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Calista Elise Brigham​

The Voice of Ukraine

 

    I stepped from the warmth of the barber shop into a chilly evening of late September 1989. Turning up my collar and shoving my hands into my pockets, I glanced up at a sky of wispy clouds flushed with pink and gold from the sunset. As I breathed in deeply of the nipping breeze, I tasted again that thrill of change, of fate, of destiny. For the past few weeks, the air had been like this—cold and brisk and full of promise. Even though I felt certain that something lay just around the corner, I had no idea of just how momentous and life-changing that something would be.
    My premonition, though vague, made me restless, which was why I’d been idling about downtown Kyiv lately. I felt compelled to be out—meeting people and talking with them; dropping into museums, theaters, restaurants, and stores; smelling the scents; seeing the sights. This city was my home, and I loved nothing more than to walk its familiar streets.
    But as I passed gaudy hammer-and-sickle boards, my mood darkened. Rather than inspiring me to some communist chauvinism like the good Soviet citizen I was supposed to be, the displays merely reawakened my resentment. My homeland was always being conquered by one people or another: the Mongols, the Poles, the Lithuanians, the Hapsburgs, the Russians, the Hungarians, the Romanians, the Czechoslovakians, the Nazis—all these had ruled over parts of Ukraine at some point in our long history. In 1919, we thought that the tables had finally turned and our chance had come to rule ourselves. Signed in Ivano-Frankivsk, the Akt Zluky—the Act of Unity—merged the Ukrainian National Republic and the West Ukrainian People’s Republic into a single, independent nation. But we didn’t have any time to settle into our autonomy before we were divided again between Poland, Romania, Czechoslovakia, and the USSR. Then the Russians took over completely and gave our country the name my friends and I despised so much: the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic.
    I clenched my teeth as my mind ran through the long list of atrocities Stalin and his henchmen had committed against us. They had ravished Ukraine with their collectivization, their communes, and their crop quotas. They had banned our flag and forbidden us from speaking our language. They had deliberately attempted to exterminate us with the Holodomor—the Great Famine of 1932–1933. And only three years ago, the disaster at their Chernobyl nuclear-power plant had contaminated the land and terrorized us with the fear of fallout. The Soviet officials denied that the accident had happened, but I knew better: My cousin and his family had died of radiation poisoning.
    But there was no pleasure in these reflections, so I turned my thoughts to something cheering—the fact that things had been looking up. Mikhail Gorbachev’s ascension to general secretary of the USSR seemed to offer the entire Soviet bloc new hope. Finally something better—in particular, his novel policies of glasnost and perestroika—was replacing Stalin’s legacy of bloodshed.
    Within Ukraine itself, nationalistic groups like Rukh—the Popular Movement of Ukraine for Perestroika—were emerging. And just this week, Volodymyr Shcherbitsky, the former leader of the Ukrainian Communist Party and persecutor of Ukrainians, had resigned.
    So it seemed that a new era was just around the bend. The brave people in the Baltic states had recently risen up and demanded democratization and independence. Poland was also seeing some movement in that direction. Ukrainians had the patriotic fervor and organization; now we just needed to act.


