy and petty ways, we continue to stem the tide of Russia’s genocidal bullshit as much as we are able.
None of us know who we will be when this is over. We’ll just know who our friends have been. To those, I am eternally grateful.
Image: Hangover Ucraine
