Exclusive
20
хв

«I hugged the trees farewell. I promised to come back»

Refugee from Mykolaiv on everything the war stole from her and temporary asylum in Poland.

Tetiana Bakotska

Mykolaiv, November 2022.
Photograph: Nina Liashonok/UkrInform/Eastern News

No items found.

Support Sestry

Even a small contribution to real journalism helps strengthen democracy. Join us, and together we will tell the world the inspiring stories of people fighting for freedom!

Donate

For eight years, I recorded stories from people, whose life had been destroyed by the Russo-Ukrainian war, as I worked as a journalist for the National Public Broadcasting Company in Mykolaiv. Since 2014, when the occupation of Crimea occurred and fighting began in eastern Ukraine, the heroes and heroines of my TV and radio programs, stories, reports, articles and sketches have been the Ukrainian troops, volunteers, internally displaced persons and refugees.

The new chapter of the great war has brought even more death and total ruin into my life. At 39 I became a widow of a fallen soldier, a refugee. I ended up alone in a foreign country with two children (a 6-month-old daughter and an 11 y.o. son), without any relatives, friends, or people I knew. Now I am forced to write my own story as a refugee to document Russian war crimes and record the memories of what I have experienced.

Battles for the South

The first Russian missiles of February 24 2022, fell one and a half kilometres away from my home - on a large military airfield «Kulbakine». Thanks to the intel intercepted by the Main Intelligence Agency of the Ministry of Defence, the 299th brigade had managed to get all the aircraft into the air before the air raid began. After the combined missile and bomb strikes, the airfield was attacked multiple times by convoys of occupational troops. On the evening of February 25, they entered our village, which is 4km away from Mykolaiv, from the direction of Kherson. We could not believe that this was our new reality. But after the rain, the enemy tanks got stuck in the field between my house and the airfield. Six vehicles still managed to infiltrate the military facility. They were met with fire by the service members of the tactical aviation brigade named after Lieutenant General Vasyl Nikiforov, under the command of Colonel Serhiy Samoylov. The National Guard fighters were helping. Facing resistance, the Russians fled. Some of them could not find the way back and hid in the forest strips where we used to gather mushrooms.

On March 4th, they came back. Approximately at noon, a Russian drone flew over the airfield, and Russian airborne combat vehicles drove through the streets of our village once again. About 400 Russians had entered the premises of the airfield. The fighting began. Our infantrymen decided to let them come close, as their resources were limited to small arms. The Russians were 200 metres away from the operations centre. And then, the airfield’s defenders began shelling them with artillery. The Russians retreated.

A year after this battle, the commander of the tactical aviation brigade named after Lieutenant General Vasyl Nikiforov, Serhiy Samoylov, said in an interview that it was a fateful victory. By defending the airfield, our warriors saved Mykolaiv.

Evacuation. I hugged the trees farewell

Evacuation was recommended to all residents of our Shevchenko community, as these grounds had become one of the epicentres of battles for Mykolaiv. People who had to remain there for various reasons lived under constant crossfire. Without water, electricity, gas, or medicine. They would extinguish the fires caused by bombings themselves, feed and tend to local cats and dogs.

Oh, how hard it was to abandon everything that I love… But I did not have a choice. I hugged our trees: cherries, apple and pear trees, plums and apricots, which my husband and I planted in the Spring of 2014 when the war started and he was drafted for the first time. I talked to our house that we built ourselves in 2013: «We love you very much, but we must run away. Sorry. Stand steadily, and until we meet again!». Me and my children left for a village 100km north of Mykolaiv, close to the town of Voznesensk. We drove for 9 hours. The roads were congested with traffic. People were fleeing the Kherson region.

Tetiana with her children. Evacuation

We were hoping that it would be safer there. But in a few days, Russian military convoys had reached Voznesensk. They began shelling the town with heavy artillery. Bloodshedding battles commenced. A military unit that was just a few kilometres away from where we were then was being hit by missiles. I read the news: the goal of the enemy forces is to capture the Southern Ukrainian nuclear power plant that is just 30km away from Voznesensk. When the Russians captured the largest nuclear power plant in Europe, the Zaporizhia NPP, in early March, I was really scared that the same clashes would commence for our Southern Ukrainian NPP. So I began to look for an opportunity to get closer to the western border with my children. But the bridge to Mykolaiv had already been blown up. It was also not possible to reach Odesa by train since the railway bridge was destroyed as well. I accidentally came across a group of strangers on Facebook who agreed to take us to the evacuation train to Odesa. Going by car was dangerous: the roads were getting bombed and some territories were filled with mines. But we left at noon anyway. We rode into the unknown.