#


    “Andrii!”
    Hearing my name, I turned and saw my best friend’s thin figure hurrying up the sidewalk toward me. “Hey, Dmytro! What are you doing here?” I asked, searching his face for a clue. He seemed his usual excited, overworked self: ragged clothes in wild disarray, dark hair badly in need of a comb, and narrow face—from high forehead to scraggly goatee—drawn with fatigue and malnourishment.
    He grinned. “I should be asking you the same thing. I expected to find you in your dorm room, either slaving over textbooks or applying paint to a canvas. How is that masterpiece of yours coming along?”
    “I have a sinking feeling that I’ll never finish it,” I said. “I can’t concentrate on anything these days, and any inspiration I had before seems to have fled.”
    “Well, that’s a relief.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “You were never meant to be a painter,” he said with perfect confidence.
    “I see,” I said. “Tell me then, O Great Prophet, what was I meant to be?”
    “A politician, of course!”
    I rolled my eyes. “Nonsense! I’m learning about art, not politics. I admire your passion and talent, but I couldn’t write a speech to save my life. Even if someone else handled the writing, I’d surely botch the delivery, especially if I had to present it in front of an enormous crowd. There’s nothing that commends me as a politician, as far as I can see.”
    “That’s because you’re nearsighted,” he said loftily. But seeing that he wasn’t convincing me, he changed the subject. “Why the shave? Your mustache was just looking good.”
    “Iryna didn’t like it.”
    “Ah. Got a date tonight?”
    “At ten.”
    “Oh, good,” he replied, looking at his watch. “Then you have time to hear my news. Guess what just happened at Rukh headquarters.”
    “Hmmm…. You met the love of your life.”
    Dmytro laughed. “Nope.”
    “Well, that’s all I’ve got. I give up,” I said.
    “You’re not a very good guesser, you know. But I’ll tell you, anyway.” Leading me down the street, he continued. “Ivan Drach and the other Rukh organizers have finally picked a date for the event they’ve been planning.” He paused dramatically.
    “OK. And…?” I prompted.
    “And…they asked me to give a speech on the big day!”
    I chuckled and shook my head. “You sound surprised.”
    “Of course I’m surprised! Why would they choose me?”
    “Why not you? You’re their prodigy, after all—the up-and-coming next leader of Rukh, I’ll bet.”
    “Stop the flattering, Andrii,” he said.
    “It’s not flattery! Look how quickly you’ve already risen. As soon as you caught wind of Rukh’s creation last year, you became a member, making you the first of my acquaintances to do so. Then you founded our local university group. It was your enthusiastic accounts of Rukh’s revolutionary ideas that convinced most of our members, including me, to join! Before long, your involvement eclipsed every other concern in your life, even prompting you to drop out of university to devote your full attention to the cause.”
    “But that’s no more than anyone else does for the movement.”
    “Well, I’ve certainly done nothing of the sort. You’re being too humble, and you know it. I’ve overheard the higher-ups discussing you. They respect you and see you as a promising leader—and for good reason. Why, just the other day, you gave such a rousing speech to our group that people were in tears. When you spoke of a rebirth of Ukraine, of a revolution of the disaffected, of a revival of art and culture and language—I believe that even the most skeptical listeners came away with a heightened sense of patriotism and love for our nation.”
    Dmytro dismissed my arguments with a wave of his hand. “I’m nobody.”
    “Oh, go on!” I said, poking him until he chuckled.
    But his laughs quickly turned into rasping coughs, and we had to stop in the glow of a streetlamp until the attack subsided. Once he could draw breath more easily, we walked on.
    “You really should have that checked out,” I said. “Your health was never good to begin with, and the cough has only been getting worse, and—”
    “I don’t have the time for something so trivial,” he interrupted. “My duties are infinitely more important at the moment. But I’ll get to a doctor eventually, if the cough persists. Don’t worry, Mother!” He turned his mischievous smile on me, and I had to grin back. It was hard to stay serious with him for long.
    “Back to the news from Rukh,” he said. “The event will be a demonstration of people holding hands in solidarity for Ukrainian independence, from Ivano-Frankivsk to Kyiv. This ‘Human Chain’ will pass through Lviv for a total of 700 kilometers. We’ll finish with rallies hosted in Ivano-Frankivsk, Lviv, Zhytomyr, and Kyiv, lasting late into the evening. And get this: It’s going to take place on January 21!”
    “The anniversary of the Akt Zluky!” I exclaimed.
    His eyes shone. “Yes, the timing is perfect! Not only will the event emphasize Ukraine’s unified spirit in defiance of the USSR, but it will also improve Rukh’s credibility with the people. Free elections are on the horizon; and with increased popularity, Rukh might gain seats in the parliament. Then we’ll be legislating change, rather than just writing about it and protesting. Mark my words—this event will be the spark that lights the fire!”


