the fourth year of the war begins…

Independence Square memorial to soldiers of the Armed Forces of Ukraine and the Foreign Legion killed in action.

Arriving in Kyiv at 4pm is like merging into rush hour at any large metropolitan area. Skyscrapers glowing in a rosy sunset alpenglow, commuter traffic clogging up city blocks to let pass a stream of pedestrians: children skipping home on their way from school, mothers pushing strollers, pensioners coming home with their dinner groceries, teenagers deftly navigating sidewalks with eyeballs glued to smartphones. Squint and you might be in Vancouver B.C. Large, grandiose, modern, suffused in the aroma of coffee, street food and exhaust, slightly gritty on the underbelly. Warm winter beanie fashion spanning across generations. A quiet winter afternoon in a war zone, expectant and somehow still unsuspecting.

I write this at 10:30pm, under the dull roar of Ukrainian jets scrambling to intercept an incoming russian aerial attack. The alarm blares its lonesome wail and I wonder how many people still heed its warning and get out of their beds to seek shelter underground. Every night, Ukrainian parents face the choice of hauling their young children out of bed to speed shuffle them to the closest shelter, to huddle uncomfortably until the threat of drones or missiles has passed. The kids know the routine by heart; after three years of war, they can navigate dark stairwells half asleep. Every night, the russian roulette claims someone. The luxury of sleeping in your own bed directly juxtaposed against the privilege of waking up in the morning. Statistically, the odds are in your favor but how do you wager that bet against your children’s lives every night?

In a city that has not slept in peace for more than 3 years, the mood is sombre. People have adapted to sleep deprivation. It is betrayal that is devastating. For decades, this city looked westward toward a better democracy, away from the corrupt stagnation of the russian regime. For the last three years, the whole country looked westward toward its strongest ally with strident hope and reliance on friendship in its existential fight for survival. Three years of putin’s brutality shocks no one here. But the stinging new brutality of American betrayal is disorienting. A week ago I had invited Americans to “ask a Ukrainian” and send me questions they wanted me to get answers to in Ukraine. Now I walk among Ukrainians, hoping they don’t turn the tables on me and “ask an American” the one question that burns on their mind: WHY. Why did Americans turn their backs on Ukraine, why do they now side with Ukraine’s murderous invader? Between shame and apology, I fumble for an answer that will not make sense to anyone, least of all myself.