Meditations on the conflicts we cannot name
And what they might mean in light of the Russia-Ukraine war
On February 28, 2022 I published a poem on Instagram* after spending 4 tense days watching the Russian invasion of Ukraine unfold live on TikTok with much of the world, as President Zelenskyy made an impassioned case for assistance while fighting for his country. As I watched news anchors grapple with what to make of Putin’s behavior, my mind turned towards home and the erratic behavior so many of us have learned to navigate from the margins.
Today President Zelenskyy addressed the U.N. General Assembly, 572 days after Russia invaded his homeland. Since sufficient aid is still terrifyingly slow to arrive, even as children are weaponized and troop casualties approach half a million, it’s on my mind again.
Mending is possible, even after the worst tragedies and cutting divides. But it does not happen on accident.
*poem has been edited slightly since original publication.
This week is our comedy of errors Turned despondent tragedy As we realize our folly To think that the drip of time and space Would dislocate patterns We’ve never named much less erased. What is allowed to slip through syntax and Evade our clear language Makes homes in our bones and Burrows into our soil, Until we are so overcome that we exclaim in shock As though the egregious parasites Were not always among us, in us. It started in your home, where your Father’s abuse was “You know how Dad is…” And your brother’s crimes were his “troubling spell.” Maybe it ached most when Mother’s whip of a tongue came out to lash— “Why’d you say that to her? You Know how she is when she’s worked up.” You do know how she is. Know it in your cells and the pulse of your heart. Know it in the clear words that echo in your brain That you will not say out loud. And this is our tragedy, that we live with War in our homes, impotent to uproot it or Negotiate a cease-fire Because peacemaking comes in words And our words had already been stolen to Neutralize everything in sight, But not our enemies. Do we really wonder then That these endless re-enactments Surface and resurface on a global stage? How can you name and tame a global oppressor When you go to bed and dinner parties With your own each week And never hone your ability to fight Beyond a bland euphemism?
I think a lot about culpability, complicity, and repair.
Not for the sake of contemplation. I’m not interested at prodding wounds endlessly, staring at gaping holes with mouth ajar. Mending is a sacred art, and one I am committed to practicing.
Next week, I’ll be sharing an essay on culpability and change. I’ve been considering apologies: the ones I didn’t get, the ones I give, the ones I got that I wish I hadn’t, the ones I withhold, and what being able to apologize might have to do with cultivating progress and fighting misinformation—from the political to the anti-vax and everything in between.
Until then, may we name the truth of the harms we see, the harms we do, and the harms done to us so that we can begin to know how to mend this beautiful, bloody world where children are being bombed by the tempestuous orders of men where they should be tucked into bed.