The «Odesa - Lviv» train

Odesa greeted us with a cold sea breeze and rain. We spent 17 hours waiting in line for the evacuation train headed to Lviv. The railway station was overcrowded. I found a small piece of empty space by the wall and we were finally able to sit down on the floor. Men, seeing their wives and children off at the train, sat next to us. Time after time they looked at us and asked us anxiously: «Make your children calm down or move away. You are irritating my kids. How can you even be so careless as to travel with such a small child?».

It came to me that it was unlikely for everyone to fit on the train. No one knew if there would be another train the next day and we did not have any place to stay. It was also impossible to come back. I called the police and explained our situation. A representative of the railway security called me back and said that he could help, as my husband, the father of my children, was among the defenders of the southern front among the Ukrainian Armed forces. He brought us to a group of people who, unlike us, were waiting for the train inside, in a dedicated room at the railway station. When the train arrived, we were told that we could enter one of the first four train cars. But nervous and exhausted people on the platform would not let us through. And once again the railway security representative helped us board the train. Me and my children managed to get in last. The train conductor informed us that we could enter any compartment that had less than six people in it. But everyone who had already got in refused to let us enter and would even push us out: nobody wanted to travel alongside a little baby. We had to leave our baggage behind. We only took a backpack with food and medicine. The saddest thing for me to leave behind was my son’s dobok (taekwondo uniform). But he reassured me: «Don’t worry. We’ve lost so much that my dobok is but a drop in the ocean». Then the train conductor proclaimed that the train would not take off until we were provided with a seat. Close to 2 AM we finally took off to Lviv. There was a Russian-speaking lady with three almost-adult children in our compartment who was travelling by the Red Cross programme to Germany. Her husband was working there and they’d already had free living quarters in Germany. She explained why she initially did not want to let us into the compartment: «The Red Cross promised us a comfortable trip. And we’ve earned it because we are from Mykolaiv. We went through stress».

Ruslan Khoda. Ukraine’s defender on the southern front. Died in battle in the Kherson region on August 4th 2022 at 14:00. This is the last photo of the hero

Lviv volunteers: all for the sake of victory

We reached Lviv in 12 hours. The railway station was as overcrowded as it was in Odesa. I did not know what to do next. I wanted to buy bus tickets to the Polish border. But there were none. I had to contact Ksenia Klym - a journalist, volunteer and the mother of Marko Klym, a Ukrainian soldier. In early March, Marko defended the Mykolaiv region from the Russian occupants, including the Voznesensk town, from which we travelled to Lviv. Ksenia came to the railway station right away and invited us to spend the night at her place, as my children were exhausted by such a long trip.

The following day Christina Brukhal, a volunteer from Lviv, helped us board an evacuation bus to Warsaw. At first, we came to a place where lady Christina and her colleagues had organised a shelter for people wanting to flee to Poland. Christina provided us with warm clothes so we would not get cold at night at the border. Additionally, she gave us diapers, child food and a new backpack. In the evening, when the bus arrived, almost all the volunteers went outside to bid us farewell. It was very touching: in such a short time, strangers in Lviv had bestowed so much love upon us that it was almost as if we had lived together our whole lives. They were with us until the last moment of our being in our Motherland. Everyone cried.

The same evening, Ksenia alongside other Lviv residents went to deliver humanitarian help for the warriors in the Mykolaiv region, where hellish battles were taking place.

Loss

My husband, Ruslan Khoda, went to the recruitment office on the first day. In 5 months, on August 4th 2022, he died in battle during a Russian artillery shelling near Lozove village in the Kherson region.

Ruslan was the Commander of the reconnaissance platoon within the 36th Separate Marine Brigade named after Counter Admiral Mykhailo Bilynskyi (military unit A2802, city of Mykolaiv).

Scouts are always the first ones to go. On July 25th Ruslan turned 37, and in 10 days his two children, Mykhailo (11 years old) and Myroslava (11 months old), became half-orphans.

Ruslan’s body, like many of his comrades who also died there, still has not been returned to his relatives. Russian troops had been constantly bombing the territory now called the Lozova Grave, so there was no burial. If the body is missing, the fallen soldier’s family cannot receive financial support from the government. Only on Christmas of 2023 did our children presents from the Red Cross: Myroslava - a Frozen doll, and Mykhailo - a chocolate bar and a bottle of water.

