May 6, 2022 #Antytvir: Viktoriya Deyko, Diana Rozumova

Flash essays from the collection “Wars. Ukrainians. Humanity” tell about the insights, experiences, and beliefs of Ukrainians, that ignited their society in 2022, when the full-scale russian invasion of Ukraine began.

The Cultural Hub community and curators carefully collected, translated, and illustrated these texts to capture the values ​​of Ukrainians — Freedoms, Bravery, Dignity, Responsibility, and Humour.

A series of publications in partnership with Chytomo introduces this collection to the English-speaking audience. Volume 15 continues to present the series. You can get acquainted with the previous collection here.

These essays were written in 2022 for Antytvir, a writing contest for teens. It is an educational project by Mystetskyi Arsenal at the International Book Arsenal Festival. Its goal is to promote creative writing among high school students and create a platform for expressing yourself in a non-standard way. The organizers designed this project in 2020 and 2022 to support Ukrainian youth in highly stressful situations by allowing them to write and make their voices heard. Cultural Hub translated into English, illustrated, and added these texts to the “Wars. Ukrainians. Humanity” programme as a special series of wartime writings.

Viktoriya Deyko, 16 years old
Fresh wounds on the white canvas

It was so hard to lose everything at once that my heart broke apart with pain. The sounds of explosions were coming from every direction, and I could not pull my thoughts together. My town seemed so fragile and vulnerable that I wished I could protect it from the pain the enemy inflicted on it. I felt I owed it to my hometown since its streets had always helped me sort through all pros and cons when I’d had too much on my mind. However, I had no idea what I could do and how I could protect the streets, so dear to my heart, from the occupiers’ hands steeped in blood. I could only protect myself and my loved ones. 

The reality. It thumped onto my head like a heavy rock. I felt like hiding in a safe place not to see the reality outside the window. I was flooded with phone calls from worried relatives. But it still felt easier to breathe at home than in some foreign land, even though explosions were blasting outside. I was frightened and had no clue what was going on. The war arrived in my country without warning. I felt like someone had suddenly poured a bucket of cold water on me, and I had nothing to dry my body with. It was trembling with cold but I could not help it.

Packing things into a grab-and-go bag, I thought about what was happening around me. Perhaps I was supposed to flee the town for the sake of my loved ones and to preserve my own life—but it was the last thing I wanted at the moment. Two ‘selves’ were sitting on my shoulders: one nagged me to pack things and flee, and the other one to stay home.

I had to stay. If I left my town, I would abandon my heart, too, and would never again find another place where I’d feel at home. I walked the streets of my hometown when I was a small girl; when I marched to school with a backpack bigger than me; when I went dancing in a beautiful dress and a clutch tucked under my arm; when I took my younger brother to school on his first day. These streets brought me up and remembered me ever since I was a little girl.

How could I abandon my town if it had never abandoned me even in the hardest moments?

Things were packed. Our family was ready in case we had to go down to the bomb shelter. Getting up from the floor, I saw a mirror on the table. I saw Someone looking at me from the mirror — and it took me a while to recognize that person.

“Hello,” I said quietly.

“Hello,” Someone responded at once.

“Who are you?” I asked the mirror.

“Who are you?” Someone said in unison.

I touched my cheek, and Someone from the mirror did the same. I touched my hair, pulled into a messy ponytail, and the reflection touched its hair, too. Tears burst from my eyes, dropping onto my nightgown, and the reflection started to cry along with me. Then I realized that the person in the mirror was me.

“It’s me,” I said through tears.

“It’s me,” the girl on the other side of the mirror repeated.

Inner pain was ripping me apart. Tears were streaming down, and I could not stop them. The emotions bottled up inside me were gushing out. You could run away from a situation, but you could not escape your own self: sooner or later, you would face your reflection in the mirror and see someone who would not look any bit like your past self. I turned away—I did not want to look at that monster for another second. Her lips were pressed tight into a thin line instead of a sincere smile; her eyes, which used to be gorgeously blue and bottomless, were now gray and dull; and her smooth skin was covered with wrinkles you wouldn’t find on a teenager’s face.