#


    “Ukraine has never seen anything like this before!” I exclaimed to Iryna a little later, as we sat across from each other at a cheap restaurant with our emptied plates before us. I had just finished telling her about Rukh’s latest plans. “You won’t want to miss it!”
    “Are you certain it’ll work?” Iryna asked.
    I blinked in surprise. It was just like her to respond cynically, but I had expected her to be at least somewhat impressed.
    “What do you mean?” I asked.
    She tilted her head. “How do you know you’ll be able to drum up enough support? It’s true that many are in favor of Rukh, but those people are concentrated here and in the northwest. Where I come from, Rukh’s approach is seen as too demanding and too nationalistic. As you know, southeastern Ukrainians tend to be of Russian ancestry, so they prefer moderate reforms in cooperation with the Communist Party.”
    “Yes, but for this event, Rukh is only aiming at its main support base in the northwest. Of course, word will travel fast and reach everywhere in Ukraine; and anyone who wants to come certainly may. But even if the Russophones in the south and east don’t show up, the Rukh sympathizers hereabouts will come.”
    “And you know this…how? Because Dmytro told you so? Think for yourself, Andrii!”
    Stung by her words, I grimaced.
    Seeing my reaction, she went on in a more conciliatory tone. “Yes, it’s good that Rukh is thinking so far ahead—you have a few months to spread the word and prepare. But don’t you think that expecting people to come in the middle of winter is a little unreasonable? And even if people agree now to come, how can Rukh be sure of a positive public attitude in four months? A lot can happen before January. Everything can change in an instant. One moment, there might be no restrictions at all; the next, Gorbachev might crack down. It’s unlikely, but it’s still possible.”
    I nodded.
    “And what about the other independence groups contending with Rukh for supporters? The Ukrainian Helsinki Union attracts many followers from the people who have suffered in the gulags. Doesn’t Rukh view the Union as competition?”
    “No, actually. In fact, we benefit greatly from the attention they draw to our nation’s plight by providing the rest of the world with Ukrainian news.”
    “I suppose that’s true,” she said.
    “And even by your reasoning,” I continued, “there is at least a possibility that what we’re planning might come off all right. So can’t we at least hope that this might sound the death knell of Soviet rule in Ukraine? Gorbachev’s coming to power and Shcherbitsky’s falling out of favor can’t have been for nothing.”
    “Of course they weren’t not for nothing! Certainly things are improving! But,” she said, “that’s not what I asked.”
    “Well, what was your question, then?”
    “Can you be sure that it will work?”
    I sighed in frustration. “Of course we can’t be sure.
    “Exactly!” Her penetrating, dark eyes sparkled with amusement.
    I threw up my hands in defeat. “OK, you win!” I said. “But was it really so important to get me to admit that?”
    Reaching her hand across the table, she entwined her fingers with mine. “Andrii, I say all this for your own good. I know how you are influenced by Dmytro into raptures of patriotism—”
    “And that’s bad?”
    “Not if you’re Dmytro. His one purpose in life is to achieve Ukrainian independence; he thinks of nothing else, including his health; and he has no close family who cares about his well-being. But let me remind you that there are people who care very much about you and who need you to stay alive.”
    “I know….”
    “I might add,” she said with a sudden smile, “that at least one of those people doesn’t want your heart to be stolen away from her by anyone or anything else.”
    Chagrined but mollified, I paid the bill, pulled Iryna to her feet, and led her from the restaurant into the cold night.
    “You must think me foolish,” I said as we looked up at the tapestry of stars.
    “Foolishly hopeful,” she replied coolly. “All Ukrainians are. We dream of a future that is still far off and pretend that it’s our current reality. We write poems and stories about what we see in our visions. We act like we’re already free of the chains of Soviet oppression. But I fear that when we rouse from this illusion, it will be a rude awakening.”
    After a short pause, she said, “But rude awakening or no, I will stand by you.”
    “Then you will come to the demonstration?”
    “Of course,” she said, as if there had never been any question.


