Test of conscience

I think about this on my way to Zhytomyr to present my new poetry book Silver Field. I think about it without much joy, because I already know that I will begin my confession again with a revelation: I am a bad Christian, Father. No, I don't kill or steal, I don't cheat on my wife, I deeply honour and love my mother and my late father. I try to attend the Divine Liturgy every Sunday. I don't forget to give alms to the poor and pray for the living and the dead. But despite all these praiseworthy deeds, Father, I am not a good Christian…

Because I hate them, my enemies, who attacked my country, my people, who have just begun to recover from three hundred years of colonial languishing under the heel of Moscow's tyrants. And I can do nothing with myself or my hatred. No matter how deep and all-encompassing it is toward everything Russian, this hatred is not enough for me, not enough for the deaths of the damned subhumans who raped defenseless Ukrainian women and children on this very Zhytomyr highway, burned their bodies in forests, tortured and shot Ukrainian prisoners of war.

“No matter how deep and all-encompassing it is toward everything Russian, this hatred is not enough for me, not enough for the deaths of the damned subhumans who raped defenseless Ukrainian women and children on this very Zhytomyr highway, burned their bodies in forests, tortured and shot Ukrainian prisoners of war”

Perhaps, Father Joseph will again shake his head and say that there are also people on the other side of hatred, that they cannot all be put in the same category. 

My wife, who is sitting in the back seat, touches me by the shoulder, pointing to the burned houses and tanks that pass by the car windows. She cried all morning today because I came into the bedroom with the words: "They write on Facebook that they have finally found Yevhen Hulevych, who was killed in December... I think you knew him?"

Yes, she knew Hulevych. They even used to celebrate the New Year together with common friends. They talked about something good and festive. They drank wine. They hoped that the next year would be better than the previous one. And you see how it turned out, father…

“It is just unthinkable when such intelligent and talented people die – and they die, the best people of the nation, people who went to war voluntarily, without evasion, real men and women, valiant warriors, true aristocrats of the spirit”

It is just unthinkable when such intelligent and talented people die – and they die, the best people of the nation, people who went to war voluntarily, without evasion, real men and women, valiant warriors, true aristocrats of the spirit. I love them, father, these often unknown brothers and sisters of mine who give their lives for Ukraine, and thus for me, and for my wife, and for my mother, truly, forever die, going to a place from which mortals have no return. And these scum and monsters, who have crossed all conceivable and unimaginable boundaries and borders, I hate them fiercely, Father, and I want to hate them even more, so that this hatred becomes for them a real hellfire that will burn them all to the ground, every single one of them.

Too much is at stake now, father, the whole sense of all our lives so far. Either we will win or we will perish, and everything that created Ukrainian identity will perish with us: our songs and poems, the publishing houses that issued books uncensored by Moscow, our cathedrals where the liturgy was conducted in Ukrainian, not in the language of corrupt KGB priests. At the beginning of the high-tech age, when there is only talk of artificial intelligence and the miracles it creates, my people are being savagely and ruthlessly treated, accusing them of something that is the blood of every nation: their native language. And after that I am supposed to forgive my enemies?

“Too much is at stake now, father, the whole sense of all our lives so far. Either we will win or we will perish, and everything that created Ukrainian identity will perish with us: our songs and poems, the publishing houses that issued books uncensored by Moscow, our cathedrals where the liturgy was conducted in Ukrainian, not in the language of corrupt KGB priests”

Obviously, Father Michal will again advise us to bite our tongues…

The presentation is going well. One can feel that people miss the poetic word, that they are tired of war and military discourse, and want at least for a short time something radically different, the grace of a safe and peaceful life, talks about love and nature, the possibility of carefree singing. 

For an hour, while this presentation is going on, we all forget about the steady flow of coffins from the front, about the possibility that Zhytomyr will be hit by Russian cruise missiles once again. Thanks to these friendly people, their intelligent questions, and their kind acceptance of my poems and songs, I forget about the hatred that has been raging inside me since the first day of the war.

But I won't get rid of it completely. I think it is now unrealistic, whether it is a sin or two, to get rid of it as long as Russian enemies are walking on our land, as long as the best of the best sons and daughters of our people are lying in this land.

Specially for Espreso

About the author. Kostiantyn Moskalets, writer, poet, translator and critic

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