It is still very cold, but the once pristine snow is getting dirty, the jagged icebergs along the roads are showing signs of wear, and the goodwill of the Olympic games is turning into a new cold war.
I am so weary of winter. I am so weary of aggressive, arrogant, bellicose men (and a number of women) playing dice with our world.
I am almost fifty five years old, and all my life I’ve witnessed world events turning and twisting in circles. Bullies push everyone else around and there seem to be no grownups in charge. And before I was around to bear witness, stories, poetry and history tell of predicaments far worse.
Will nothing ever change?
I remember this scene from one of those Russian novels I love so much. Maybe I read it in “Children of the Arbat,” I don’t know.
This is what happens:
It’s WWII, wintertime in the Soviet Union. A mother has recently found out that her young son has been killed in the army and has traveled far, from one part of the country to another, to visit his grave. She finally arrives at the cemetery on a cold, cold afternoon. She stands by his grave for a long time and the only thing she thinks to do is take off her coat and cover up the grave. Then she lies on top of the coat and tries to warm up the grave with her body. She is worried that her child is cold.
This is how mothers feel when their children die. Russian mothers and Ukrainian mothers and American mothers and Serbian mothers. All mothers.
Truce. Let’s all take a deep breath and think for a moment. A solution that works for all can be found.
And remember that once an innocent dies, nothing can warm up his or her body again. Spring will never come for him or for those who love him.WWII Soviet propaganda poster – Motherland Is Calling!