One year since the war began

It wasn’t until a month before Feb. 24, 2023, the date marking one year of the war, that I truly registered the ongoing reality of the crisis in my birth country. Every day, the people of Ukraine exist in a state of unimaginable horror. They exist, carrying on with their work and studies, taking care of their loved ones, and praying for a tomorrow they don’t know will come. They exist, until they do not.

I’m ashamed to admit that the weight of this reality is something I have tried to ignore. The day Russian troops invaded Ukrainian land, which marked the official start of the current conflict, sparked emotions in me that I couldn’t even begin to understand how to reconcile. While both the war and my sentiments toward it were very real, the two were also simultaneously intangible. I could not find the words to describe the turmoil within me, and I remained very separated from the people I was supposed to call my own and all that they were going through in those frightening moments. The past few years of my life have disconnected me, miles of land and sea keeping me apart from the place I know my mum still calls home. I didn’t know how I was meant to act then, when my peers and teachers at school suddenly became acutely aware of my Ukrainian heritage, prompting a few well-meaning souls to reach out in solidarity with no previously established strong rapport between us to merit this. I was confused, and I was scared. I am still guilty.

My identity as a Ukrainian immigrant in the United States has constantly left me in an odd sort of limbo. I always knew I wasn’t American. That much was made clear to me when my citizenship status denied me time and time again the same rights afforded to many of my peers. Even now that my parents and I have finally received the highly-sought honor immigrants know to be a green card (after nearly fifteen years of living here), it is strange to imagine myself as truly part of this country. My only real limitation now is that I cannot vote, and that I feel removed from that particular brand of patriotism that seems common to all true Americans, whether they support the present state of their country or not. Nonetheless, I feel as though I would be lying – to myself and to the rest of the world – if I were to label myself as an “authentic Ukrainian.”

While this is the nationality that is officially listed on my foreign passport, and although I take great delight in explaining how to properly make the traditional vinaigrette salad ridden with ruby-red beets to anyone who bothers listening, these things do not feel like enough of an identity qualification. In truth, the beet salad and other classic Ukrainian dishes are reserved for special occasions with my family, replaced by the more convenient and cheaper rice and beans my mum often cooks for dinner. I do not know the history of the country I was born in as well as I should, having spent the latter years of my high school years instead studying matters such as slavery and LGBTQ+ rights. Although these are certainly topics worth dedicating one’s attention to, they are not an excuse for not knowing my own story — for not even speaking the language intended to be mine, as the lingering Soviet influence meant my first word was spoken in Russian. I am guilty of this, and I am guilty of being paralyzed by the anxiety of how I’m being perceived by others.

This is a guilt which followed me to Princeton – a guilt that had me eagerly sign up to be a part of 02.24.2022, a student organization on campus which aims to educate the Princeton community about the ongoing war in Ukraine. Suddenly, I found myself following The New York Times and other news sources with much greater care than I had before. Last February, reading the news was too overwhelming, and I had made the conscious decision not to think about the bombings that were occurring in the towns my relatives still live in. Joining 02.24.2022 was meant to be a way for me to do something – anything. The weekly newsletter I sent out to the hundred or so club subscribers was my way of asking people to simply look. Not at me, but at a country filled with thousands of people who are forged of the same steel that I am. The truth is this: those same thousands could have been me, just as I could have been them. The series of circumstances that led me to where I am today remain peculiar and somewhat mysterious, contributing to the sense of inexplicable guilt that leaves me feeling as if I had run away even when the flight across the Atlantic was by no means my own choice. How did one girl from Enerhodar — a small town founded in 1970, home to both Europe’s biggest nuclear power plant and the tiny apartment on Komsomolskaya Street where I spent the first four years of my life — make it to Princeton University? Why is she there? And what is she going to do now?

What am I going to do?

The one-year anniversary of war in Ukraine is a difficult event to wrestle with. The word itself — anniversary — seems wrong, as if there is something to be celebrated. The battles of one year ago persist today, at this very moment. There is so much that remains to be done, and a global collaboration is imperative to effectuating an end to this conflict. In that same moment though, the people of Ukraine exist in a state of remarkable perseverance. They exist, carrying on with their work and studies, taking care of their loved ones, and praying for a tomorrow they don’t know will come. They exist, and that is precisely what one year of the war should celebrate — life in the dark and in the midst of death. It is life that flows, in part, within me too. It is, at its core, a story which I can tell in spite of the guilt: a story I can try to tell even though I may never find the words for it.

Sofiia Shapovalova is a staff writer for The Prospect and a copy editor at the 'Prince." She can be reached at ss4908@princeton.edu.

Self essays at The Prospect give our writers and guest contributors the opportunity to share their perspectives. This essay reflects the views and lived experiences of the author. If you would like to submit a Self essay, see instructions here.