Kiev is the heart of the Ukrainian soil. Its even, soothing beats are born in the humble whispers of the growing wheat, echo in the quiet murmur of the Dnieper, and clearly announced by the festive ringing of the bells. Your own heart skips a beat when you first set foot in the city and hungrily feast your eyes on the elaborative, creative layout of this ancient European capital. You wave off the taxis and long to walk everywhere you journey. You let the city throw a shawl of change around your shoulders and remove those star-striped glasses you’ve worn since birth. On the last day of your trip you let out a heavy sigh, throw a coin into the Dnieper and hope that this visit was not your last. Twice I have wished for this very same thing, and each time I’ve made it back.
My initial encounter with Kiev happened more than a year ago. The decision to visit came with the discovery of some distant Ukrainian roots in our family. Within a month I was already in Ukraine wandering the streets and photographing everything in sight. I paused and posed in front of the gold-domed churches, street kiosks, and even by the heavily guarded cop shop. I was young, energetic, and eager to explore. I tried Ukrainian cuisine and every night ate to the point of unbuttoning my shirt. I tried every brand of Ukrainian beer, and was forced to conclude that American brewers were mediocre at best. I also nourished my soul and made it to the cave monastery, where I held up a candle and walked through the catacombs filled with Saints. I even touched one of the coffins and imitating a Ukrainian woman kissed one of the icons. Imitating Ukrainian youth I took shortcuts walking through the caves and before I knew it ended up outside, not far from the European Square. That place was a treat in itself. Geographically and aesthetically perfect, for one. Well-decorated and perfectly up kept, for two, and most importantly, well, it featured lots of Ukrainian women. After the initial strike of awe was over I looked around to properly sample the central slice of Kiev. There was a giant globe in front of the post office. I found little interest in learning the distance from Kiev to elsewhere in the world, so I switched my attention to the fountain that shined like a rainbow and lightly sprinkled every passerby. There was also a giant clock on the lawn that showed a current time and featured hordes and hordes of pigeons. But my favorite part in the square, besides the women, was the elevated, gold-plated Archangel Michael that guarded the peace with his golden sword and blessed every Ukrainian soul. I visited Him on the last day of my trip, and after throwing a coin in the Dnieper, I prayed to Him to let me stand in His presence again.
My prayer was answered in the affirmative. But before it happened my desire to travel has waned. Nonetheless, ignoring the news about the recent revolution and the warning from the State Department, I dared to go. Betting on my own strength and the courage of my ancestors I boarded the plane and nine hours later I was back in Kiev. The moment I entered the capital I knew that the city has changed. The heart has bled and bore a wound that was terribly slow to heal. On the way from the airport I sullenly stared at the abundance of grey. The color of melancholy swallowed the capital. Soot covered pavement, overflowing garbage containers, abandoned store fronts, and vandalized properties seemed trivial in comparison with what I saw at the European Square. Looking at the place that just a year ago I called idyllic, I was wholeheartedly shocked. This time not at the number of women, but at the abundance of damage I’ve witnessed. A smoke tarnished building, the former conservatory, gazed horridly at me. That boring postal globe was rudely cracked and the pavement underneath uncouthly broken into many pieces. The giant clock had stopped. The fountain was empty. Only the blessed Michael stayed the same. But even He, I am sure, wanted to leave this horrid scene behind. Below Him were flowers and pictures of those who lived and died beside his feet. I walked a little closer and looked into the faces of boys and men who fell under the battle’s sharpened axe. “Be gone,” their weary faces whispered. “Do not come back,” their gloomy eyes agreed. I did not know what to answer. But I exactly knew what I must do. I clasped my hands, looked up at the unhappy Michael, and lightly said: “Please bless their souls and help me make it home…”
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