#


    Over the next few months, I found it even harder to focus on my studies than before, though I somehow muddled through to the end of the semester. I told every person I met about the upcoming Rukh demonstration and urged them to attend and to invite others. Contrary to Iryna’s pessimism, almost everyone seemed in favor of the idea and eager to participate. My fellow Rukh members met with similar results; the few negative encounters they sometimes related didn’t discourage us.
    Dmytro, from what brief glimpses I got of him, seemed to be throwing more of himself into the preparations for this event than into anything else he’d ever undertaken. He took part in biweekly organizational meetings of regional Rukh leaders, carried messages back to our ever-growing local group, raised our spirits with patriotic speeches, and helped coordinate carpooling measures to bring everyone to the demonstration and rallies. But all the frenetic activity wasn’t doing his health any favors; he looked paler and thinner every time I saw him.
    Christmas came and went, and then New Year’s Eve was upon us. Iryna was celebrating with her family, so I joined other members of the university Rukh group at their holiday gathering. As I entered the room, someone handed me a mug of hot chocolate, and I warmed my hands on it while I meandered through the crowd. The conversation was mostly concerned with the demonstration day and how our plans might affect the course of our nation’s history. 
    When I spotted Dmytro, I made my way to him.
    “My friend!” I said, shaking his hand heartily. “How are you doing?”
    “Never better!” he exclaimed. “Ah, Andrii—the glorious year approaches!”
    “Indeed, it does!” But as I looked closer at him, my smile faded. “You look terrible!”
    That took him off guard. “I do?”
    “Yes! In fact, you look like a ghost! When was the last time you ate a real meal?”
    He held up his mug.
    “That’s not a real meal!” I admonished.
    “I can’t do everything, you know,” he said defensively. “I can’t organize a rally, eavesdrop on everyone who knows more than I do, relay what I hear to everyone who knows less than I do, and take care of myself, all in one short day. I’m not a superhero.”
    “Which is precisely why you should take it easy when you get the chance. Dmytro, it’s late. You should be in bed. No one needs you here for this little party; but we will need you at the event, and we’d rather have you there alive than in a casket.”
    “I hope I don’t look that bad,” he said. At my dubious look, he shrugged. “If it makes you feel any better—” A fit of coughing cut off his words, and for a few seconds, he hacked into his handkerchief. When he pulled the cloth away from his mouth, I was shocked to see red blotches on it.
    “Don’t say a thing,” he warned before I could express my horror. His voice was thick, and he swallowed painfully several times before he spoke again.
    “I saw a doctor,” he said in a subdued tone.
    “You did?”
    He nodded.
    “Well…what did he say?”
    Pulling me to the side and lowering his voice even further, he said, “Tuberculosis.”
    “What?!”
    He shushed me and continued. “The doctor gave me some streptomycin—which I really can’t afford—but he didn’t seem confident that I’ll recover. My symptoms are bad, as you can see—coughing up blood and having frequent headaches. The doctor says I’m too underweight to fight the infection. I can tell that I’m getting weaker, and the medicine only seems to make me feel worse. All of that to say, I might not last much longer.”
    “But you can’t just give up!” I cried. “Eat better, and sleep, and take your medicine; and you’ll at least have a chance!”
    “I’ve been trying to do all those things,” he said helplessly. “But I’m too busy with all that I still need to do. And it’s hard to eat when I’m nauseated.”
    “Let me stay with you, then. I can help you!”
    He shook his head. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m not giving up. I will keep trying. I can’t die—not now, not at this pivotal moment in our history! I’ll hang on—never fear. And who knows? Maybe I will get better. The doctor I saw isn’t known for his optimism.”
    I didn’t smile at Dmytro’s attempt at a joke. “Please let me walk you home,” I said.
    He sighed. “All right.”
    We quietly slipped out and made our way to his apartment. After dropping him off, I trudged slowly back to my dorm instead of returning to the party, knowing that the happy whistles and joyous clinking of mugs that would welcome in the New Year would be lost on me. My thoughts kept returning to Dmytro’s revelation. As much as I knew that it would pain me to lose such a precious and inspiring friend, I wondered how it must feel to be him…to know that he didn’t have much time left, to know that he would be leaving behind the cause that was so dear to him, to know that he might not even make it to the event to which he had devoted his life…. It must have been agony.
    My heart ached for him and for those of us who would be left without him.


