United and Determined
Survival in a Time of War
by Aimee Nord
Aimee & Brady Nord
My husband Brady and I first arrived in Ukraine in 2015 on a rainy autumn day, gray and dreary, perhaps matching the mood of the 50 other volunteers. We were Peace Corps’ first group back since pulling out during the Maidan revolution just 2 years before. In those first few days, we felt jet lag and the sudden chill of October in Eastern Europe, excited but also wondering what we had gotten ourselves into. We were completely mystified by the alphabet of squashed-bugs and rocket ships, vaguely taken aback by the poppy-seed buns that were decidedly not chocolate, and apprehensive about starting our fourth year of marriage living apart for three months, not to mention about the families we would live with, whom we knew nothing about.
But that melted away as quickly as the rain, and soon autumn enthralled us all, with our new lifestyle of walking down dirt sideroads on a runner of frosted leaves, enjoying sunlit afternoons under a bright yellow canopy. We discovered little gems each day in our new town: a performance in traditional embroidered dresses at the House of Culture, a military ceremony around a bronze statue adorned with flowers and candles in the town center, a box of puppies behind a tree, a bridge over a wide river with weeping willows on each side, a brightly colored playground of tires and metal, the view from the front steps of the library, the golden domes of the nearby orthodox church. And every house was covered in grape arbors over the path to the front door, dark rich soil sprouting root vegetables, kneeling women with headscarves in every backyard plot, and smoke hanging low in the cold air from the piles of burning leaves that lasted for weeks and made us choke.
Despite my limited language, I grew close with my host family members by sharing our days through charades every evening—snorting like a pig to share how my host dad was chased through his fields by a wild boar, now hanging in the cellar; vacuuming up my underwear and dying of laughter with my host mom when we realized; locking my host dad out of the house in his underwear on a chilly morning, as I went to class while he was just trying to feed the chickens. And my 12-year-old host sister, giggling with her friend when Brady came to visit, giggling at my notebook of Ukrainian lessons and trying to correct it, dressing up together in traditional embroidered vishyvankas and flower headdresses, doing exercise routines in the upstairs loft until we were exhausted. I cried the day we went to our permanent home, exchanging big hugs and telling my host mom, Ya loobloo tebe, and hearing it in return through her tears—I love you.
Today, 8 months into the war with Russia.
“New Message: Nosivka Family,” I read on a little banner on my phone. My breath catches in my throat. It’s been one day since the barrage of a reported 100 missiles were sent to every region of Ukraine.
My now 19-year-old Ukrainian sister, Dasha, speaks for the family, as her English surpassed my Ukrainian some time ago. She starts with “hello” and a Ukrainian smiley-face symbol after her greeting, but I can see the next word and something plummets inside me. “Unfortunately, yesterday I and Inna [her older sister] were in Kyiv.” Oh no, I think; Kyiv had been hit hard. “And it was all terrible, we did not feel such fear even when we were surrounded.”
My heart withers at this news. For months, their little village was occupied for miles on every side. While Nosivka was enough off the main roads that Russian soldiers weren’t stationed there, my host mom, a Labor and Delivery nurse, was operating on civilian gunshot wounds in the next town over. The whole family was sleeping next to the potatoes and beets on the cold cement floor of their cellar, wearing winter coats to supplement the blankets, only flashlights for comfort. That same cellar had so warmed my heart seven years ago when I first came to live with them, helping me to understand this family and people more than anything else had up to that point—a people who are connected to the land, the soil, all things that grow. Nosivka was surrounded for months, with news every day of the war crimes being committed in other occupied regions—rape and executions, torture as sport—following strict curfews lest they be next. I tried unsuccessfully during this time to send packages of food, which had disappeared from stores, to gently suggest they come live with us in the U.S., to get myself to sleep through the night instead of checking for updates, waiting for bad news.
Dasha continues about her time in Kyiv, a two hour train ride from her village: “I saw and very clearly heard 8 explosions, after which I went to shelter. There was no light in Kyiv until 22:00. It was very scary.” She sends pictures of smoke clouds over buildings, a dark video of a child with a cat, presumably in the shelter. The challenge of a second language adds an eloquence to Dasha’s short sentences: “A rocket fell in front of my university and destroyed the park.”
I later see pictures of Shevchenko Park, one of our favorite parks in a city of magnificent green spaces. This one is great for people-watching. It’s where the old men come to play chess every day, in a little sunken area with cement chess boards imprinted on the tables, packed with beards and focus and the energy of the weightlifting area of a gym. It’s big, and one part butts up to a beautiful, bright red building, one of the most prestigious universities in the country, Shevchenko University.
Dasha shares, “Yes, I study in the red building of Shevchenko University. Unfortunately, now there are no windows and doors.” I know the playground was also hit; I see pictures of puffy toddlers in mittens and hats, now playing in the enormous hole next to the jungle gym.
Dasha continues, “Now many people are leaving Ukraine again, because the lights are being turned off more and more often and it is cold everywhere because the heating does not work.” I think of how I did the math some months ago, that more than half of all children in Ukraine have been displaced. I read on, “Every day the prices are increasing, even eggs, which used to be bought for $1, now cost $2.50. Our Ukrainian products are becoming more expensive than those imported from other countries. It is difficult, but we have to survive it.” She ends with a grinning emoji, eyes closed they’re so happy.
I know they have not had meat for months, that they are surviving more now on their garden produce than ever before. She is the picture of Ukrainian strength and steadfastness, which I have seen in many posts from other friends. There is a saying right now, “Each fighting on their own front.” They are more knit together than ever before, to each other, to their land. This is their home, and survival is not a question.
I don’t know what to think about the upcoming winter months, as frosty autumn begins with rolling blackouts across the country. There is not enough energy to keep lights on over a dark winter, nor enough oil to keep warm. It will be difficult, I almost hear Dasha’s voice, but a happy thought hits me—someday, this will be over, and they will have grown to become the most prepared country in Europe, with months (please not years) of practice defending themselves in more and more advanced ways. They will be the most brotherly country on the continent, too, having had to come together like never before. Dasha’s last emoji makes a little more sense to me, though it still makes me want to cry.
If you are interested in delving deeper into stories of Ukrainian culture and way of life, please consider buying the Babusya’s Kitchen Cookbook, compiled by Peace Corps Volunteers over many years from their local babusyas, host mothers, friends and colleagues. Your $30 goes towards supporting mini-grants for Ukrainians running small projects to serve their neighbors during these hard times.