Calling Things by Their True Names
We produced this essay in collaboration with Ukraine WOW for “That Day,” an exhibition marking the 35th anniversary of Ukraine’s independence.
It’s hard to say what Ukraine’s future will look like in 35 years. War narrows the scope of planning to the next air raid alert. Trauma disrupts the timeline because of how difficult it is to accept what has happened. Uncertainty ceases to be a backdrop and becomes the defining factor in shaping decisions and actions. Thinking about the future under such conditions is a form of resistance, and that is why it is important to do so.
My friend works with children who have been victims of war crimes. She explained to me how it all works. A person literally gets stuck in the events that have traumatized them; their thoughts keep returning to a past they cannot leave behind. As a result, they lose the ability to imagine their future. So when the children start dreaming again, it’s an important sign of healing.
The generation that will shape our future studies in schools under the threat of Russian missiles. Some of these children have lost their homes, some their parents, some their sense of security, and some are living with a loss not yet defined. I felt it was important to find out what these children dream about. Here is the selection I put together:
“I dream of going to school. I’ve only had online classes for all these years.”
“I dream of becoming a football player and playing for the national team, so that my parents in heaven could be proud of me and say, ‘That’s our son.’”
“I dream of inventing something that saves people’s lives. I still don’t know if I need to study chemistry for that — I don’t enjoy it, so maybe using artificial intelligence could help me.”
“I dream of becoming a famous singer. I loved singing with my mom, and she always told me I was very talented.”
“I dream of becoming the head of the UN. I won’t let anyone start wars or hurt anyone.”
“I dream that my grandmother, my best friend Misha and my dog would still be alive.”
“I dream of having LEGO, a new computer, and for Russia to stop launching missiles and drones at us.”
“I dream of returning home when it becomes possible.”
Each of these dreams has its own backstory. Take Andrii, for example, who dreams of becoming a football player. He was 10 years old when the full-scale invasion began. When the Russians started bombing Ukrainian cities, his parents grabbed their documents and a few hastily packed belongings, rushing to get their child far away from Kyiv Oblast, which was being stormed by the Russian army. As they were driving, they encountered a column of Russian tanks. An armored personnel carrier rammed into their civilian car and ran over it. Andrii recalls that his dad became unconscious, but his mom was sitting next to him in the backseat and was definitely still alive. Then someone forcibly pulled the boy out of the car and threw him onto the road. The Russians shot at the gas tank of the car. Andrii told my colleague that his parents burned to death in that car right before his eyes.
One of the goals of war is to destroy all meaning. We exist in the gaps within reality. Even in Donetsk, people see the situation differently: some live under occupation, while others live in Russia. I dream that in 35 years, people in Ukraine will call things as they are.
When I was a child, I got to meet some Ukrainian dissidents through my high school. Those interactions changed my life. If we looked from the perspective of their time, we might have concluded then that they had lost. The Soviet regime seemed unshakable right up until its sudden collapse. But in my time, I had the luxury of viewing those events from a historical distance. I understood that I get to live in an independent Ukraine because those people fought for it back then.
Our generation, too, is charting a long historical course. We are rethinking the values of freedom and security, which democratic societies have come to take for granted.
First of all, for us, freedom is not a value of self-expression but, paradoxically, a value of survival. We would not have survived or emerged as a nation had we not stubbornly strived for freedom throughout all those centuries in the shadow of the Russian Empire.
Second, we do not pit freedom against security. We need freedom for security and security for freedom, because by losing one, we inevitably lose the other.
Third, for us, the state is the environment in which we live, not just a set of services. It is what preserves our identity. It’s possible to love something that isn’t perfect. Even something imperfect should be defended and cherished.
Thinking about Ukraine’s future in the midst of war is a form of resistance, and that’s why it’s important to do so. After all, there are dreams, and then there’s wishful thinking, and there’s a big difference between these two concepts. When a person is convinced that sooner or later everything will be fine, that’s nothing more than wishful thinking. Naivety is just as dangerous as prejudice. You have to work to make your dreams come true. And when you feel there’s not much to rely on, you should choose hope as a conscious cognitive strategy. It’s no coincidence that the root of the word nadiia — “hope,” is diia — “action.”
Hope is not assuming that everything will be all right. Hope is a deeply held belief that all our efforts have meaning.
And while our future is uncertain, it is not predetermined by anyone. That means one simple thing: we have the chance to shape, by way of our own efforts, the future we want for ourselves and our children.
Translated from Ukrainian by Liubov Kukharenko
