I the last evening with my friends before the war.
The four of us were sitting in a snug circle, sipping sea buckthorn tea, and talking about the likelihood of a full-scale Russian invasion of Ukraine. We joked it was impossible, that Russia and Putin weren’t that insane, and everyone was just panicking.
Those girls from a small, cozy town near the Carpathian Mountains had no idea then how wrong they were.
As we hugged each other goodbye, we made promises everything would be fine and to reunite the following Saturday to watch Tom Holland’s new movie called Uncharted at the cinema, not knowing it would be our last time seeing each other in the same group.
Three days later, a full-scale Russian invasion began.
Reflecting on the events of the past two years, I realize everything changed irrevocably. The inner sense of security and peace I once had has been replaced by constant anxiety.
I worry about my family back in Ukraine and worry about my cat who can’t live without my hugs. I’m afraid for the house I grew up in, and I’m scared I will have nowhere to return to. The feeling of powerlessness in the face of the situation weighs heavily on me, like a huge stone that pins me to my bed every morning. I struggle with this weight, trying to get up and start my new day in a new country where everything is foreign.
Canada has welcomed me hospitably, with a smile. I try to smile in return, even when it’s challenging. After two years of living here, I feel connected to this country and Kingston. I started to notice its character in the waves of Lake Ontario, on people’s faces, and in the evening silence. Walking around on campus after sunset, seeing its beauty, I feel indescribably grateful to be here. Not everyone is so lucky.
Looking up, I see a pink sky with soft clouds accompanying me on my way home. I recall the gray sky on the morning of February 24, 2022, when the airport in my city was blown up and the entire airspace was filled with military aircraft circling above with the sound of sirens.
I stumble back to my senses, walking along the quiet evening streets of Kingston with a thermos of buckthorn tea in my hand.
Life on campus captivates me with its endless bustle. Lectures, seminars, readings, and studying in the library fill my days. Queen’s has inspired me to adopt the slogan “I learn, therefore I exist,” a rendition of Descartes. I love learning, which is why I’m currently earning my second degree in Canada, after earning a degree in international relations back in Ukraine.
In studying politics at Queen’s, you must always be in context—aware of news, events, and elections, but the context of the war in my country worries me the most. In Canada, I’ve taken on the role of an advocate for historical truth. I never thought Russian propaganda narratives would make their way so far West and be part of the political agenda at my university. But they have.
More than once, I’ve had to dispel myths about the war and the Russian-Ukrainian historical past. While in the first year of my studies it required an extraordinary moral burden from me, as I felt like I was fighting windmills like Don Quixote. Advocacy has now become part of my routine, an exercise for my brain, a kind of political sudoku.
I see it as my responsibility to my homeland, to defend its interests and history abroad if I can’t defend its territory at home. In Canada, I guard my own academic front, where I research, attend conferences, and gather invaluable knowledge and experience to help my country and advocate for it at higher levels than simply a discussion with a professor in an empty classroom.
This year on Feb. 24, as we celebrated 730 days of unbreakable resolve at Kingston City Hall. I thought about what more I could do to bring Ukraine a little closer to victory. I know every Ukrainian on that day, standing in a city square abroad or at home, sitting in a trench on the front line or in a medical centre, was thinking about the same.
The war united Ukrainians as a nation and rallied the world in the fight against evil, injustice, and genocide. It showed that we, as a humanity, are failing.
Yuval Noah Harari was wrong when he said in the 21st century a person is more likely to die from a McDonald’s meal. A bloody massacre has unfolded in the centre of Europe, which takes away the lives of both innocent people and one’s faith in the future every single day.
In my beloved Ukraine, 10-year-old children know the sound of death and destruction. They can distinguish between the sounds of bombs, drones, and daggers flying at their home. This hurts me, and I feel guilty I’m so far away. I feel guilty I can sleep in a warm bed without the sound of an air raid alarm.
They say a person becomes a real adult when they lose their parents. I became an adult when the fear of losing my homeland, my independence, and my identity hit me.
Even here, I defend Ukraine. I thank Canada and Canadians for the opportunity to do so, the opportunity to speak out, and know I will be heard. Talking about the war is painful and feels like tearing a band-aid off an open wound every time, but my experience, and the experience of every Ukrainian, should become a catalyst for the civilized world to wake up and think.
To think about how to change the situation and stop the virus of violence and how to build the global peace we all dreamed of at the beginning of our century. Our children should never have to know what the terrible word “war” really means.
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