«Taekwondo Olsztyn» club coach Marcin Chożelevsky and Tetiana and Ruslan’s son. The boy enjoys the sports lessons

In the Autumn of 2022, an unknown woman called me on Viber and said: «My grandson was also there, where the Lozova Grave is now. Every day, my grandson watched through binoculars over Ruslan's body. At the first opportunity, he took him away. He asked me to tell you that Ruslan's body is in the ground. It's untouched by dogs, unpicked by birds. The bodies of all the soldiers who remained there rest in Ukrainian soil, and their souls continue to defend the South.»

In 2014, when the Russo-Ukrainian war started, Ruslan was drafted for the first time. Our son was three years old. Ruslan could flee to Poland like many people he knew did. After all, his mother, two sisters and nephews still live in the suburbs of Moscow. He took this step because for him it was a battle for the opportunity for people to choose their own future, for a chance to live in a fair world. And for him, the war was not over in 2015 when he came home: he was ready to pay the highest price for the victory of Ukraine.

Mykolaiv: a city on an explosive wave

Mykolaiv is called that since the beginning of the full-scale invasion. Russian forces repeatedly stormed the city, regularly shelled it with cruise missiles, cluster munitions, attacked with rocket artillery and targeted it with S-300 surface-to-air missiles. The occupants performed their largest shelling of Mykolaiv on the night of July 31st 2022. It was their most massive attack of the entire war.

The following day, Ruslan called me for the last time. He wanted to say goodbye because he knew that he would not make it alive from that fight: «You will make it. Your task is to raise our children as patriots, as decent people. Everything will be Ukraine!»

Again and again, I thought about what the war had taken from us: Russian missiles destroyed the student dormitory, where 18 years prior he and I met for the first time (during the beginning of the Orange Revolution of 2004); the Pedagogical university where he and I studied for 5 years; one of the facilities where Ruslan used to work; schools and hospitals, a church where we christened our children; a theatre that we would go on holidays… In terms of the scale of destruction and the number of bombings, the Mykolaiv region ranks third after the Donetsk and Luhansk regions.

School in the village of Blagodatne in the Mykolaiv region destroyed by the Russian forces, July 19th 2023. Photo: Nina Liashonok/Ukrinform/ABACAPRESS.COM

Since April 2022, the city has been living without a centralised water supply. The Russians destroyed the water source which Mykolaiv was getting water from. As of July 2023, the overall damages inflicted upon Mykolaiv’s infrastructure due to Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine have been estimated to be over 860 million euros. 159 civilians including 2 children in Mykolaiv and 16 children in the region have lost their lives to the full-scale war waged by Russia.

Life in Poland

In April 2022, I came to Olsztyn with my children - the capital of the Warmińsko-Mazurskie voivodeship. Here my son Mykhailo had the opportunity to continue practicing taekwondo. It is more than just sports for our family. Grigoriy Khozyainov, my son’s and husband’s coach, the head of the Mykolaiv Regional Taekwondo Federation, senior coach for the Ukrainian national cadet team, participated in battles for Mariupol, in the Mykolaiv region and the Kherson region as part of the 36th Separate Marine Brigade named after Counter Admiral Mykhailo Bilynskyi. He was declared MIA (missing in action) on November 7th 2022 during battles on the outskirts of Bakhmut. He was 50 years old.

During his lifetime, our coach managed to bring up a World Champion among cadets, Champions of Europe and winners of many international and Ukrainian tournaments. My husband was among the first students of Grigoriy Khozyainov. Ruslan grew up in a large family. His parents often could not afford the training fee. When his coach found out about it, he said that talented kids could study for free under his mentorship. And because of that, later on, Ruslan volunteered as a children’s coach in the Shevchenko community on the outskirts of Mykolaiv. Maybe he found himself in those kids, as it was too expensive and difficult for them to go to the city for training. The last taekwondo training session that my husband conducted ended at 6 PM on Wednesday, February 23 2022, in the village of Shevchenkove, Mykolaiv region, which was among the villages that suffered the most from Russian shellings. Possibly, the building in which Ruslan used to teach taekwondo does not exist anymore.

My husband wanted to serve in the 36th brigade in particular because our coach had been serving there since Autumn of 2022. Grigory Borysovych felt the imminence of the war. He was offered work as a coach in European countries multiple times but he chose a different path: he left to defend the Donetsk frontline.

When Ruslan died, his coach was distressed by the tragedy. Ruslan was like a son to him. To comfort Grigory Borysovych at least somehow, my son promised him that he would take his father’s place and conduct trainings for the children of the Shevchenko community when we came back to Mykolaiv. The coach could not hold back his tears.