“Air raid alarm! We must go down to the shelter!” my mum yelled, bursting into my room.

“Coming!” I yelled back, sniffing.

Wiping away tears and throwing a heavy backpack on my shoulders, I got ready to go. My brain felt paralyzed, but I knew I had to be strong to support mum and my brother, who were even more frightened than me.

One step. Another one. I walked as if stepping over my fear, pain, and hatred, trying to persuade myself that I would survive any trials and tribulations. No one would be able to take away my life and the lives of my loved ones and friends.

The basement only whipped up my dark mood, while dampness and cold did not provide any sense of safety, so I could not wait to get back to the apartment. Back home, with a cup of tea in my hands, I felt like in a fortress no one would ever destroy. My home is my fortress, they said, but that saying acquired a completely different meaning. I wish I had understood it earlier. My favorite blanket, my warm bed, and my family made me the happiest person in the world — but I did not realize it. 

“When will dad come back?” my brother asked.

“I don’t know, sweetie,” mum said.

I heard them talking in the kitchen late at night. Dad told mum he was drafted and was supposed to go to the military recruitment office and then to the front line. She cried in his lap and begged him to return home safe and sound, and dad said, ‘Sure, honey. I’ll come back a better person.” His words got carved into my memory and echoed in my mind again and again. I was impressed at how calmly dad behaved in that tragic situation. He was a tower of strength to my mum. She knew that he might not come back alive, but his words that night worked better than a sedative. When we were saying goodbye to dad, he bent over and said he was going to war to defend me, my future, and my yet-unborn children. I burst into tears, to which he said that giving up one’s life for the motherland mattered much more than dying without achieving anything. He also asked me not to miss him too much.

“You are my hero even if others see you just like an ordinary man,” I told him in the last minutes of our farewell.

“You are most precious to me. Anything else does not matter,” dad said, smiling. “Don’t be sad, sweetheart. We will celebrate the victory together.” 

I will never forget his words. They were full of pain but, at the same time, warmed my soul, screamed about the tragedy, and whispered about how important it was to do good when there was so much evil around us. I wrote dad’s words down on the photo we’d taken just before he left. Reading those words now, I travel back to the moment dad was holding me in his arms and telling me how important it was to be strong and hold up like an adult.

Thinking about dad’s words and our last moment together, I realized I had no space for fear and tears. Dad was fighting for me, my mum and my brother, and the whole Ukrainian nation, while I had to do my best to keep us all alive, as that was what my dad wanted the most. I had no right to let him down. For the first time in my life, I understood that I had grown up, and there was no place for childish wants and don’t wants.

I could not wrap my head around the fact that I’d grown up in one moment. I was thinking, how come other children still had an opportunity to be themselves and grow up when the right time came, and I had to grow up suddenly, without warning. I had not had a chance to know my first love, find loyal friends, or experience student life, but I already knew what it felt like to worry for my loved ones, how an air raid siren wailed, and what a grab-and-go bag was supposed to contain. I did not know when I would be able to return to normal life—and if I’d return to it at all.

Having come back home after a night spent in the basement, I was sitting across the table from mum, drinking a soothing tea. I had always seen so much in her eyes, but now only terror and pain were there. I could not see anything else. She was staring at the wall as if I was not there at all, sipping tea from a mug dad gave her. The mug had always just stood there as a decoration, and she only rarely used it, so I realized that she must have been missing dad very much.

“Would you like to talk about anything?” I asked, daring to break the tense silence.

“What is there to talk about? Don’t you understand what’s going on?”

I no longer recognized mum. An unfamiliar woman was sitting across from me. She was angry all the time and yelled at my brother and me. We knew that everyone was having a hard time and had to give vent to emotions that did not let us live, so we treated her behavior with understanding and did not snap back.