#


    On the morning of the twenty-first of January 1990, I rolled out of bed at five o’clock and began dressing. The day we had all been waiting for had finally arrived! Too excited to eat, I skipped breakfast, hurried from my room in my warmest coat and least moth-eaten hat, and plunged into the arctic chill of the predawn twilight.
    As I walked into the center of Kyiv with my shoulders hunched up around my neck, I breathed a silent prayer that all would go well. My concern was not that law enforcement would crack down on the demonstration and rallies, for that reign of terror had been slowly departing with Shcherbitsky’s decline. Instead, I wondered if perhaps, as Iryna had feared, support had waned since last year. Maybe it was just too cold or too far for people. Maybe the whole idea was simply impossible. If that were the case, I could understand and would recover from the letdown. But I couldn’t imagine what a crushing blow it would be to Dmytro.
    “He’s hung on this long,” I whispered to the gray sky. “Please, God, don’t let this fail.”
    The sun was rising, but I was not much warmer when I reached the statue in the Bohdan Khmelnitsky Square, where other Rukh members were already gathered. When Dmytro caught sight of me, he rushed over to shake my hand, his eyes alight with great hope and exhilaration. “The day has come, Andrii!” he crowed. “The day that will be commemorated in Ukrainian history forever! Are you ready?”
    “I’ve never been more ready.”
    “Good! Where are you and Iryna going to meet up for the rally?” he asked.
    “Right here,” I said.
    “OK, I’ll see you then!” With a grin and slap of my shoulder, he sent me off. “Good luck!”
    “And to you!” I called. “And don’t push yourself too hard!”
    As I strolled across the Square, I felt the map of Kyiv in my pocket. It showed the streets we were using for the demonstration, and I already knew it backwards and forwards. I was tasked to patrol quite a bit of downtown Kyiv; it would be an exhausting job. Even so, I felt a bit disappointed that I couldn’t be everywhere at once, to see the full extent of the Human Chain.
    When I reached the main street, I was pleasantly surprised to see a crowd of people already arranging themselves into something resembling a line. They were mostly adults, but I also saw a few children clinging to their mothers’ hands, and even a dog.
    One of the men approached me. “Excuse me, sir; are you with Rukh?”
    “Yes.”
    “Ah, good. We are wondering…are we standing in the right place? Should we be more spread out, perhaps?”
    Leading him onto the double white lines in the middle of the street, I said, “Stand here. And yes, do spread out, stationing sentinels several feet apart all the way to that adjacent street. That way, newcomers will know where to stand and can fill in any gaps. Be careful to stay in line and to not block traffic in either direction.”
    The people complied promptly and cheerfully, so I moved on to the next street. A small group awaited me there, as well, and I soon had them arranged like the first. In this way, I made it to the end of my assigned area, where I exchanged some words with my Rukh compatriots before retracing my steps. Even in the short time I’d been gone, the openings in the line had shrunk significantly, and several sections were getting crowded. Although some people stood next to each other without holding hands, they still formed a line. Many of them waved homemade national flags they’d prepared for today, some wore traditional costumes, and a trio sang to the accompaniment of a tambourine and accordion. All the participants were visibly enthusiastic and—unexpectedly—grateful.
    I was struck in particular by one old woman’s reaction. As I was walking along the line where it passed in front of Taras Shevchenko Opera Theater, she reached out and grabbed my arm. “Young man,” she said, “I’m truly honored to be a part of this demonstration. I’ve seen so much strife and cruelty and death…I’ve lived a long time. I would’ve protested long before now if anyone else would’ve stood with me. But the time had not come…until today!” She clutched my arm tighter, and her wrinkled face peered up into mine. “With all my heart, I thank the Lord that He has sent Ukraine this day of salvation. You and your friends have the blessing of God upon you! So keep up the good work and know that Ukraine stands with you.”
    “Thank you so much, ma’am,” I said, humbled by her words. “God be with you.”