In Olsztyn, my son once again has the opportunity to be with his taekwondo family. He has been training free of pay here for over a year now. Coach Marcin Chożelevsky has given him a new dobok. On May 20th 2023, the Kujawsko-Pomorska league tournaments took place in Bydgoszcz. Mykhailo won a golden medal.

No items found.
Strategic partner
Join the newsletter
Thank you! Your submission has been received!
Oops! Something went wrong while submitting the form.

Journalist, editor of the Mykolaiv branch of the National Public Broadcasting Company of Ukraine. Author of TV and radio programs, reports, and articles on military, environmental, cultural, social and European topics. Published in the newspaper of the Ukrainian diaspora in Poland «Our Word», on the nationwide website «Eurointegration Portal» of the Office of the Deputy Prime Minister for European and Euro-Atlantic Integration and the Ukrainian Crisis Media Center. Participates in international training programs for journalists: Deutsche Welle Akademie, Media Neighbourhood (BBC Media Action), Thomson Foundation, and others. Co-organiser of various events and training sessions: educational and cultural projects for refugees in Poland, implemented by Caritas, Federation of NGOs FOSa; «Culture Helps», implemented by Osvita (UA) and Zusa (DE). Co-author of the book «A Heart Devoted to the People» about the history of southern Ukraine. Published articles on military topics in the books «War in Ukraine. Kyiv - Warsaw: Together to Victory» (Poland, 2022) and «Environmental Readings: Preserving for Future Generations» (Ukraine, 2022).

Support Sestry

Nothing survives without words.
Together, we carry voices that must be heard.

Donate

Time wasted on roads instead of bridges

Olga Pakosh: In light of what is happening today, how can we talk about building bridges?

Krzysztof Czyżewski: We first need to realize how few of them we have actually built.

Why?

We were given time—time we largely failed to use. Today comes the test of what we did with it, and it turns out it could have been much more. Too few bridges were built—between Poles and Ukrainians, but also many others. Because all these bridges are interconnected. Fear of the other very easily turns into scapegoating—of the foreigner, someone of another nationality, culture, or skin color. And this shows that we could have done far more, especially from the bottom up, at the grassroots, organically. We lacked investment in local government, in education—from primary school through every level—in cultural and community-building activities. Had we put more effort into these, we would be in a completely different place today.

That’s why the work of rooting is so important—in a place, in oneself, in our identity. When the full-scale war in Ukraine broke out, refugee children came to Krasnogruda. One of the first projects we did with them was an animated film.

The children called it Pokój (“Room/Peace”), because they discovered that in Polish the word has two meanings: “absence of war” and “my space to live.” It was precisely this space they had lost—their room, their home—and that’s what they longed for. They also understood that the one who starts a war is the one who has no room of their own.

People deprived of rootedness and a sense of community are more easily swayed by ideologies that lead to hatred and violence. That’s why we need time to rebuild this rootedness, which our region still lacks because of its history of wars and regimes. We simply wasted the time we were given.

We invested in roads—because that’s easy, because every politician wants to boast about them. But investments in schools, cultural centers, civic organizations—in people—were never a priority.
And yet those are precisely the investments that could give us the strength to stand against hatred and war.

The Comfortable Role of the Victim

What is hatred?
No one is born with hatred. It always has a source, usually in the early stages of life. Something must have happened in our environment—in the family, at school, in the community. Something that made us susceptible to this illness called hatred.

To confront it, we must go back to its beginnings. To the moment when a child or young person found themselves in a situation where no one defended them, protected them, or taught them how to cope with harm. It’s the environment that shapes a person, and if it is not built on peace, it creates space for hatred. Hatred often grows out of emptiness, resentment, and a sense of loss. A person who experiences pain at the hands of others, lacking the tools to understand it, builds a defense mechanism: they start believing that hatred will make them stronger.

Imagine a young Czesław Miłosz. He dreams of Western Europe, of Paris—and during a trip with friends, he reaches a bridge on the Swiss–French border. There he sees a sign: “No entry for Slavs, Gypsies, Jews.” Such a blow can trigger two reactions. One is to respond in kind: return home and put up a sign against the French or the Germans.
But one can also react differently: do everything not to answer hostility with hostility. Yet to choose this path, one needs support—spiritual, moral, found in an authority or a community.

We encounter such “signs” even today—in a metaphorical sense—living in multicultural societies. We often, and unwittingly, hurt others with words or gestures. These are moments when we can take Miłosz’s path: to dedicate our life and work to opposing the philosophy of exclusion. But choosing this path means loneliness. As in the case of Miłosz, who in interwar Vilnius—governed by nationalists—was told that history did not belong to him.