“It’s hard to deal with all that on your own. Can I help you with anything?” I asked. 

“I sent my husband to war,” mum snapped. “How can you help me with that?”

“And I saw my dad off to war. Do you think I don’t care?”

“You still have a future, you know. I don’t,” mum said. Her voice softened.

“What do you mean?”

“I think I should also go to war,” she said, bringing the cup to her lips. Her gesture meant that our conversation was over.

I could not believe what mum just said and blamed her nerves and sleepless nights. We did not talk about it anymore, although, with each passing day, it became harder and harder for me to see anything in that woman that would resemble my mum. She would yell, nap whenever she had a free minute, avoid contact with me, and talk to me curtly and businesslike. I found it hard to live in an atmosphere like that. I also took over most of the household chores to help mum, at least for a bit.

“Why are you acting like this? Can’t you share your thoughts with me? You’d feel better,” I said, trying to support her.

“Act like what?” mum asked, throwing a surprised look at me.

“I don’t know. You changed a lot since dad went away.” 

“How can I act if my husband is fighting in the war and has not responded to my calls and messages for a few days now?” mum asked, screaming.

“But it’s not the reason to bury yourself alive. You still have us. So, live for us, at least. You must be healthy and strong. Your nerves would not bring dad home. I am sure he’d want us to hold up and not worry about him too much.”

“Perhaps you are right.”

This brief dialogue changed her attitude toward us. Mum growled at us less. She started to talk more about all kinds of things and thanked me for helping her with the household. Finally, she accepted the situation as it was. It looked like everything had fallen into place, and life moved on: mum started to smile again, cook tasty food as she’d always used to, and read to my brother before bed. My heart fluttered as I watched her slowly return to how she’d been when we’d heard the melodious singing of birds outside instead of blasts.

Meanwhile, I found it hard to return to pre-war life. I supported mum so she wouldn’t give up and spent time with my brother so he wouldn’t miss dad and take the situation too close to his heart. But I could barely control my nerves, and at night, when no one could see me, I cried and begged God to stop the atrocities. Before the war, religion was a controversial issue for me: I did not believe in higher powers and could not understand why people would address something or someone they could not see. But now I was so exhausted and disoriented that I was ready to appeal to higher powers and believe anything as long as it helped me and my loved ones to stay alive.

One day, when we were sheltering, an explosion banged not far from us. It was the first time I heard such a powerful blast. I only hoped that nothing would be destroyed and no one would be killed. I could not hear anything for a while — the explosion must have deafened me — but I ignored it. I immediately turned to my brother and mum.

My brother was weeping, clinging to mum’s neck. His shirt was wet from tears. I grabbed napkins and started to wipe wet streams off his face. It made him laugh, and he calmed down for some time. However, I could not catch mum’s gaze. She was staring into the distance without responding to my words. I waved my hands in front of her eyes, but she just kept staring into an imaginary point.

“Mum! Mum!” I shouted, trying to make myself heard. “Mum, look at me!”

“Why are you yelling?” she snapped, finally turning to me. 

I felt relief when she finally responded, but I could see that she was somewhere far away in her thoughts. Mum was hugging my brother tightly, and she hugged me, too. I had never felt so anxious and, at the same time, so calm. I felt the warmth I’d missed so much in those tough days.

We went outside after the air raid alarm was lifted. What I saw there left me speechless. I had no home anymore — it turned into a heap of rubble. I had no time to collect my thoughts. Mum was stunned, so I had to take on the role of the oldest one in our family. I quickly grabbed our bags from the basement. The only way out of that situation was to flee as far away as possible — and as fast as possible. It was hard to leave what I’d promised never to abandon, but I had to do it for my brother and mum, who would not be able to function under those circumstances.

There was nothing to take from home, so we found ourselves standing in the middle of the street with just a few bags. The air raid siren started to blare again, and I heard the sounds of explosions but going back to the shelter was not an option. I walked to the railway station arm in arm with my mum and brother, who had not yet recovered from what they’d experienced. 

