“I love my country, not my government.” What I think and feel about the war in Ukraine as a Russian.

War leaves you numb. It devalues and erases the meaning of words because no matter what you say or write, it will never come close enough to the reality filled with palpable fear, pain, and grief. Words, however, are the only medium available to me, a Russian with a Ukrainian surname, living in Canada. And here is what I have to say.

Two weeks ago, I came across a video of three rescue workers gently pulling a breathless body of a two-year-old from the rubble. For 52 seconds, I was hoping that the miracle would happen. My son is about the same age, and he welcomed this world in the same way: silent, without taking the breath that the whole room was waiting for. Those seconds before the doctor patted my baby on the back to make him cough lasted an eternity in my mind, but finally, I heard him whimpering, calling for me. The difference is that my boy keeps breathing, and the kid from the video will never have a chance to feel the spring air rushing down his lungs again.

Forty-two days ago, in another life, the government of the country where I was born and raised started a “special mission” that the whole world calls War and Genocide. For the past five weeks, I’ve been trying to answer a simple question, “who am I?” and while most labels are still there, like a mother, a writer, an immigrant, I can’t say that I’m Russian without my internal voice trembling. Kicks in the guilt and greasy feeling of being connected to one old psychopath who decided that ruining the lives of ordinary people and showing who’s the boss by attacking a neighbouring nation is the only choice.

It’s heart-wrenching to see photos and videos of destroyed hospitals and schools, houses and theatres. The crack in my soul goes even deeper when I realize that it’s done by people who had the same history and literature classes as I did. That young boys who’ve been listening to family stories about their great-grandparents suffering through wars and not returning to their kids are now taking part in this madness. Fearless. Violent. Blind.

When I was 6, my grandma took me to Kyiv. She was born in Ukraine, and her relatives lived there. I have two core memories from that trip: how she was teaching me basic Ukrainian words and the phrase “Я тебе кохаю” (I love you); and how we were walking along Khreshchatyk, and I was soaking in the story of my mother’s first love, closely tied to Kyiv.

In 2014, when my grandmother called those relatives to wish them a Happy New Year, they asked not to call again because we were taking away their land, and we were to blame for starting the war. Did I understand what it meant? Not really. But I saw my grandma’s pain. And I feel it now.

In 2017, I got married and took my husband’s Ukrainian surname — I changed my “-ova” to “-ko.”

In 2022, I’m watching how the lives of millions of people are irrevocably changed. First, I thought it was heartbreaking to hear my father-in-law saying, “The only good thing is that you managed to escape this nightmare.” But after one heartbreak after another with each news report, I see that it’s impossible to escape.

It’s impossible to wrap my head around the idea that people who support and approve of this war make up the majority. Millions of people don’t realize that they’re forced to live a low-quality, poor, miserable life to fulfill the ambitions of the elite, having to save money to buy a new jacket for their kids. It’s painful to see how state-regulated religion and blind faith that Russians are guided and protected by God are used as a tool to make people believe that they’re on a great mission. I spoke to a woman who has 15 other women working on her team. Almost all of them have reached the retirement age, but they have to keep working to provide for their families. They’ve lived enough, as they say, yet they support what’s going on 150 kilometres away from them. The only one who’s against and keeps her mouth shut out of fear is that woman I spoke to. One of her colleagues was full of deep patriotic feelings until she found out that her son, who was doing mandatory military service, was sent to fight in Ukraine and might never return home. What left me speechless is that she still believes that he’s doing his part in saving the world.

As a mother, I’m scared to close my eyes and imagine what it’s like to wake up to the sound of explosions and explain to my son that we’re not going to the daycare today and we need to hide. I don’t have enough tears to express what I feel when I come across a photo of a 6-year-old boy looking at his mother’s grave with a handmade wooden cross.

As a woman, I can’t imagine how much time it will take all the raped Ukrainian girls and women to heal the wound and go back to their lives, if ever.

As a Russian whose great-grandparents shed blood for peace, joyful childhood, and a promising future for their kids no matter where they end up living, I use my words to say that this crime against humanity must be punished.

Nothing can be worth so much anger, hatred, fear, and pain. If you’re also a human who’s terrified that this is possible in the 21st century, do your part. Share the news from reliable sources, support Ukrainians and Russians who want to stop this madness by signing petitions and sending donations, and don’t let your mind get used to the idea that there’s a war somewhere far away.