Seeing the Pink Through the Red Mist: Tales From Ukraine
I was thinking about posting more pictures of dead babies. At some point, I saved them and cataloged the pictures posted on Telegram of dead kids after Russian ballistic attacks. One was from an attack in my city, Odesa, 300 miles from the front. An Iranian-made, Shahed drone struck an apartment building, and the building collapsed.
The photo blurred out the face of the mother holding her baby in her arms. Another picture of a boy in his Batman pajamas crushed by the building. The father lived. He was in a different room. He lost his wife and children that night. So I don't cause offense or give nightmares, I've posted a photo of the mother holding the baby after being baptized a month or so earlier instead.
That's when I stopped writing. I stopped looking at the pictures.
I went for a few days posting about attacks on Odesa. I thought I should post these days of attacks. Tell the world that we are being terrorized. It was an active month for the Russians. But people get sick of that shit. Especially when it's not in their backyard, it has the same effect as constantly posting your meals from Applebees, T.G.I. Fridays, or Waffle House. The war in Ukraine is like a spam posting of the Waffle House All-Star Special on a daily basis.
On my Instagram, I like to post the nice days—the memorable days—more so for me than anybody else. I like how these days pop back into memories later on or are available whenever I want to see those moments again.
I've received the "really looks like a war" comments. Come to find out, some family and friends are war deniers. They tell other people who tell me that the war must not be that bad, or I wouldn't keep my family here. Sure. We are not in towns like Kharkiv or Kramatorsk, which are in FPV drone and artillery ranges in some places. Here in Odesa, we have our fair share of Shahed Drones and ballistic missiles.
My daughter is 1.5, and we've had a few close calls. The day she was born, she was moved to the bunker in the hospital while Momma and I waited in the hallway while ballistic missiles flew to Odesa. One night I ignored the alarm, and an air defense missile scared the shit out of me as it ripped through the sky, slamming into a Shahed drone over the sea. She slept all bundled up in her buggy as the other massive suicide drone flew overhead. I didn't have time to pull out my phone and record those precious moments.
Maybe I should post these pictures of dead kids. Everywhere. At some point, I'll get flagged, and they will get removed and only available on fucked up obscure websites like crazyshit.com, where you can find videos of Russian soldiers raping women and shooting civilians. You can even watch the video of Wagnerites cutting the balls off a Ukrainian defender. Normal people don’t go to those sites.
I’m sure nobody wants to see my daily posts of Russian tanks driving over a car with a family inside. Cluster munitions detonated over a recreation area, killing kids and dogs, or Russians sport-killing people with FPV drones because they can. It's good training.
Maybe we should leave the bodies in the street as they fell. Every day, the people can let the sweet aroma of innocence waft the pallet as the little bodies decompose. Let the stray dogs eat them. When their bones are picked clean, we can make a kind of Capuchin monument for the innocent. Leave the blood stains on the pavement.
Maybe pour amber over the mother and her baby. Clear everything else out. Polish it. Put a live camera feed straight into every world leader's office so they can see the result of their decisions that eventually end up in the purest form of human evolution.
We're tired of it.
On November 25th, I was at swimming lessons with the baby. An explosion shook the windows of the building. The other moms didn't say anything, so I kept my mouth shut. My heart raced as I dipped the baby underwater to the bottom of the pool, let her go, and watched her swim back to the surface.
Later, I walked to the bicycle shop to pick up my stepson's new bike for his birthday. Thankfully, we had swimming lessons that day, or I would have been in the area of the explosion. A ballistic missile hit a civilian apartment building. I walked past the crying babushkas and volunteers handing out blankets, hot meals, and plywood. I picked up the bike and road back just in time to see a woman get off a bus across the street. She ran towards the blown-up buildings, forcing cars to stomp on the brakes. A police officer took her in his arms as she sobbed, and he led her back to the buildings. I kept riding.
The boy was excited when he got home and saw his new bike. We went for burgers later. We took pictures of the artisan burgers and a few family selfies. We left the place with our stomachs full and our Instagram stories broadcasting the celebration of life and family. The next day, Biden authorized the use of HIMARS into Russia.
Wrong Speak is a free-expression platform that allows varying viewpoints. All views expressed in this article are the author's own.
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I can tell you what you are experiencing is normal. That doesn't mean it is easy. I am a veteran that has been to war. How it affects everyone is unique. The insensitivity of people not there and how they view it you can't really control. Some people can't handle ugly reality of war. If that is your home, why would you run away? Sounds like some toxic attitudes. Stay safe and take care!