“It would be easier that way,” I kept saying to myself on the way. “I am responsible for the three of us.”

“What are you murmuring all the time?” mum asked.

“Just trying to calm myself down.”

“Thank you, love. I can see how hard it is for you, but we won’t handle it without you.” Her mood suddenly changed, and she supported me.

I did not expect to hear those words from her, but I really needed that. I did not want to feel like an adult, responsible for my loved ones, but I had to hold up. More than anything else, I wished to return to the days when I’d had no idea about the terrible things the war would bring — things we would have to survive. Back then, I’d been walking the streets of my hometown with my friends, smiling at the sun so sincerely, and it would smile back at me. Now my smile lost its sincerity — it was a mask I’d put on to hide my feelings. 

With explosions banging behind our backs, we waited for the arrival of a train that would take us thousands of kilometers away. Nothing would be the same. It used to be a happy story, with happy moments, sincere smiles, and jokes — and it had such a tragic ending. I could never imagine that it might end like that. I used to fret whenever some of my friends would not invite me to a party or go for a walk with me, but I realized that it was nothing compared to what I had experienced over the past few days. 

Devastation. Now I know what it feels like to ‘grow up’: this excruciating process destroys you on the inside and proves that you will never be your previous self. I understand that tomorrow might not come and that I must live here and now — making thoughtful decisions and not letting emotions overwhelm me. 

The train is taking is to a quiet place where I will hear happy voices outside, not wounded children screaming and their mothers crying. I will no longer see destroyed buildings and streets. I do not know whether I will be able to find myself in those buildings or if my voice will be heard among those other voices, but I know for a fact that it will be better that way for my brother and mum — they will be able to start their lives anew. We have only documents and a few things with us, but then, do we really need all those things if they can vanish in a moment?

Chug-chug, the wheels are thumping along the tracks. The train takes us further and further away from our hometown. Mum shows the landscapes outside the window to my brother. I must switch attention to something else and stop fretting. A text message flashes on my smartphone screen: “I’m alive.” Dad. I press the telephone to my chest. It is just the beginning. It’s always hard at the start, but I’ll get used to it. I’ll make it. Dad is here with us. Even though he is far away physically, he is with us in his thoughts, on this train on its way toward a safer place. He is doing the same. He is defending his loved ones. Everyone is defending the country on their own front. 

Diana Rozumova, 15 years old
How could we know the value of peace if there were no wars? 

Tears are dripping from my tired eyes one by one onto cold, wet concrete. I’m in a bomb shelter in occupied Mariupol. I have been on the verge of life and death for two months. I feel nothing and want to leave this terrible place that became my second home. I want to eat, sleep, take a shower, breathe clean air, and see my relatives. But all that is in my field of vision are frightened people. 

Someone is holding a little girl with blood on her arm. She’s pressing a small stuffed stork to her chest. Her firm grip doesn’t give the toy a chance to fall. That someone is her mom. She is crying in the cold, dirty shelter with a three-year-old daughter in her arms. The girl is screaming, ‘Daddy! Daddy, where are you?’ I’m hurting inside because the occupiers had led her father away. A speck of blood on her arm is the cost of their lives. They will never see him again. 

A hunched old woman is crying, sitting on the cold floor. A few days ago, she received a call that her grandson had been killed. She brought up a hero, and he gave up his life for her. No one can stop her from crying. However, no one makes sense of it, and everyone shares her pain. 

A man and a woman are keeping stronger than anyone. Their son is defending Ukraine. He calls them at 8 pm every day. So, every day they look forward to only one thing — when the evening finally arrives. He doesn’t show any emotions — he is strong and sure of Ukrainian victory. He is their only son, their only hope. Despite his confidence, everyone in the bomb shelter understands that this day can be the last. 

