Letters from Ukraine, 2022
My coffee mug tells me that I’m Ukrainian. I don’t always agree.
Reflecting on my place in Ukraine in 2022
My Ukrainian in-laws have been great about making me feel welcome in their home and in their country. They went on a trip last year to another Ukrainian city and came back with a lovely gift for me and my husband: a set of clean white mugs printed with rich, embroidery-style flowers. In stately, swirly Cyrillic, his mug reads Я українець (Ya ukrayinets’), and mine says Я українка (Ya ukrayinka), meaning I am Ukrainian.
I love my mug and the gesture behind it. But every time I use it, I see the words out of the corner of my eye, and I feel like an imposter.
My husband is Ukrainian. I’ve lived in Ukraine for over two years now.
But am I Ukrainian?
I respect the superstitions. I don’t leave empty bottles on the table, whistle in the house, or sweep after sunset. (Most of the time.)
My Ukrainian language skills get better every day, and I make a mean borshch (if I do say so myself).
But am I Ukrainian?
I talked to my mom about this over FaceTime the other day. She thinks that the second I gave birth to a Ukrainian child, I became Ukrainian.
But then I dwell on the fact that my kid technically has a stronger connection to this country than I do because he has actual Ukrainian blood.
Whenever I’m puttering around the kitchen, I keep the radio on in the background. These days, lots of beautiful, patriotic songs play, and the broadcasters bookend them with encouraging words and slogans.
“Glory to Ukraine. Glory to the heroes.”
“Together we are strong.”
“We believe in our country.”
Our country.
Our.
Do I have the right to use that word when referring to Ukraine, its people, and its culture?
My husband keeps up with the Ukrainian news and relays major updates to me. (The Western stuff sends me into an anxious tailspin, and the news in Ukrainian is still too difficult for me to understand.) Recently, he told me something like, “The guys managed to push back in Kherson oblast.”
I was pretty sure he was referring to the Ukrainian soldiers, but when I tried to clarify, I hesitated.
“Your guys?” felt distant and impersonal. Like I’m a tourist here. A bystander who’s just waiting for Boryspil airport to reopen so I can peace out.
“Our guys?” felt inappropriate and insensitive. As if I can fully understand the pain that the people of this country feel upon being invaded after 30 years of independence.
I can’t. I know I can’t.
I’ve noticed that Ukrainians have used a lot of humor — often dark — to cope with this war. My husband translates a lot of it into English for me. At the beginning, some of the jokes about Russians seemed pretty barbaric to me.
“Darling, that’s terrible,” I would exclaim, laughing and wincing at the same time (but mostly wincing).
Then I realized something: I don’t get to judge.
Although my hatred of Russia has grown immensely since I learned more about Ukraine’s history and since the war begin, I can’t fully understand the pain that this invasion has caused, no matter what ties I have to Ukraine or how much I feel Ukrainian.
We shouldn’t cast judgment for how people deal with their pain, and we especially shouldn’t do so they’re dealing with pain we can’t understand.
My in-laws lived through the oppressive Soviet regime, and I grew up in a free country.
My husband vacationed as a child in Crimea multiple times in the 2000s. I can’t imagine how he must have felt when Russia invaded it and the Donbas in 2014.
But did I care back then?
Not really, because I was an oblivious US high schooler who had very little idea of where Crimea even was.
In some situations, I step back and say, “I wasn’t born in this country. I didn’t grow up here. I can’t quite understand. I’m not Ukrainian.” This is one of them. I don’t comment on the morality of the jokes.
In other ways, my coffee mug reads some truth. I am part of a Ukrainian family. That makes me Ukrainian.
All of these realities make up a grey area that isn’t very comfortable at times. It requires a lot of reflection. However, it’s part of life when you’re integrating into a foreign country. No matter how much I feel at home in this slow, rich, and colorful culture, and no matter how much the people here welcome me, I’ll always live in this cultural limbo. All I can do is remain as respectful and curious as possible.
And optimistic. Right now, we need as much optimism and hope over here as we can get.
Crimea and the Donbas will be ours again someday. Although I’m still reluctant to use words like “ours” and “us” when I talk about Ukraine, my husband insists that I do so.
We’ll go to Crimea on vacation together as a family, just like my husband got to do many years ago.
“Say syr!” we’ll call to our son, snapping his photo under the blazing, beautiful Crimean sunlight.
Все Буде Україна. Vse bude Ukraina. (All will be Ukraine).
