‘Daddy, when are we going back to our new flat in Kyiv?’ How do you explain war to a 4-year old?

My daughter has reached that magical age where she constantly asks ‘why?’ to just about everything. Why can’t I stick my fingers in that electrical socket? Why do the birds sing every morning? Why does the Gruffalo have a wart on his nose? Why do you read books without pictures, daddy?

Kids are insatiably curious.

‘Daddy, why are bad people trying to hurt people in Ukraine?’

How do I explain the concept of pure, unadulterated evil and cruelty and megalomania emanating from the most despicable person in the world and the most reviled, loathsome nation in the world, from inflicting untold misery and devastation on our beloved home? 

How do I explain what’s going on right now and how we may not be able to return to our home, and to our new, long-awaited, finally-completed flat that we've only recently moved into, and how do I explain to her that she might not see her kindergarten friends again?

Two weeks ago I made one of the most agonising and gut-wrenching decisions of my life. I took my daughter and came to the UK. My wife stayed in Kyiv, with her family. She, her sister and mother have since left and just completed their long and winding trek to Poland, where they are safe in Warsaw. We will all be re-uniting very soon, either there or elsewhere.

Sunday, 13 February: one of the most surreal days ever. My daughter turned four. We had a birthday party in our new flat, still largely furniture-less. My in-laws were over. The mood was somber and bittersweet. We were leaving the next day. We all put on a brave face for our darling little one on her special day. Emotions were all over the place. I alternated between being numb and being in a daze.

That night, Super Bowl Sunday, usually one of my favourite nights of the year. I tried watching it, which meant staying up all night, to keep myself distracted. I hadn’t slept in weeks anyway, so what was the point? I barely processed the game and what was going on. 

I feel helpless, gutted and beyond heartbroken. The word ‘surreal’ is getting thrown around willy-nilly and we’re starting to run out of adjectives to describe the monstrosities being inflicted upon Ukraine.

My daughter maybe seems to get what’s going on.

Her take:

‘In war, there are bomba – daddy, say with me, ‘bomba’. And people die. But me and mummy won’t die, because you will protect us. I don’t want to die. I will die when I am old.’

‘Daddy, I don’t want you and mummy to die. You are not old.’

‘Daddy, why can’t we go back to Ukraine?’

I’m an anxious wreck during normal times, but this…I can barely function, my thoughts are barely coherent, my mind is constantly foggy, my heart constantly palpitating, the anxiety steadily courses through my veins…and christ, I’m not even there, experiencing the most traumatic things a human being could ever expect to face in life. 

I first came to Ukraine in 2005, for my first teaching job in Lviv. I left after nine months – I loved Lviv but that was the plan all along.

But I couldn’t stay away forever. I returned in 2010, this time to Kyiv.

Over a quarter of my life has been in Ukraine. It’s the closest thing to home. It is home. I’m not sure where home is. Was. Will be. Has ever been. It’s complicated. I’ve lived everywhere, never settling anywhere.

Until now, where I met my wife, had a daughter, bought a flat. This was it, our future, my adopted home.

It’s not perfect. Friends, students, former students…you’ve heard my occasional gripes. Readers, you’ve read about the quirks that drive me mad. But I’ve always consistently maintained that nowhere is perfect. Everywhere has its foibles and drawbacks. I love Kyiv, warts and all. Probably more than anywhere else. And there’s nowhere else I really want to live.

I’ve had raised eyebrows and puzzled looks from people over the years when they ask why I’d stayed so long. I couldn’t always give a straight answer. But somehow, whatever I said, made some sort of sense.

And my god, do I love the people. Just look at what they’re doing. Ukraine is quickly becoming, if it hasn’t already, the most badass country on earth. You’ll never take that away from them. 

My beloved Ukrainians, I’m with you in my heart, even though I’m afar. I feel like I’ve left you, like I’ve betrayed you. I want to be back. I’m aching to get back. 

I still want to buy a couch for our new flat. I still have homework assignments to give back to my students (Viacheslav, that was a damn good essay you wrote about celebrity culture, sorry for doubting you). I still owe a friend a beer (Viktoria, I swear I’ll buy you that beer!). I still have a present for a friend’s newborn son (Nastia, I’ll find a way to get it to you).  

I want my daughter to be able to sleep in her brand-new bunk bed, which she’s only had for two weeks. I want my daughter to go to her weekly dance classes, which she loves and is doing so well at. I want my daughter to play with her new birthday presents, especially the microscope she’d been asking for for so long because she wants to see germs. I want my daughter to help us slowly continue turning our new flat into our cosy new home. I want my daughter to get excited when she sees the 118 bus come to take us home after I pick her up from kindergarten. I want my daughter to see her kindergarten friends again (except that nasty little shit Masha, who’s already a bad influence on her, but hell, in the circumstances I’m even ready to forgive her).

I want my daughter to be able to go home again.

But I’m not really sure how to explain what war is.

Слава Україні! Slava Ukraini! Glory to Ukraine!