The “signpost philosophy” always builds a fortress. It assumes one must close off, build walls, and cast outsiders in a bad light. It’s the feeling that strength comes from isolation.
I have met people who build such fortresses. Today this is very visible in Ukraine. My Ukrainian friends wrote to me after February 24th: “I hate. That’s my state of mind.” I understand this. In the face of aggression, one builds defensive embankments, protects family and community. Perhaps a soldier needs hatred as a weapon—it gives determination and strength.

But the crucial question is about the boundary. Between the person who can treat hatred like a shield, then set it aside after the fight and return to normal life—and the person who becomes its captive. If you can put it down, hatred remains a temporary weapon. If you cannot, the illness takes control. Then hatred doesn’t end with the war—it begins to destroy life, relationships, one’s entire world.

How can we defend ourselves against hatred in today’s world?

Sometimes a person must build a fortress, but a fortress is not a natural environment for life. When a new generation arrives—our children—they will feel curiosity and the need to go out into the open world. Because a fortress, if accepted as a permanent home, becomes a prison—and everyone wants to escape from prison.

So the question is: if I build a bridge to the other side, risking my own shore and the possibility that an enemy may use it—am I acting against life?

Would it be better to stay on my side and live more safely, more comfortably? This is how supporters of extreme, xenophobic ideologies think: that it’s best to be only among one’s own. Except that in human nature such a scenario never proves life-giving. Sooner or later it leads to illness—xenophobia or hatred.

That’s why courage is always necessary. To resist hatred, we must cultivate inner strength to overcome our emotions. And yet we have a tendency to justify our hostility easily: we pick at resentments, repeat that someone wronged us. It feels comfortable to wear the skin of the victim, because then we are always ostensibly on the “good side.” But staying in the role of the victim also leads nowhere. It breeds weakness and fear—fear of opening up, of encountering the other.

What does this mean in practice? If I, as a Pole, am afraid to admit that in Jedwabne, during the Holocaust, a crime was committed against Jewish neighbors and I prefer to conceal this truth—where is my patriotism then? Where is my courage?

There is no courage in falsifying history. Courage is born when I can look into the eyes of those who were victims, when I do the work on myself. It is difficult, critical work of memory.
If we want to build bridges with others, let’s start with ourselves. Let us ask: are there not painful places in our own history that we should work through—acknowledge, beat our breast, return the truth to others, or at least try to listen? Paradoxically, this does not weaken us—it makes us stronger.

On the doorstep of the house where Polish writer and philosopher Stanisław Vincenz once lived — Hutsul region, Ukraine.

Pop Culture Pure

How would you explain the shift from the immense openness toward Ukrainians in February 2022 to the current state, where some say that help was unappreciated or that newcomers “give nothing in return”? Is it fatigue, lack of courage, or something deeper in human nature?

What’s missing is something else. What’s very dangerous is what politicians often try to convince us of: that our attitude toward Ukrainians must be conditioned by interest. In my view, the spontaneous, magnificent reaction of people was simply a human reaction. No one asked then what we would get out of it. It was as Pope Francis said in Lampedusa about the Church: it should be like a field hospital.

It doesn’t matter what your faith, nationality, or skin color is—you simply serve a person in need. This is an absolute human duty. Without asking about interest, advantage, or profit.

If we step down from that level—and today many try to frame help for Ukrainians in terms of budgets, gains, or losses—we reduce the field hospital to a marketplace.

And that’s exactly what we see in the world. It used to be unthinkable that states would give weapons only in exchange for raw materials. Today this approach is part of the political mainstream. It’s a moral collapse.

Of course, rationality, logic, and common sense are needed—especially in politics and strategic decisions.

At the same time, we must act on a human level. Because we are Christians, Poles, Ukrainians, people. There are no narrow categories here. It’s not about nationality or religion, but about a human being in need.

The first wave of refugees from Ukraine made this very clear. I remember Viktoria Amelina [a Ukrainian writer who died in hospital on July 1, 2023, from injuries sustained during a Russian attack on Kramatorsk—ed.] in Krasnogruda telling me that at the border she felt treated better than refugees from other countries. She was privileged simply because she was Ukrainian. That shows the limit of our wonderful Polish–Ukrainian period of solidarity—right next to the Belarusian border, the symbol of non-solidarity.

When such selection creeps into our responses, we see a symptom of illness: our assistance and attitudes are no longer fully true or natural. It’s not about judging people—we’re all in the same boat; we all have oversights and limitations. But it’s also part of a great moral decline, a degradation we’re witnessing worldwide. It shows how much fear, anxiety, and uncertainty we harbor, and how little of the peace that children talk about. And how easily populist politics can lead us astray.