#


    I lost track of time as I patrolled the Human Chain. Rushing from street to street, aiding other Rukh members with their tasks, mingling with the participants, hearing snippets of their stories, receiving many thanks and smiles—everything combined to create such a fog of commotion and camaraderie that I felt like that day was my life. Ukraine came alive for me then, as it never had before…though I had yet to realize the full impact that day would have on my future.
    When I finally thought to glance at a nearby clock tower, I was astonished to find that it was already half past three. I was at the far end of my area, so I told the demonstrators to get started on their way to the Square. As they began moving in that direction, buses rattled by, carrying participants from remoter parts of the Human Chain. The push toward the middle of Kyiv quickly became an ocean of bobbing heads and fluttering flags.
    When I arrived once more at the Square, I found it packed, with people still flooding in from adjoining streets. Delegations from various oblasts—some from as far east as Donetsk and Kharkiv—who had come only for the rally, were wending their way through the throng with standards bearing the names of their regions. The citizens whose apartments overlooked the Square were cheering and waving blue-and-yellow Ukrainian flags from the roofs of their tenements. And above it all, the bell tower of the Saint Sophia Cathedral rose in solemn majesty.
    “Excuse me,” I said, pushing through the crowd to get to the base of the statue. Everywhere I turned, people were smiling and chatting, complete strangers acting like old friends. My heart was warmed by the atmosphere, which was calm and peaceful despite the fact that emotions of patriotism ran high.
    Iryna had beat me to our meeting spot. After we embraced, she asked, “How are you holding up?”
    “I feel great,” I said. “Slightly ravenous, though.”
    She smiled knowingly as she produced something wrapped in wax paper. “I had a feeling. Here.”
    “Oh, thank you!” I couldn’t get the sandwich into my mouth fast enough.
    Watching me devour it, she said, “It’s a good thing I look after you.”
    “Is there more?” I asked, already finished and licking my fingers.
    “No, but here’s a napkin. You know I don’t like it when you eat like a slob.”
    “Sorry,” I mumbled as I wiped my mouth and hands. “That was my first food today.”
    Suddenly Dmytro appeared. “Come on, you two,” he said.
    “Where are we going?” I asked.
    There was a mysterious twinkle in his eye. “You’ll see,” he said and pulled us through the mass of people until we reached the stage. He pointed to two chairs on the platform. “I reserved you the best seats!”
    Then an organizer walked over and said, “Ready? We’ve got plenty of people now.”
    “But more are still coming, right?” Dmytro asked.
    “Of course, but it’s probably going to be like that until dark. It’s at least a million people.”
    “A million people?” I echoed in disbelief.
    “Well! Then I’ll give my speech first,” Dmytro said, “and the others can talk after me, as arranged.”
    Then Iryna jumped in. “Wait! Dmytro, how about ‘Shche ne vmerla Ukrainy’?”
    “That’s a great idea!” he exclaimed. “Yes, yes. Definitely! Go ahead.”
    “Go ahead? You want me to sing it?” She raised her eyebrows.
    “Of course.”
    “But—”
    “You have such a beautiful voice,” I put in.
    Blushing shyly, she consented, and we followed her onto the stage. She approached the podium and tapped the microphone, waiting until the crowd looked at her and quieted. Then she began singing in her high, clear tones.