There is also a pregnant woman. She was in treatment for a long time to have this baby. The moment of happiness — when she saw two test lines — was unforgettable. Her husband has done everything for her and their baby’s health during her pregnancy. Although the first six months were quite calm, they are no longer certain about tomorrow. 

Another young couple is also confused. She gave birth to a baby five days ago. The next day, the maternity hospital where she’d been was bombed.

The tiny newborn is crying endlessly. His mother is doing her best to calm him down because she understands the situation around her. However, the newborn does not. 

There is also an old couple. It is happening for the second time in their lives. The fascists arrived again to destroy everything. The old man and woman are living in fear: they were born during the war and might die during it, too. 

All these people are my neighbors. We have lived next to each other for more than 10 years. But only here and now have we gotten to know each other closer. Now I know that all of them are brave, attentive, and respectful. I wish I had known this before. 

But… Why should we find ourselves in these conditions? Were we waiting for another world? Do we really need the russian world? 

My life before the 24th of February was so fantastic; however, I didn’t realize it. All this time, I have been keeping a diary: 

——– January 1, 2022——– 

It is the worst day of my life. My mom didn’t allow me to go out for the whole night!!! Imagine that! My friends won’t call me again! I look like a little girl with a super protective mother!

——–January 15, 2022——– 

My teacher gave me a bad grade! I was studying hard for the whole week, and she didn’t give me the best mark!!!!! I’m not going to study her subject ever again! 

——–January 27, 2022——– 

My father did not buy me the jeans I wanted! He always chooses only what he likes! 

——–February 3, 2022——– 

I went to a pizza place with my friends! It was cool, but the iced tea was not my favorite! I left a nasty review! 

——–February 15, 2022——–

I had a hard week and want to relax a bit. However, my favorite shower gel with glitter has finished! As if it were not enough, my sister took my face patch. I didn’t allow her!!!! Why does she never think about me? 

I was shocked when I re-read my notes in the bomb shelter. It was so difficult to believe that things like that made any sense to me! The most hurting are the notes about the war. 

——–February 24, 2022——– 

I’ve been hearing some terrible noises throughout the night! Mom said it was just an explosion and everything would be fine in the morning. My friends texted me to pack my things and be ready to leave the flat. I can’t sleep and think only about the morning. When I checked my phone, I saw my teacher’s message, ‘Classes are canceled for today. More news soon.” After that, I was sure it was not just for that one day.

I always start crying when I read about that day. I will never forget what happened next. 

A few days were loud, but at least we had electricity. A few of my classmates did not. The worst part of this story started on March 2. We had no gas, no water, and no electricity. The bombing was horrible, so my family decided to leave our flat on the twelfth floor and go down to the shelter. My dad decided to join the Ukrainian troops. Many people, including those I mentioned at the start, were already in the basement. In the first few days, I tried to reassure people and inspire hope for the best. I played with kids whose parents were crying and talked with older people. 

Early on, it was bearable, as we had some food and water supplies. But then, around March 15, all supplies ran out. Men decided to put together a makeshift stove to cook food. They found a slice of canned meat. It was a snowy day, and they thawed snow to get water. They planned to make tea for everyone in a bomb shelter because it was cold down there. But the occupiers didn’t stop their fictional ‘rescue operation’ while they were making a stove. The men weren’t coming back for a long time, so a few people decided to check on them. It turned out that a bomb had fallen near our house. All the men were dead, parts of their bodies scattered around the stove. The kettle was left to boil. 

The next episode I remember happened three days later. We were sitting, as always, in the bomb shelter when the russian soldiers came in. At first, they checked all our phones — or, rather, those that were charged. They killed everyone who had any Ukrainian things on their phones. My friend, a few women, and several men were killed in front of my eyes. Other men were drafted into the occupiers’ troops. Why must innocent people go fight others? 

