Ukraine is a land which history has torn apart. For centuries it was caught in literal tug-of-wars between its surrounding neighbors. In fact, common tradition holds that the source of the name “Ukraine” comes from the Russian word for “borderland,” as it has always been on the outskirts of one nation or another. Its people have been worn down by centuries of being conquered, and they now struggle for identity—identity which has only begun to reappear in the past 20 years of independence. For years their faith and confidence were slapped by the stern hand of communism and almost beat into extinction by famine. Yet they are resilient, though at times they may seem lost.
In 1991 the sickle and hammer of the soviet flag gave way to
the blue and yellow of the Ukrainian landscape: blue for the grand sky above
and yellow for the vast fields of grain and sunflowers below. When my plane
landed in Donetsk in November 2006, however, a grey cloud engulfed the entire
city with a drab, monochrome existence. The concrete soviet buildings, the
leafless trees and the barren ground all melted into the bleakness. The country
felt bare and depressed.
Any news about Ukraine that makes it to America usually shows
the unsuccessful attempts of the country to be taken seriously as it tries to
establish its own identity. The former prime minister has become a political
prisoner in her own country while the former president’s face bears the scars
of an attempted poisoning by his opposing party. Numerous Youtube videos show
fistfights breaking out on the floor of the Ukrainian parliament, complete with
elected officials throwing eggs at their rivals. (This is ironic in that
Ukraine is famous for its beautifully painted and decorated Easter eggs). On
top of that, as preparation to host the European soccer championships, Ukraine
had to pass a law at long last outlawing bars from force feeding alcohol to
captured bears, a tradition passed down from generation to generation of vodka
loving Ukrainians. No wonder Ukraine has long lived in the American mind as only
a joke from an episode of Seinfeld.
But as our Ukrainian friend on Seinfeld tells us, “The
Ukraine is not weak,” and neither are its people. Survival is an instinct for a
nation which has persevered through such a tumultuous history, and the
individual faces of its people tell that story. Walking out of my apartment on
a bitter morning in early spring I passed a man peering into the large
dumpsters in between apartment buildings. His wrinkled hands, swollen from
years of exposure to the harsh winters, sorted through the discarded trash as
his black eyes searched for something of sustenance. His hands emerged from the
black plastic bag holding the skeletal remains of a dried fish. Setting the
trash bag aside, he began to pick away at the bones, pulling off what little
meat he could. He was dressed as most elderly Ukrainian men are: old slacks and
a dirty sports jacket over a stained white tank-top. His dark shoes had somehow
avoided the muddy grime of the melting snow which puddled across the city
streets, their cleanliness attempting to reclaim some remnant of his dignity.
I walked towards him, pulling a five hrivna bill from my
pocket.
“For grandpa?” he asked, his Russian slurred in the cold air.
“Buy yourself some bread.” I held the money out towards him.
He hesitated a moment before reaching for my hand. The creases in his face
easily broke into a gold-toothed smile as our hands met.
“Thank you and God bless you with happiness and luck.”
“Thank you” I said and I turned back to the street.
As I walked away, his words echoed in my mind. “Happiness
and luck.” Where did those words fit into this man’s life, his past, or his
future? His relentless image was pressed into my memory.
But he is not the first thing to come to my mind when I
think about Ukraine. Neither is it the country’s painful past, the bleak
winters or the devastating poverty that is so prevalent. I remember one day of
perfection—perfection in the sense of witnessing potential fulfilled.
When I think of Ukraine, I remember filling a daypack with
watermelon, fresh fruit and the rich, hearty black bread Ukrainians favor to
our fluffy wonderbread. I remember climbing aboard a bus and driving far past
the edge of a village and out to the end of the bus line. There I stepped out
into the countryside and with a few companions, began to walk. We walked for
hours. We passed small farmhouses and summer cottages. We walked past men
fishing and boys swimming in ponds, the warm sun glistening golden on the water.
We walked past fields and forests, past sunken homes long since abandoned. We
passed over hill after rolling hill until we crested to find in the valley
below us a field of sunflowers stretching to the horizon.
We stepped between the rows of towering flowers as they
followed the sun’s westward journey. Finding a patch of ground large enough for
us to sit, we took out our food and partook of the fruits of the fertile soil
that surrounded us. Beauty was everywhere, and in that beauty was the hope of a
nation. I suddenly understood much more about these people, their land and how
they are able to keep such bright hope for their country than I had learned
living with them for a year and a half. I had driven past fields like this in
the winter only to see the dead, grey stalks of the once majestic flowers. But
spring brings resurrection of life, and with life comes beauty, and from that
beauty springs forth faith and hope.
It’s no wonder such a
scene inspired the Ukrainian flag. The people of Ukraine understand the beauty
of their country and the potential it holds. They can see that from the pain of
the past there can sprout a beautiful nation, rich with culture and confidence
resurrected from the shadows of the borderland.
