Official Circular: 27 Months in Україна: Leaving Ukraine

I had this moment the first night I spent with my host family in Chernihiv. It began as soon as I walked through their door: I was kissed, given slippers, and—as per Ukrainian custom—promptly fed. Oddly enough, from the few days of cultural preparation I had, one of the things I was most nervous about was food—for which I now blame Peace Corps. Prior to meeting our host families, we were informed that we would be fed strange foods in copious amounts on plates the size of a small trough. That vodka would flow in abundance from mysterious places, and in order to control intake and avoid certain death, one should repeat “NO” three times and cover one’s glass with one’s hand. However, when I got to the table, I looked down at my small plate to find a simple meal of buckwheat, cabbage, and sausage. My fears assuaged, I was able to look around the table at the faces of a family who would quickly become my own. They were laughing, telling jokes, talking about their respective days, their jobs, their friends. They asked me questions about my own life, my family, my food, my home, my work. Although I didn't fully understand what they were saying, I felt an overwhelming and startling sense of belonging. This moment and this place was no longer a dream to be fulfilled, it was now sitting before me, feeding me. This feeling was accompanied by a sense of arrival so precious that I think occurs only a few times in life. It was mine. I didn’t know how I got there, but I could finally own it.

This is the Ukraine I know: A place I treasure so deeply that it’s wound tightly and acutely into my thoughts. Its binding presence resonates throughout the various corners of my life— its contexts, its order, its shape. I’m compelled to affirm this not because my time there was particularly adventurous or extraordinary, but because I believe that’s how love, and quite equally loss, operate: they hold fast, and they demand that we pause.

Independence Square, 2012

During my 18 months in Ukraine, I observed an extraordinary and unexpected shift in the general cultural attitude of the Ukrainian people. The consequence of a nation wading in murky, post-soviet leftovers seemed to produce a mentality inundated by apathy and motivated by fear and disappointment. I encountered an older generation—many of whom looked at me with uneasy eyes; whose memories long for the imagined security of an old, soviet cage. Those who still lay flowers and wreaths at Lenin’s feet. And who, perhaps most critically, have resigned themselves to the belief that the heavy hand of god weighs on them, extinguishing will and restraining action.

The younger generations surprised me more, especially those born after the end of the Soviet Union. They appeared to be more divided. Some young people who wanted nothing more than to leave, to escape Ukraine in the hope of a better, more satisfying future. Yet I also spoke with students who want to stay and rebuild their country, clinging to the belief that there are still possibilities.

The naïve optimism I began with was quickly deflated by these conversations. One particularly vivid instance was a University student in Chernihiv, who told me quite sharply, “The best thing anyone can do is leave. Happiness is not found here. We are entrenched in corruption and that will not change.” At the time, I don’t think I was ready to understand the true weight of her statement. It’s easy to defend democracy when one’s safety, dreams, and wellbeing have not been manipulated by it. Although I think the issues we confront as Americans are problematic and real, they have a different shape and elicit a different response.

I abandoned my call for action in favor of listening. And in listening, I was able to hear an overwhelmingly unified voice continuously echo the persistent ache for a future that reflects the dignity and strength of the people who occupy it.

spotted on our last day in Lutsk

On the night of February 19th, I sat in my room and watched Independence Square surrounded by flames. And I listened to the repeated prayers on Maidan—desperate prayers, angry prayers, prayers asking for hope and peace in an uncertain future. This, to me, was the culmination of that aching. It was more than prayer; it was a nation crying out for what it rightly deserves.

The opportunity to bear witness to this rebirth was the most jarring and moving experience during my time in Ukraine, and I will carry it with me my whole life. The vestige apathy and passivity was dismantled and replaced by a newer, more hopeful voice. And for that I am a proud observer and supporter.

Leaving Ukraine was one of the most painful and difficult things I have had to do. It broke my heart. All of our work suspended, projects left unfinished, no real goodbyes. The loss was personal, unceremonious, and a palpable reminder of my lack of power in the situation. Yet despite my connection and dedication to Ukraine and its people, it is not and cannot be my battle, and I must resign myself to that. And there can be dignity, too, in resignation.

One of the most touching reflections of Maidan was written by Kyiv Post editor Katya Gorchinskaya, who, as a Ukrainian, is able to speak to this more poignantly than I can:

“This is about a nation being born. Mutilated by years of misrule, impoverished by looting, it emerges slowly from the ruin. This process is massive and we don't know how well this birth is going to go. But it's happening now and here, in Kyiv, and it's both painful and awesome. The only place to truly feel the pain and grandeur of this national awakening is to stand there right on Maidan.”