This morning, Reva woke up and heard the dog trotting down the hallway and running into our room. She loves to pretend that Maui is a big bad bad dinosaur who is going to eat her. She squished herself into my arms and told me to "keep her safe." Innocent words from my darling little girl. My stomach dropped and my heart broke into a million pieces thinking about all the Ukrainian mothers, hugging their children for dear life, living through a mother’s worst nightmare. Worrying about how to keep their children safe.
My family immigrated from the Ukraine to the United States before the collapse of the Soviet Union in the 1980s. My mother and her family are from Kiev, the capital city. My father is from Cherkassy, a town that is a bit more southeast and on the water. Photos show me beautiful cities filled with so much art, tranquil lakes and gorges, intricate architecture on embassy buildings and Orthodox Churches. My parents were set up by a friend during their immigration journey, when they had a several month layover in Italy. In those days, it was common for Jewish refugees to stop for several months in Italy or Israel while their documents were sorted. My mom and her family made it to New York first, so love letters were exchanged back and forth until they could finally be reunited and get married a year later.
Because my parents fled the Ukraine as Jewish refugees, they never really spoke fondly of their homeland. In fact, they didn’t speak much of Ukraine at all. When my brother and I were little, they made many efforts to assimilate with American culture… although we did live near Brighton Beach, which is often referred to as Little Odessa. In the Ukraine, they had happy memories from bucolic childhoods, but they were constantly ashamed of their Jewish roots. Kids in school made fun of them for any reason or no reason. They were scared to celebrate Jewish holidays. They had very mixed feelings about the land they grew up in, as I imagine many immigrants do.
We never spent summers at real Ukrainian dachas like some other kids did. We didn’t make pampushky together. The traditions that were passed on to me were Jewish traditions. Shabbat dinners, latkes, gefilte fish.
They taught us the Russian language but not Ukrainian; a fact that feels eerily awful today. Until now, I never really thought about how Ukraine plays into my life. I’ve never been there, despite always wanting to visit and to see where my mom went to school and where my dad snuck out with friends. I didn’t speak the language. I didn’t have many Ukrainian friends, although I do now, and my heart hurts for their families. Until today, I was more removed from it all. I was born in Long Island Jewish Hospital and I was American. I was a Jew. I was the daughter of Soviet Jews. I regularly told people growing up that I was “Russian” which was easier since I spoke Russian. I won’t ever do that again.
Today, I feel Ukrainian for maybe the first time in my life. I feel a solidarity with the people of Ukraine and I feel pain for them, for how unjust and barbaric this invasion is. I am praying for their peace and for their safety and for this horrific violation of human rights to stop immediately.
If you want to help, and you should want to help, donate money to organizations that you respect and trust who are working tirelessly on the ground to help the citizens of Ukraine. Do your research and make sure you are sending money somewhere verified that is going to get appropriately dispersed. Spread awareness. Talk about it, post about it, go protest in front of your local embassy. Pray. Close your eyes and pray to God that the mothers and the children and the men and the elderly and the sick and the disabled and the rich and the poor get left in peace and in sovereignty. It is their homeland and it is their birthright. Don’t close your eyes and ignore everything that’s happening right now. Don’t leave Ukraine alone. Stand up for humanity and for freedom.
Goodnight.
Your friend,
Jane