One day my sister felt so sick that she and my mom decided to go home to get some medicine. They went out of the bomb shelter at around 1:45 pm. I waited for them for thirty minutes. I tried to think about many possible reasons they hadn’t returned yet, but only one came back to me again and again. They died. As it turned out later, I was right. At 6 pm, I decided to go out to look for them. Our flat was bombed. Nothing was left. My mother and sister were most probably there at the time it happened. 

Those dark days were the worst days of my whole life. But I tried as well to find pretty sides of it. 

One day, an older man and woman dared to go outside because it was quiet. It was their golden wedding anniversary, and they were happy, despite the war. The man was smiling and complimenting his wife all morning. A  projectile landed right on the bench where they were sitting. When we tried to carry away the bodies, we saw they were still holding hands. People lived together for fifty years and died together. It was a ray of sunshine in a storm. Real love lives on despite circumstances. 

Another day, a missile hit the far side of our shelter. When it was safe again, we checked it and saw that a pregnant woman and her husband had been killed. Before their death, he was probably listening to his future baby’s heartbeat.

Yet another time, a brother and a sister wanted to make food, so they went outside. Unfortunately, that was when street fighting began. They’ve been trying to run away but were shot together at the same time. 

Once when a mother was playing with her son, a part of the basement ceiling collapsed after a rocket hit it. She was still alive, but her neck was all bloody. Her baby was hugging her while people were trying to help her.

There were also many volunteers helping to evacuate people every single day. Many people started volunteering in the midst of the war, and that’s amazing — risking their lives for others. They helped with food, medicines, and transport. It shows how strong and dignified our nation is.

Many doctors kept working under these conditions. They worked tirelessly in shelter hospitals, stitching wounds and giving medications. Everyone did everything they could. 

Around these people, I always thought about my grandmother who lived in another part of the city. One day, when it was quiet, I decided to check on her. I would have never gone there if I’d known that this day could have been the last for me. 

I was walking through the streets, thinking about how pretty my city used to be. So, I didn’t even notice a russian occupier in front of me. He was moving fast, and I didn’t have a chance to turn anywhere or hide. I decided not to show my panic and behave as usual. 

“Hey, pretty,” the occupier called out to me. 

“Good morning,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

“How did you live with these fucking fascists all your life? Won’t you even thank me now? Come on. Say it!” 

I tried to answer him as calmly as I could: 

“My life in Ukraine was much better before you came and ruined everything.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean exactly what I said. One day in Ukraine for me is a thousand times better than all life in russia. We don’t need your fake liberation. My friends are getting killed, my family died, my home is ruined, and my city is bombed! What should I thank you for? You destroyed my life!”

Having said that, I wanted to run away as fast as I could, but he didn’t allow me to. He stepped closer and started tearing my clothes. I couldn’t do anything because he was much stronger. I thought it was over, but my life gave me a chance. Right at that moment, a projectile flew in and hit the occupier. I had a few minutes to run away. I did it as fast as I thought I could. Those minutes were a matter of life and death. I was running in a torn jacket, in torn pants, but I was fighting for my life. It was the first and I hope the last time in my life when I was thankful to the projectile. The Ukrainian army saved my life. 

I was running to my grandmother. The moment I saw her was unforgettable. I hugged her and asked how she had been going through it all. I was thrilled to see, hear, and touch my grandmother. At that moment, I understood that life did not cost a hryvnia if you were alone. The curfew was approaching, though, and I needed to go back to the bomb shelter. 

A few days later, tears were dripping from my tired eyes one by one onto cold, wet concrete. I was in the ruined bomb shelter in occupied Mariupol. A rocket flew through the floor and killed everyone in the basement. Except me. I was sitting alone among the corpses and didn’t know what to do. The fact was that I had no home, no family, nothing. I was living under occupation and didn’t lose my life, but it lost its meaning. My life was empty. I had nothing. 