Why does hatred take root in us so easily? Is it politics, ideology, indoctrination (imposing certain ideas and beliefs on a person — Ed.)?

Or perhaps pop culture? And culture? How is it possible that in a democratic society we separated pop culture from culture—that pop culture is meant to reach people who “won’t understand” culture because it’s too difficult, not for them?

If we accept that conversations about values, morality, and understanding the other are intended only for those in that “other” culture and not for everyone, the tragedy begins.

The tragedy is that in a democracy we don’t trust people. We don’t believe they can make difficult decisions themselves, hold values, and take responsibility for them.

We persist in the belief that we must speak to people in a simplified way, otherwise they “won’t understand.” Politicians and the media often take this path. They create a “pop-cultural mush,” and we pay the price. We’ve created pop-cultural politics, pop-cultural politicians, and politics characterized by leveling down. It’s the result of our underestimating culture and failing to understand that conscience—our spiritual culture—is an obligation for everyone, without exception.

Szewczenko or Miłosz are for everyone, and with everyone we can talk about values, demand reflection, action, and responsibility. It’s like the wisdom of the Gospels—they are not reserved for the chosen. We have lost faith that this has anything to do with everyday life. Even people who consider themselves Christians often craft their own “life-gospel,” at odds with the true Gospel, while politicians offer a discourse full of xenophobia and hatred.

Here lies a serious neglect, for which we are now paying the price. A vast arrogance and paternalism that we have allowed to speak. As a result, we’ve lost many citizens—people who felt utterly marginalized not only in terms of material well-being but also in terms of trust and co-responsibility for the world’s affairs. Pushed aside and often stigmatized as xenophobes.

I never use such labels for anyone. Because when you call someone a chauvinist or a xenophobe, you put them against a wall. You strip them of the ability to move—and thus the chance to change. Culture should provide space and time for us to change, learn, and mature. That’s what our culture often lacks: patience for process, the understanding that change takes time.

The history we come from, and the new tragic circumstances, place demands on us that often exceed our strength. Sometimes we are too weak to bear them. But does that mean we are immediately bad—and forever? Perhaps we can still be partners—for conversation, for cooperation, for living together—even if we handle our emotions differently.

We are very good at cornering people. “You are this—period.” Meanwhile, we should learn to understand ourselves and others, to transcend our own limitations, to practice the art of dialogue—because only then is true transformation possible.

You speak of empathy, which was so visible at the beginning. But haven’t you noticed that today the word “neighbors” has practically disappeared from the media when we speak about Ukrainians?

“Neighborhood” is a good word, isn’t it? A neighbor is already part of our life. And if we drive them out, a feeling arises… that there is no threat, and no need for effort or even sacrifice, because a neighbor demands more from me.

A neighbor is someone you can rightly offer hospitality to, someone you can share with, someone you coexist with and share responsibility for something with. Simply by existing, a neighbor touches deeply rooted values in us—and puts them to the test.

If we succumb to confrontational, hateful ideology, we push out words like “neighborhood,” “kinship,” “the common good.”

I won’t even dwell on the fact that politicians try to convince us that it’s in our interest to cut ourselves off from Ukraine—which is absurd, because Ukraine provides us with security. If we were rational and sober about what is truly good for us, we should do everything to make our neighborhood as deep and as close as possible.

Anna Łazar, Yuri Andrukhovych and Krzysztof Czyżewski. Private Archive

Meanwhile, we allow ourselves to be ruled by what is irrational or aimed at short-term effects (which amounts to the same). We let weakness work within us and perceive threats where they do not truly exist.

I would also like to address Ukrainians—to understand that sometimes it’s not worth attaching too much importance to these momentary crises—just as in the life of an individual, so in a collective body we sometimes succumb to weakness, and politicians draw out the worst in us. We should not believe that this is a permanent state, nor should we immediately put Poles against the wall, assuming that “this is how they are now.”

Of course, we should set standards for ourselves—now I’m speaking about Poles in the context of the situation in Ukraine. But at the same time, it is worth giving ourselves a chance to change: to be more understanding, more empathetic, to trust that change is possible. I also don’t attach excessive importance to momentary gusts in social media—those winds change very quickly.

I would rather focus on long-term, grassroots, organic building—creating things that won’t bear fruit today but will do so in a few years. Because trust has extraordinary power. If I, Ms. Olga, believe that even if you (purely hypothetically) feel prejudice, resentment, or hatred toward me, it won’t be forever—and I don’t close myself off to our mutual presence—and if I believe our relationship can change—then you will not remain indifferent to that. You will sense in me not an enemy, but a person open to change. That is precisely what releases positive energy between us.