“Shche ne vmerla Ukrainy i slava, i voila.
Shche nam, brattia molodii, usmichnetia dolia….”

    As the well-known verses rang out, everyone joined in. It was so easy to let our emotions flow out in the beautiful lyrics of the song we viewed as our sacred anthem.

“The glory of Ukraine has not yet perished, nor the will.
Still upon us, young brothers, fate shall smile.
Our enemies shall vanish, like dew in the sun.
We too shall rule, brothers, our country.”

    Then, as with one voice, we broke into the beloved chorus.

“Soul and body shall we lay down for our freedom,
And we will show, brothers, that we are of the Cossack nation!”

    Again we sang it, and again. Iryna’s eyes were shining with ecstasy, and I had never seen her face so animated. Dmytro, too, stood elated, tears in his eyes. His voice, and mine, quavered on the last note.
    When Iryna finished, she stepped back, overwhelmed by the thunderous applause.
    “I’m so proud of you,” I said, slipping my arm around her as we seated ourselves.
    Then Dmytro stepped up to the microphone and shouted, “Slava Ukraini! Glory to Ukraine!”
    “Heroyam slava! Glory to the heroes!” the people shouted back.
    He hushed their cheering with his hands.
    “Now, you probably don’t know me,” he started. “I’m just one small cog in the machine that organized today’s event. But at the request of Rukh, I prepared a speech for today.”
    Bending his head, he stared intently at the papers on the podium for some moments. He seemed a little unsteady to me, and I wondered if he was losing his nerve. Then he raised his head and gazed out onto the multitude.
    “Ukraine is…” he began and then coughed into his fist.
    After a moment, he tried again, but he coughed more this time and had to cover his mouth with his handkerchief. 
    After a third attempt, interrupted by an even worse coughing fit, he was so weak that he could barely stand. His face was ghastly pale, his eyes seemed sunken into his skull, and even his lips were colorless.
    Rushing over, I grasped him by the arm, helped him away from the podium, and gently seated him in my chair.
    “Let someone else speak first,” I said to him.
    He nodded. “You.”
    I didn’t understand. “Me?”
    “Yes…you must give my speech for me.”
    “But Dmytro! I’m no orator! You know that!”
    “Read it,” he repeated piteously, his eyes full of desperation.    “Please. You’re my best friend.”
    I was scared, but I didn’t know what else to do.
    “All right,” I said, my voice husky with emotion. “For you.”
    As I approached the podium, I looked at the crowd and felt tiny before such a great cloud of witnesses. Clearing my throat, I squeaked, “Hello.” The faces staring up at me crinkled into smiles, and I relaxed. “You don’t know me, either. But Dmytro has just asked me to read his speech to you. I…uh…I’ll do my best.” There was a smattering of laughter, and then I took a deep breath and began.
    “Ukraine is home—my home, your home, our home. Although we trace our lineage to Slavs and Vikings, we have—over the centuries and through countless trials—developed into the stubborn, hard-working, freedom-loving people we are today. These qualities, the land in which we were born, and the history we all share make us uniquely Ukrainian—and no one can take that from us.
    “Ukraine is home—our beautiful but blood-stained home. How many wars have been fought upon our soil? How many times have our neighboring countries battled each other over the right to subjugate us?
    “And now we sit under the yoke of the USSR, the latest of our conquerors. A juggernaut of corruption, genocide, and repression, the Soviet Union was a force we could not resist. At the hands of the Stalinists, everything was taken from us—our homes, our lands, our crops, our families, our very lives! Always we were dying. They starved us, threw us in their gulags, murdered us and left our bodies in mass graves, poisoned us with Chernobyl’s radiation! Millions of us perished, and the future of Ukraine seemed truly bleak.
    “Occasionally there were slight reprieves from the tyranny under which we lived. But even Khrushchev and Shelest—as relatively sympathetic as they were—still represented the communist regime. Russification has always threatened to obliterate the ethnicity of which we are so proud. Our language, our religion, our literature—all were suppressed in favor of Russian culture.