A week later, I received a message saying I needed to go to school. It said that I would need to stay for a second year if I didn’t go. I didn’t have any choice, so I went. It was so hard to see so many unfamiliar faces. I saw many teenagers the same age as me, but something was wrong. The eyes of my new classmates were empty. I assumed that everyone had their own terrible story. They looked older than they should. Everything seemed as usual, but it was not like that at all. 

One girl behind the first desk was scrolling her phone endlessly. Her hands were shaking, and her eyes looked tired. She was re-reading her dad’s last message. He died during the war. She loved him, and they spent every weekend together. But she would never hear his voice again.

One boy was sitting with a gold medal in his hands. It belonged to his younger sister, a national champion in artistic gymnastics. His sister was killed by a rocket. The future of Ukraine died at the hands of the russian occupiers. 

A sad girl was sitting behind the last desk. She could not stop crying. She wept quietly, her tears dripping on the floor. All her family died in the bombing, and she was living with her neighbors now. 

There was also a boy without an arm. He was injured while trying to protect his brother from a projectile. His brother was dead, but the love between them would live forever. 

Those days gave me nothing except pain for what everyone had gone through. 

I was going home one day, and a car pulled up next to me. My dad got out of it in a military uniform, holding a bunch of blue violets. I was lost for words, feeling happy for the first time since the 24th of February. Blue violets were a symbol of our family; he gave them to my mom, my sister, and me for every holiday. We didn’t say anything, but we didn’t need to. His eyes were full of pain and pride. It looked like the whole Ukraine was in them. Ukraine won. Ukraine survived. Our Ukraine is free and will be free forever. Ukraine will live as long as the spirit of its nation lives. 

I have never thought that someday I would become a prisoner of horrible events that would not let me see my dad. But the war taught me that nothing can last forever. The moment you didn’t appreciate might never happen again. 

My dad and I bought a new flat and started a new chapter of our life. It is empty and painful without our loved ones. However, we need to live and remember that they are always with us. They are the angels that will never leave us. 

I’m sitting on a cold bench in the rain. I’m waiting for my therapist, and I want to ask only one question: “What’s the price of freedom and human life?” Did we need fake liberation? Did our loved ones have to pay with their own lives so we could live free in our country? How to rebuild our beautiful cities after the occupiers ruined them? We will never forgive and forget millions of broken souls, towns, and destinies. Is this a world we need? We lived safely and will always live that way in an independent, sovereign, and blooming country! Glory to Ukraine! Glory to heroes! 

Kim Stafford 

THE HARD PART 

It’s easy to lie, at first. 

People want to believe you. 

And betrayal — a cinch. 

You control the first move. 

Killing is so easy, it’s absurd. 

People didn’t see it coming. 

Even war, if you’re the one 

to start it goes well for a while. 

Sure, people hate you, fear you, 

looking down as they surrender. 

Once you win, for a thin moment 

you enjoy the ornate word: Victory. 

It glitters in your hands like dirty gold. 

Dedicated to all those who survived the war.

The editorial “rule of small letters” or the “rule of disrespect for criminals” applies to all the words related to evil, like names and surnames of terrorists, war criminals, rapists, murderers, and torturers. They do not deserve being capitalized but shall be written in italics to stay in the focus of the readers’ attention. 

The programme “Wars. Ukrainians. Humanity” has been created by joint effort and with the financial support of the institution’s members of the Cultural Business Education Hub, the European Cultural Foundation, and BBK — the Regensburg Art and Culture Support Group from the Professional Association of Artists of Lower Bavaria/Upper Palatinate.

Authors: Viktoriya Deyko, 16 years old, Diana Rozumova, 15 years old

Translator (from Ukrainian): Hanna Leliv

Illustrators: Nastya Gaydaenko and plasticine panel by Olha Protasova

Copyeditors: Yuliia Moroz, Terra Friedman King

Proofreader: Tetiana Vorobtsova, Terra Friedman King

Content Editors: Maryna Korchaka, Natalia Babalyk

Program Directors: Julia Ovcharenko and Demyan Om Dyakiv-Slavitski