Sometimes it demands more of us than we could realistically expect—greater generosity than daily life calls for. And that’s what builds a person, gives extraordinary strength. For me, beauty lies in the Ukrainian word peremoha. When I travel the world, I always urge people to learn it not in translation (“victory”) but in its Ukrainian meaning.

Peremohty, mohty—it means the ability to act beyond one’s own capacities. Even if we have limitations, traumas, weaknesses, there is such a thing as peremohty: to be able to do more than we can. And that is true victory.

To achieve this, we must extend ourselves a credit of trust, create good energies that allow us to do more than we believe possible. Two years ago our borders opened, solidarity emerged, and suddenly we were able to show a better face—better than before, in the context of the Belarusian border. Even those who previously stood for radical confrontation and closing the border to refugees could not silence their own consciences in the face of need—children in the Białowieża Forest who needed a simple glass of water. You can’t calm your conscience that way. Ideological arguments aren’t enough.

And suddenly Ukrainians appeared, toward whom we could be entirely different. It was a moment when we became better than ourselves, though such moments never last long. Our wisdom should lie in knowing how to appeal to what is best in us, building on that, and not giving up the work of maturing into those values.

There Are More People of Good Will

After the president vetoed the law on assistance for Ukrainian mothers and as a wave of hatred grew, one of my colleagues asked: what should I do now? Where should I go? I chose to stay in Poland, and I don’t know what I should feel or how to live, if I’m even afraid to speak Ukrainian with my child on the street.

For a moment I thought that it’s increasingly difficult today to advise your colleague where she might go to be better off. There are fewer and fewer such places in the world. Of course, that is no excuse for what’s happening in our country. But it is one of those painful lessons we receive from the modern world. I return to the idea that we are part of communicating vessels. What happens here is interdependent with other places in the world, and we often struggle to cope with that.

Let’s have no illusions: we live in an era of moral decline, a degradation of humanism.

Of course, I would like people like the one you describe to remain in Poland—because we need them. I don’t mean this in terms of budget revenue, though that’s obvious. That’s not the logic I’m using. These people are needed so that we can grow into the maturity demanded of us by the situation in the world—and so that we have a chance to change our own attitudes. Your colleague, experiencing intolerance in Poland yet still engaging in building good neighborliness, has a chance to be part of a process of change—one that won’t happen overnight and will surely bring her suffering, but in the long run it carries hope.

Because in this process there is strength and potential—we change the world where we are, not by endlessly fleeing elsewhere.

My philosophy largely rests on changing the world from within. There is a growing temptation to flee from various environments, institutions, religions, or countries because something seems unbearable or contrary to our beliefs. But that’s escape. Then we become perpetual nomads.

The answer is to stay, to find a room, to take root, and to work—with an understanding of all the conditions that come with it. Such rootedness is not the same as returning to a lost place (though may such returns be possible). It is staying within a new situation and learning it mutually—this gives a chance for growth.

A second reflection is that there are more of us than we think: us, people of good will. We live in a world that often minimizes our presence because it amplifies drama, conflict, pain, and injustice. The voice of harm reaches the media; it is harder to express good and positive emotions. This is also my work: to help people give voice to the good emotions that, I believe, dwell in everyone—even in those who hate deeply. In everyone there is a spark of a need to do something good. The problem is often how to do it, how to give it form.

We lack holidays, language, and culture for this—and politics even more so—because we live in a world where harm, pain, and hatred are easy to express. Sometimes it’s about a wise perspective: perhaps there are more of us than it seems; perhaps the politician who has won and seems monstrous does not, in fact, have all our votes.

Where is that other half of Poland? It exists—and there are ways to reach it. It’s difficult, but it gives hope.

I’ve lived in Poland for 10 years, and I’ve heard from various people that humans are inherently good—which I never heard in Ukraine. Two Poles also told me that even if people do something bad, they later regret it.

What I’m talking about is close to what I earlier called the spark of good in every person—something hard to bring out. I speak of it because it was passed on to me by people who went through real hell. Starting with Miłosz, who survived two world wars; with Holocaust survivors; with Bosnian Muslims whose relatives lie buried in Srebrenica. They could have said that the world is evil, that our actions are meaningless in the face of the destructive forces of dictatorial regimes, that building bridges is weak against military and ideological violence. And yet it was precisely they who taught me not to lose faith in the good—in that small light present in every person, regardless of which “side” they are on.

