When I meet others like me I recognize the longing, the missing, the memory of ash on their faces. No one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark.  – Warsan Shire

“Aila, what do you think about this Ukraine situation?”

I’ve been asked this several times. I feel like everyone looks to me waiting for me to give them insight into a confusing political situation.

I’m used to people asking me things like this. I’ve traveled a lot. I’ve seen huge parts of the world and I’ve seen so much of the good and the bad the world has to offer. I know my perspective tends to be very unique within my communities as a result. I get the politics. I understand what they mean, and the different factors leading to why things like this happen. I have a pretty solid understanding of world history. I get it.

But I hate answering these questions. I feel like the pleading look I get from people comes with the expectation that I will make all of this make sense. I will give them some sort of understanding of why this happens, and they’ll come away with a strong argument for one side or another, and I can’t do that for them. I can’t make wars make sense, because they ultimately don’t.

Sure we could get bogged down in reasoning. We could talk about things like liberation and invasion and egos and oil and economic interests and  blah blah blah. There’s a million factors. None of them ultimately matter. At the end of the day what is happening is two states have decided to fight each other in a third state. It has happened before. It is happening now in more places than just Ukraine. It will continue to happen, as it does.

People will argue amongst themselves as to whether or not this is a “just” war. They’ll give their reasons, they’ll shout at each other over the dinner table and over Facebook. People will write opinion pieces. I probably won’t read them.

None of it matters. You know what does?

The realities of war.

The civilians who will go without food.

The people who will be caught in the cross-fire.

The waves of PTSD and trauma that will last for generations after the fighting stops.

The hunger.

The infectious disease outbreaks.

The deaths from preventable illnesses.

The fear.

The pain.

The increase in rapes and domestic violence that occurs during wartime.

The increase in suicides.

The humans, who had nothing to do with the decisions made by states, who have no choice, who want nothing more than to go about their days, mind their own business, love their families, feed their neighbors, and live their lives, who are now existing in fear? They’re the ones who matter.

Nothing else does. No justification any of us can come up with makes any of what is happening to them okay right now.

I don’t want to talk about the states. I don’t want to talk about which humanitarian aid organization we should donate to. Most of them have difficult requirements to meet anyway. I want to talk about why we keep letting things like this happen.

I want to talk about what it is like to sit in your living room, in front of your television and find out that your whole life is about to go to hell.

I want to talk about that fear, and I want you to understand that it means more than any opinion piece by a non-invested person with nothing to lose. It means more than a Facebook argument, or a dinner table argument. It means more than social justice clout.

I want to talk about generational trauma. My grandmother lived through wars. My parents lived through wars. I lived through wars. I see the ways our trauma was passed through generations. I see it in my children. I did my best to shield them from it, but it is in our DNA to be afraid and cautious now. I can’t shield them from it completely.

I wish I could tell you all the stories that keep me awake at night. I have so many memories from my days as a medic overseas that I simultaneously wish I could forget, and hope I never do. Some things should always be remembered, but can never really be shared. 

There’s a horror to the civilian experience of war that is difficult to describe. It is one of those things that cannot be described adequately with words, though so many poets have tried.

How do I answer? How do I give my thoughts when my thoughts are just tears and memories and an overwhelming desire to take an entire nation of people into my arms, kiss their foreheads and tell them I’m sorry I can’t make this go away?

I’m sorry. Be as strong as you can be, I can’t promise you’ll survive, and I can’t promise it’ll be okay. I have nothing to offer you but my love, and my love won’t save you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry

Aila Moireach
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