When I was young, my father taught me how to ride a bike. He told me to look straight ahead; never to look below or behind. Now, I struggle to look ahead as I hear my Ukrainian family’s pleas from behind.
As a second-generation Canadian whose parents grew up in Ukraine, watching the war in Ukraine has been surreal.
Although I was born and raised in Ottawa, my family is from a small city in central Ukraine called Kropyvnytskyi, where much of my family still lives. The last time I saw my parent’s home was when I was six years old—barely old enough to understand the world.
On Feb. 23 at 10:57 p.m., I opened my phone, only to find out Russia had declared a “special military operation” in Ukraine.
Since that moment, my eyes have yet to leave any reputable news source I can find.
At 11:55 p.m., Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky informed Ukrainian citizens to stay inside their homes or find shelter, if necessary.
Quickly, my parents called my grandmother. It was barely 5:00 a.m in Ukraine and I listened to her shaking voice from behind the rails of our staircase, imagining the worst.
The United Nations was in the middle of a security meeting as this was going on, trying to stop the war. António Guterres, the organization’s secretary-general, opened the meeting by asking the Russian government to stop in their tracks.
“Give peace a chance,” he said. It was too late for that.
Ukraine and Russia have been close siblings since their conception, sharing similar cultures and languages. For many years, they have been both rivals and allies.
In 2014, in what was known as the Maidan revolution, the Ukrainian population rallied together to impeach the nation’s pro-Putin president. The protests turned violent as the president ordered a special force of police to silence protesters. Despite the violence, the people prevailed.
Though I was only 11 years old at the time, I still feared for my relatives. Now, the same fear is washing over so many other children. I can’t help but imagine myself hit with a sad realization of injustice at that age.
To my dismay, Russian ambassador to the UN Vasily Nebenzya went on to claim that there was “no war” in Ukraine. If only he could tell that to my 21-year-old cousin, who is unable to leave the country because he is a man. Or the rest of my family who refuses to leave him in the country alone. Or maybe to my three-year-old cousin who is now periodically hiding in a basement somewhere. Putin and his supporters are the only ones to blame here.
How am I supposed to care about keeping up my grades when half of my family is fearing for their lives across the world? And while it causes me distress, I can’t look away—almost as if I’ll somehow forget about the suffering if I do.
Guilt washes over me every time my mind is able to wander, knowing I am privileged for not being in Ukraine—it easily could’ve been different. It easily could’ve been my mother and I, refusing to leave my father, uncle and cousins alone in the country.
There is a fire in my belly as I watch people joke about the situation from a place of safety. It is a privilege to not have to constantly check who has seen your Instagram story, knowing that if your relatives have seen it—that means they’re safe.
The bravery of Ukrainians — the citizens preparing food and Molotov cocktails, standing in front of incoming tanks, giving Russian troops sunflower seeds while fighting for their sovereignty—is something our community will not likely forget. To me, they are the bravest heroes.
While I watched with a slight relief in the first few days of the war as Kropyvnytskyi didn’t get many attacks, that all changed a few days later. As we sat in our car, waiting to head to the protest at City Hall in Ottawa on Feb. 27, my grandmother messaged my mom saying that our city was being attacked.
I watched from the backseat as my mom’s nose turned pink and eyes brimmed with water, watching through the side mirrors of the car for the length of the car ride.
My worldview is built on the memories of waking up to the warm smell of my grandmother’s cooking, dipping our bare feet into a nearby river on a humid summer day while reading out loud, as well as the berry and vegetable fields we visited. To know the source of this comfort could soon be destroyed is a fate I don’t wish upon anyone—regardless of where you’re from.
The protest brought together Canadians—mostly Ukrainian-Canadians like my parents and me. My heart swelled hearing the language of my ancestors ringing through the sharp, cold February air.
It destroys me to know that my family members aren’t the only ones. If no one else is there, know that my family is with you in spirit.
Once again, I am reminded of my childhood. We’re lucky right now in Canada—it could’ve been my father, letting go of my bicycle once more, so I could move forward while he stayed behind.
Featured image by Daria Maystruk.
