Chapter Text
The 24th of February, 2022. The start of the Russian invasion of Ukraine. It’s been 881 days since then and counting. Brother, how long do you plan to drag this war out for?
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You know there was something so ironic about this.
War is constant, never ceasing and never changing. Humans will always find a reason to kill each other. As long as humans exis:t we will always wage war, we always hate each other and in the end we will all die. It’s an inevitable fate waiting to repeat itself over and over again like a broken record player. The day the record player decides to fall altogether will be the day humanity will be erased from the face of the planet.
When we hear about another conflict, between two belligerents somewhere out there in the world. How do you feel? Empathy? Pity? Sadness? Do you feel sorrow in your heart for the innocent families that have died? Perhaps yes. But you will never understand how hard it is for them. You’re too far away, too distant.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, you couldn’t relate. Dear reader, you sit here. Reading this block of text, with all the privilege in the world. Blissfully ignorant of all the atrocities that happen while you read this in the safety of your home. You updating your instagram status to “free Palestine” isn’t going to stop a genocide. Protests, boycotts, words of admirations. It all means nothing. It’s not like you’re going to go rescue the people of Yemen today, are you?
But imagine for a second, if you were oppressed? I’m not talking about what parts you have in your pants, the colour of your skin or what gender you’re attracted to. No. The real kind.
All of a sudden, it’s close. Now you’re a victim, just like them. You get to feel the pain, the suffering and if you do somehow manage to survive all this, you’d never get to be the same after it. A type of fear, you couldn’t even wrap your head around until now.
Then soon enough, the world will forget about you. They move on but you don’t get to. Now all the trauma, the tragedy and agony is just purely political. Just another statistic attributed to the long list of ill-fated history.
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Ukra was situated deep in a random forest, on the outskirts of the Ukrainian plateau. The short teenager slumped his shoulders, leaning back against the tree. His comrades were probably out looking for him. But he must remain hidden. At least not until he was sure this area was fully free of Russian spies. He pressed a cigarette against his lips and took a smoke, releasing an acrid scent as he exhaled.
There was a sudden flashing of light off the brink in the night sky. Sparks flared in the distance, just barely in vision range. “Ah shit…”
He checked his body for any sizzling burns and sure enough a new one had appeared, this time on his right ankle. Though he won’t feel any pain from it. Any damage taken on his territory would leave a physical representation on his body. Judging from the location of the burn mark it must’ve been Donetsk where that bombing just took place.
He clasped his hands tight and closed his eyes, looking up, towards the light. “Please God, make sure their innocent souls are safe.” He pleaded. If he had no else, he had the holy spirit with him. Always. And forever.
Sure, he had fallen on hard times but he was sure it was all a part of God’s plan. God just works in mysterious ways, I suppose. May it all be better soon.
How did this all start anyway? How’d we end up here?
He recalls a distant memory. One where he wasn’t suffering and he wasn’t dying. It must’ve been years ago.
Perhaps in another universe, Russia would actually treat him like a brother. Poland didn’t hate his guts, he would be able to lead a relationship with Canada and Belarus would hold him in her arms when he was upset and lick his tears away when he cried.
You know, now that Ukraine thinks about it;it’s been a long while since he had a genuine smile on his face.
A perfect reality. A reality too perfect for a cruel world.
I think that what hurts the most is that he knows it isn’t true. Just a really messed up coping mechanism trying to keep himself at bay. The bittersweet taste of tears would stream down his face down to his chin. He swallowed them before they touched the ground.
Ukraine couldn't cry. Men don’t cry, so he shouldn’t either. If Soviet taught him anything it’s that crying is worthless. Only the weak weep about what they can’t change. He’s stronger than that. His harsh reality just is what it is.