    “Strife, persecution, trouble, hatred—all these attempted to destroy our spirit, to break our resolve, to rob us of our identity—ultimately, to drive a dagger into the heart of Ukraine. ‘There is no Ukraine,’ they said. ‘There are no Ukrainians. This land is a Soviet republic, and these are Soviet citizens.’ But they were wrong! I tell you that no strife, no persecution, no trouble, no hatred—nothing can rid the world of Ukraine! Ukraine has survived it all! Even as her people have suffered and died, Ukraine has lived. As long as there is one Ukrainian left, Ukraine is alive!
    “Why? Because, my friends, Ukraine is her people! Ukraine is Dmytro, and Andrii, and Iryna, and you, and you, and you—Ukraine is all of us! Ukraine lives through us all! United, we are a fire that cannot be quenched! United, we are a light that cannot be dimmed! United, we are Ukraine!”
    Loud cheering and applause resounded, drowning my words. I was too wrapped up in the speech to stay silent long, though. What words Dmytro had written! What dreadful depths to which he plunged, what glorious heights to which he rose! This speech of his was phenomenal—I had never heard anything like it, even from him. Anxious to continue, I rushed on.
    “Today we are united! From Ivano-Frankivsk to Kyiv, from the west to the north, we have joined hands to form a Human Chain that will be remembered for decades to come as one of the high points of our history. With this Human Chain of freedom, we finally throw off those old, iron chains of bondage to the Soviets; and we declare: We are not Soviets! We are Ukrainians!”
    Once more, the crowd went wild. Once more, I proceeded, as much under the spell of the words I spoke as those who listened to me.
    “And as Ukrainians, we pay homage to all those who have gone before us—to all those who have kept Ukraine alive for us. For what are Ukrainians without Ukraine? And what is Ukraine without Ukrainians? Well did the poet Malyshko express this truth when he wrote, ‘My Ukraine. I need nothing else in the world but to hear your voice and to look after your tenderness.’ Indeed, this land, this people, is our Ukraine. Always, she will be our Ukraine. Forever, we will hear her voice. Always, we will look after her tenderness. Forever….”
    Here I paused to fight for composure. I couldn’t read those next words…I couldn’t bear to. Oh, they struck like a dagger into my own heart! But I couldn’t disappoint Dmytro now; he was depending on me. He hadn’t told me to read until the very end and then skip this next sentence. No; I must finish.
    “Forever,” I read, “and far beyond the time when death parts us. Always and forever, we are Ukraine!”
    Raising my eyes from the papers, I gazed out over my audience. I could see that they were cheering, but somehow, I couldn’t hear them. Turning around slowly, I looked over at Dmytro. His eyes were closed, as if he were asleep.
    Walking over, I bent down and lightly touched his arm. “How did I do?” I murmured.
    He opened his eyes. “You were amazing,” he said with a catch in his voice, “just like I knew you would be.”


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    How I miss him. Dmytro wasn’t here to rejoice with us when the Supreme Council adopted the Declaration of State Sovereignty of Ukraine on July 16, 1990. He wasn’t here to be my best man when I married Iryna. He wasn’t here to support me as I stepped forward to lead our local Rukh group.
   
   “Did I not live well for my Ukraine?” he asked me just before he died. Yes…yes, he did. To his final breath, he had poured out his life for Ukraine. He left a void that no one will be able to sufficiently fill. But I’m doing my best.
   
Dmytro’s last gift to me—his incredible speech—changed the course of my life. As I spoke his words, I heard not my voice, not his voice, not Malyshko’s voice—I heard the Voice of Ukraine. And now Dmytro’s mission is also mine: To hear your voice and to look after your tenderness, my Ukraine.
 

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