I have been to Ukraine.
Romanian friends of mine regularly
traveled the 40 kilometers from Suceava (su-CHA-va), the city where I lived to the
city of Chernivitsi, a western Ukraine city south of Kyiv.
In autumn of 2007, I was serving in
Romania, a free democratic country since 1989, as a Peace Corps volunteer. I
served as a non-profit professional, but my background is history and teaching
social studies.
The
three times that I accompanied my friends on their trips across the border, I
stood in the historic downtown, mouth agape, admiring the gorgeous, Baroque,
Gothic and Byzantine architecture, and we shopped at what was for me,
born and raised in Colorado, an incredibly large, multi-item market.
At the market, my companions bought
Ukrainian wines and liquors, condiments, clothing, and rice. I bought Babushka
nesting dolls, souvenir t-shirts, and hand-stitched tablecloths that have
become family treasures.
Mostly, I
took photos to record an experience that I never would have believed could happen
to me, if I hadn’t been there in the flesh.
That part of the world had been so
distant during my lifetime, that if you asked me which was more likely, that I
would stand on the moon or in Ukraine, the answer would have been easy: “The
moon.” It was inconceivable that one day my feet might be standing on Soviet
soil,.
I grew up under the threat of thermo-nuclear
war. In 1960 Colorado, we first grade six-year-olds
practiced air raid drills where we cowered under our little desks to protect
ourselves from dropping bombs that we were told would come from the Soviet
Union. I didn’t understand what bombs were until
years later; as a child I simply knew that they must be scary if we had to hide
when a siren blared. What were the adults thinking, I wonder now? A child’s
desk is no protection from nuclear explosives. Still, we practiced, and some
neighbors built air raid shelters in their back yards filled with canned goods
and water—the lucky ones I thought at the time, though now I know there would have
been no such thing.
The fear of atomic attack became accepted
as normal, and air raid drills in schools became a thing of the past, the stuff
of fables. When I graduated from high school in 1972 and college in 1976, the
Iron Curtain, beyond which lived and lurked the threat of nuclear war, was firmly
in place,
a part of our world, invisible but woven
into daily life. On the other side of it were people
I had little chance of ever meeting, sharing meals with, learning their
histories. There were stories about Americans, with very special visas,
sneaking in bibles or blue jeans. If caught, they would be arrested and—in the
best-case scenario—sent home. Magazine stories and news reports indicated that
the people who received these precious commodities, could be persecuted, imprisoned,
possibly killed.
The Sighet Memorial Museum in northern
Romania is a former Communist prison where many dissidents and innocent people
were incarcerated and tormented. I visited there in August 2008, and it is a
grim place. People were imprisoned for such heinous crimes as writing a letter
to a friend in England, painting pictures without authorization, stealing milk
for their starving relatives. I wept to think that their despotic leaders had committed
these atrocities against their own fellow citizens.
This was life—and still is, I believe—under
Russian rule.
But life takes twists and turns, doesn’t
it? My husband and I wanted to be Peace Corps volunteers, but for important
reasons—jobs, experiences, children—we postponed applying until our 50s. By the
time we did, in 2006, Eastern Europe was an option for service, and we were
invited to serve in Romania. We looked at each other with joy and said, “Where
the hell is Romania?”
It’s embarrassing for me to admit this,
but true for many that I spoke to in the Peace Corps: we just didn’t know about
Eastern Europe because, until the Berlin Wall came crashing down in November
1989, it had been closed off from most Americans for many decades. However, by
the early 2000s, Romania and Ukraine hosted hundreds of volunteers.
Suceava, the city we served in, was just
south of Ukraine and many of the people living in the area spoke both
languages. We frequently attended “Get Acquainted” conferences where citizens
from Ukraine and Romania—and us because we were American and added a Western
element to their attendance lists—gathered for a few days to come up with
mutual projects. For example, the teacher’s association I worked with organized
a children’s summer camp of shared folk dancing and music with a Ukrainian
school. Sometimes no project was created, but always friends were made, and celebrations
were held, often at fine hotels with pristine white tablecloths, an abundant variety
of alcohol, cultural foods, and regular toasting.
While Romania is close to my heart,
Ukraine holds its own special place. I saw no armed guards but plenty of
welcoming smiles. Commerce was thriving. I witnessed the influence and
acceptance of Western ideals: freedom, democracy, and pride. The Iron Curtain
had indeed come down.
These past weeks, watching the invasion
of Ukraine by Russians, I wept again. Those wonderful people threatened with
reassimilation under that harsh, autocratic rule!
But then, a surprise! They were holding
their ground. Their President refused to flee. Governments from across the
globe are pledging support. The assault has met with stiff resistance.
Just one more reason to respect
Ukrainians: after surviving decades of despotic dictatorship, faced with its
return, they are repulsing the incursion. They are fighting for their beautiful
historic cities, the choice to elect their own leaders, the betterment of their
children’s futures, and the kinds of freedom we take for granted.
Losing this newly freed country to a
Russian dictator would be a heinous criminal injustice.
I am not like Vladimir Putin. I don’t
want a return of the Iron Curtain; living on this side of it was horrific
enough.
I don’t want Ukraine to be as distant as
the moon.
I want Russia out of there.
Published in Mid-week Message, First United Methodist Church, 23 March, 2022
