The Rising Smoke

It was 3:59 a.m., February 24, 2022. The cool, twinkling night air carried the soft breaths of children resting in their warm beds as the stars and moon watched over the sleeping city. At 4:00 a.m., all hell broke loose.

It was 8:59 p.m., eastern time, Atlanta, GA. I was driving home from church with my dad who was scrolling through the news on his phone beside me. At 9:00 p.m. I heard a sharp gasp, “Oh God...” he muttered, then, in a shaking whisper, “...the war has begun”.

We had heard rumors of it, but never actually thought it would happen. Seeing Russian tanks roll across the border and the red bands of Russian soldiers blur the television screen later that night, I could think of only one thing: In the span of sixty seconds, all the smoke and ashes rising up from the decimated cities of Ukraine had somehow made their way across the ocean to my home here in America. They have since not yet dissipated.

Growing up as a second generation immigrant had me conflicting with different identities, different versions of myself. It felt like I was shifting between two worlds every day: waking up to my mom’s Ukrainian kisses and breakfasts, praying a Ukrainian prayer at the door, then after a short bus ride to school, I would end up in America, with white bread sandwiches, Sillybandz, and baseball cards. Any question, any challenge that one would pose me, I would eventually be able to get out of: “would you rather be able to fly or be invisible?”, “would you rather live in the mountains or on the beach?”, “would you rather throw up on your celebrity crush or have them vomit on you?”. However when someone finally asked, “So, if you could choose one, America or Ukraine, what would it be?”, I was never-endingly stumped.

Just as every American remembers what they were doing on 9/11, so every Ukrainian knows where they were on 02/24. On that day, I was catapulted into a world of confusion and haze. It took months before I could actually realize that there was war in my country. Unfortunately, the world did not stop for Ukraine like it stopped for covid. It did not stop even though I desperately needed it to. I had to put my emotions on hold. The next day I had a math test. I had AP exams coming up fast that needed preparing. Everyone still went to school. Teachers still taught regular lessons. People went to work, went on vacations, went to casinos... just as they always had. I tried to push it aside, to forget what was happening and focus on what required my attention now, to take care of my grief later. But I could not escape the constant reminders of Ukraine everywhere. The television never turned off. It ran perpetually in our house, waking up and falling asleep to the sounds of artillery happening halfway across the world. How many times I’ve sat at my desk, doing homework, and the wrenching melody of a Ukrainian song suddenly pierces my heart as I just sit there weeping, soaking my homework in tears for my nation. How many times I’ve tried to walk past the living room, tried to ignore the mocking noise of the television as images of cold Ukrainian bodies filling up trenches glared through the screen. But I can’t ignore it. I see my city of Irpin smeared in blood and covered in shattered grenades. I stop and I watch and I cry. I sit there for hours, and forget everything I have to do, letting my assignments pass their due date.

I couldn’t help but feel confusion on an even deeper level: I was Ukrainian by blood, but I was not born in Ukraine. I had only visited a few times in my life, and even then, had not experienced the full blast of war that my Ukrainian brothers and sisters had faced first-hand. Oftentimes I didn’t feel worthy to call myself Ukrainian, seeing humble farmers push Russian tanks back with their bare hands, or carry active grenades to the forest, away from their cities, a cigarette in their mouth. I never knew the world could be painted blue and yellow. But the day after the full scale invasion, that’s exactly what happened. Never before had I felt such passion, such pride for my country. I wanted to yell from the tops of the Pencil Tower and Westin Hotel that Ukraine was not dead. That Russia could not quench Ukrainian spirit and democracy. I knew without a doubt that although I hadn’t been in Ukraine physically through this war, I would stand with them unshakably.

I can only imagine now the day of victory. I want to be there. I want to be with my people, in the midst of all the ruin, all the death, even though I didn't experience it firsthand like they did, and don’t have the closest idea of what that feels like- their sorrow is my sorrow and their hurt is my own. Only at that moment do I think that I will finally be able to release all the hurt inside. Only then will I be torn open to be able to heal.

I want people to see their faces. To see their graves. To see the destruction of the killing machine which is Russia. People say “the enemy”, “the conflict”, “the opposition”. I say it plainly: Russia swept Ukraine into a genocide. It’s hard to hear, it’s hard to accept, because it means that we have to do something about it if we truly stand for the rights of life and freedom. So people simply ignore it. With the privilege I have of living in the U.S, I want to inspire that same cry and passion for freedom that Ukraine holds in the hearts of Americans. For us to remember our history, where we come from, what we stand for, what our country represents for the rest of the world. I once thought that my American and Ukrainian sides were in opposition to one another, that I always had to choose one depending on where I was. But now, perhaps there is a way that they could collide. Perhaps Ukrainian pride will overflow into pointing our country back to our own roots and impact lives for freedom and justice.