They taught me that it’s worth working to help others and ourselves—to free the good within us, to find words and time so that our conscience can be spoken, not stifled. And despite the “sober skeptics,” whose voice I respect, and despite having witnessed the core of darkness revealed by wars, I stand with my teachers, who allowed themselves neither nihilism nor agreement that good in this world is doomed to defeat.

Because if they weren’t right, would we be able to have this conversation at all, Ms. Olga?

20
хв

Krzysztof Czyżewski: “No One Is Born with Hatred"

Olga Pakosh

On August 25, the President of Poland announced a veto of the government bill that was meant to regulate protection and support for families fleeing the war. This decision, and the language that accompanied it – promises to make aid for children conditional on their parent’s employment, prolonging the path to citizenship, reigniting historical disputes – is not a matter of mood, but of cold political calculation.

It strikes at Ukrainian refugee women, at their children, at the elderly and the sick; it also strikes at our schools, doctors, and local governments. Instead of certainty, it brings fear; instead of calm, it threatens family separations, secondary migration, and the erosion of trust in the Polish state.

Imagine that you are the ones at war defending your homeland – and a neighboring country treats your wives, mothers, and daughters as hostages of politics.

After the President’s decision, thousands of homes across Poland were filled with shock, bitterness, and a sense of betrayal. Mothers who fled with children and sick parents from cities and villages turned to rubble now ask themselves: where are we supposed to flee next? Women who chose Poland out of love and trust now feel that this love has not been reciprocated.

A child is not a lifeless entry in a statute, and the aid granted to that child cannot be used as leverage against their mother. Solidarity is not seasonal, it is not a trend. If it is true in March, it must also be true in August. Memory is not a cudgel. A state that, instead of healing the wounds of history, reaches for easy symbols does not build community. A state cannot be a street theater. A serious state chooses responsibility, not political spectacle: procedures, clear communication, protection of the most vulnerable.

We, Polish women – mothers, wives, daughters, sisters, and grandmothers – say it plainly: no one has the right to impose conditions, in our name, on women fleeing war. We will not accept the pain and suffering of people in need of our support being turned into fuel for political disputes. We will not allow the destruction of the trust on which community stands. This is a matter of national interest and of our common conscience. It is bridges – not walls – that turn neighbors into allies, and it is predictable and just law, together with the language of respect, that strengthens Poland’s security more than populist shouting from the podium.

Europe – and therefore we as well – has committed to continuity of protection for civilians fleeing aggression. It is our duty to keep that word. This means one thing: to confirm publicly, clearly, and without ambiguity that the families who trusted Poland will not wake up tomorrow in a legal vacuum; that no child will be punished because their parent does not have employment; that the language of power will not divide people into “ours” and “others.” For a child and their single mother, the law must be a shield, not a tool of coercion into loyalty and obedience. Politics must be service, not spectacle.

We call on you, who make the law and represent the Republic, to restore certainty of protection and to reject words that stigmatize instead of protect. Let the law serve people, not political games. Let Poland remain a home where a mother does not have to ask: “Where to now?” – because the answer will always be: “Stay in a country that keeps its word.”

This is not a dispute over legal technicalities. It is a question of the face of the Republic. Will it be a state of the word that is kept – or a state of words thrown to the wind? Will we stand on the side of mothers and children – or on the side of fear?

Signed:
Polish women – mothers, wives, daughters, sisters, grandmothers.

As of today, the letter has been endorsed by over two thousand women from across Poland — among them three former First Ladies of the Republic of Poland, Nobel Prize laureate Olga Tokarczuk, and internationally acclaimed filmmaker Agnieszka Holland. Their voices stand alongside those of hundreds of other women — mothers, daughters, sisters, grandmothers — who have chosen to sign as a gesture of solidarity and moral responsibility.

The full list of signatories is available at the link below:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/135yP6XadgyRJmECLyIaxQTHcOyjOVy9Y4mgFP9klzIM/edit?tab=t.0

20
хв

Letter of protest of Polish women to the Prime Minister, the Sejm, the Senate and the President of the Republic of Poland

Sestry

You may be interested in ...

Ексклюзив
20
хв

Knowledge is our first shelter

Ексклюзив
20
хв

«Trump is ready to give Russia everything it wants». Keir Giles on the risks of the new American policy towards Moscow

Ексклюзив
20
хв

Farewell to the Protectress

Contact the editors

We are here to listen and collaborate with our community. Contact our editors if you have any questions, suggestions, or interesting ideas for articles.

Write to us
Article in progress