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“Tanks are coming into town, and I don’t know what will happen.”

“Hi everyone, we want to let you know that given that Russia entered Ukraine last night, we cannot teach for now, there’s almost no internet…” A* wrote.

What the actual fuck?

My eyes were still glued half-shut, and I started googling like a maniac. It was true.

Pictures of exploding bombs. Troops crossing borders. Blood. Blood. Blood. More explosions. More troops. Not much yet in the Western press. It was too early. I had to wait. People crying. People screaming. More explosions.

What the hell was I supposed to answer?

For the previous year, I have been working as a teacher for an online language school aimed at Russian-speaking students. I still do, which is to say that I have been taking a deep dive into the lives of people from Russia, Moldova, Estonia, Belarus and Ukraine on a weekly basis for a while now. It was very new to me at first – as a western European person, I had so many new codes to learn, culturally speaking. But it was fascinating to exchange culture, story and conversation with people living such different lives to me.

I know about my students’ joys, their fears, their struggles. I know people who are tied to their traditions and cultures; I know people who moved away from their homes for opportunity or love. I know people who lost everything because they had to flee. I know people who are still there. The fighters, the hedonists, the shy ones, the funny ones, the people who tell me their country is the best on Earth and those who hate their country. I know their kids’ names, the jobs they do, and why they fought with their partners last night.

My colleagues are also from Eastern Europe. Ukrainians. Russians. We exchange voice notes and Whatsapp messages; we talk about progress – about helping people the best we can. It doesn’t matter where anyone is from.

But on that day, February 24th, 2022, it did. Russia was invading Ukraine.

Who was Ukrainian? I went through the list in my mind, and then I started texting. I didn’t know if it was appropriate. But I needed to know if they were okay. Could I ask if they were okay? Perhaps I could just send a message saying, “I hope you and your family are okay.”

B wrote in the teacher’s Whatsapp group: “We have no internet”.

I started freaking out. The internet is always down when horrible things are about to take place. What was about to take place?

A few hours later, C answered. “Thank you for your kind words,” she wrote. “I’ve been crying since 5am. All my family is there and I’ve been on the phone with them all day. There are bombings around my hometown, a lot of panic. It’s terrible. Tanks are coming into town, and I don’t know what will happen.”

My heart broke.

Later that day, I had a private class with D. She burst into tears. She told me how she had been harassed all day for being Russian not only by her colleagues, but also by her clients and her partner.

“They call me a murderer. They won’t stop calling me a murderer.”

I wished I could hug people on a Zoom call.

“Dear Sisters, I am at the border with my mother and my daughter. Can anyone in Poland host us if we manage to cross?”

The Host a Sister Facebook group was full of messages like this one. I kept on scrolling. I kept on crying. People were helping out. I didn’t even have a house to host people because I was living in an Airbnb.

“E’s internet is also down, so she can’t cover for B’s lesson. Can anybody cover this lesson?”

At least here I knew what to answer. “I’ll do it – I just need to move a few classes around.” It meant I’d teach for seven hours straight that day, but it didn’t matter.

“I wish I could go to Moscow. My daughter is a student there. I don’t know when I will be able to see her again. If something ever happens to her …” F said during the class, her eyes full of tears.

I felt so powerless. So I kept on doing what I do best: teaching and telling really bad jokes. If I got a smile out of a student, it was the only thing that mattered.

“Most of the students learning Russian said they wanted to stop. They don’t want to have anything to do with Russia at the moment. Most of us are going to lose our jobs. Everybody is emptying their bank account to get cash in case the whole system collapses,” G said.

“They say they’re going to kick us out of our houses. I’m terrified. I’m on Ukraine’s side. We never wanted this,” H texted.

“A single man’s madness is bringing the whole world to despair,” J answered.

*names have been initialled to protect privacy

Photo by Zac Gudakov

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Astray is based out of Lenapehoking / New York City: the homeland of the Lenape. Specifically, we’re in Manhattan: a name that comes from Mannahatta, meaning “island of many hills”. As grateful guests in this city, we recognize the strength and resilience of the Lenape, and extend our reverence to all Indigenous peoples everywhere. This acknowledgement comes from our commitment to working against the ongoing legacies of settler colonialism.