A wanton act of war

All four of my grandparents immigrated from eastern Europe to upstate New York in the early 20th century. My father’s parents were from Poland near the town of Bialystok. My mother’s parents came from Bratislava, in what is now Slovakia, on the Danube River in the Carpathian Mountains near the Austria-Hungary border. The two cities are within a day’s drive from each other. And they’re both within a day’s drive of the Ukrainian border.

As kids, we grew up reminded of our Polish and Austrian-Russian heritage. Our household vernacular was sprinkled with Polish words, our mother made kolachki and cabbage rolls, our toast of preference was “Na Zdorovie!” — pronounced “Nostrovya.”

We were proud of — if at times irked by having to constantly spell and correct the pronunciation of — our surname, which in its original version is the same as a Polish general who served in the American Revolution.

My father was the youngest of seven siblings, all named after Polish royalty.

My mother, one of 10 children, grew up in a deeply religious family that commonly spoke Russian at home. The children attended a Russian Orthodox church and school. To her last days — and Mom died at age 93 — she could still sing hymns in Russian and speak Russian. She and two of her sisters sang in Russian at our reception on our wedding day. Mom even visited Moscow and St. Petersburg with her last living sibling, a trip she often would speak about.

So, it is with both deep sadness and distant pride that I watch both the invasion and courageous defense of Ukraine.

My heart swells when I hear of the Ukrainians’ heroic resistance, both military and civilian, pushing back against the onslaught of the Russian forces.

My heart breaks as I watch more than a million refugees flee to safety in bordering Eastern European countries — Poland and Slovakia among them — and witness families torn apart, beautiful cities bombed, civilians and children murdered.

And my heart opens wide as global protests rise up in solidarity against the horror of Putin’s audacity and criminal ruthlessness.

The Ukrainians have a soaring, patriotic spirit that refuses to be crushed. Civilians have stood in front of tanks, have been willing to bear arms against a Goliath, and are willing to die for their country. As one Ukrainian drove past a stalled Russian convoy, the soldier told him they were out of fuel and the man tersely replied, “I can only tow you back to Russia.”

As the world has bore witness this past week, the Ukrainian resistance has made a profound impression on our deeply troubled, direly divisive global community.

My parents would have been shocked to see their cultural heritage so unjustly and viciously attacked — my ancestors, my heritage.

In 2013, my brother embarked on a sailing trip along Vancouver Island sound with a group of Ukrainians. His inflatable Ducky catamaran was built by a company in Kyiv, Ukraine, and some of the employees came to America for an extended expedition. One of them joined my brother on the road trip to Port Harvey and they stayed at my house both on their way out and back. The invasion of Crimea, where Alexei lived at the time, began before he returned. The Ukrainian/Polish scarf Alexei had given my brother now hangs in his window. He doesn’t know Alexei’s status, but he did learn that another couple on that same trip are separated; he stuck at their home in Germany, she trapped in Kyiv while taking care of her disabled mother.

“They have to hide under the sink in her apartment when the bombs come because her mother is unable to make it to a shelter,” my brother emails me.

I hope and pray that after having achieved independence for the last 30 years, this war will end soon and Ukraine’s freedom and peace be restored.

As Ukraine’s national anthem, adopted in 1992 after the country gained independence from the Soviet Union, says “Ukraine is not yet dead, nor its glory and freedom.”

Community editor Carol Marino may be reached at 406-758-4440 or community@dailyinterlake.com.