OPINION: My Pacifist Dilemma

An old op-ed writing gimmick I’ve been guilty of using is to start a piece with a weighty quote from some great person, think Orwell or Churchill. This signals to the reader that there’s some real gravitas coming up. Instead, here’s a text message from an ordinary person I received the other night: “For the children of Ohmatdyt, we remember; we will take revenge.” This grim sentiment was sent to me by Oleksandr, a Ukrainian drone pilot based in the north of the country, close to the invading Russians. His blood was boiling.

And so was mine. That day, Russian missile strikes had killed 41 men, women, and children in various Ukrainian cities, and destroyed the children’s hospital referenced by my friend. Civilian casualties are of course nothing new in Ukraine. Oxfam estimated on the second anniversary of the invasion that 30,457 civilians had been killed and wounded, with casualties increasing every day.

There was a time, not so long ago, when I considered myself a pacifist. Although I’d been raised Catholic and understood the non-negotiability of “thou shalt not kill,” this wasn’t some abstract religious or philosophical position I’d adopted. It was a practical conclusion after having seen too much death. Following years as a humanitarian worker in the Congo, Liberia, and Sierra Leone during their civil wars; Rwanda during its genocide; and a slew of other broken places, I imagined no alternative to violence than to be steadfastly against it, in all cases. “Just wars” be damned.

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This has changed over the past three years, beginning with seeing the devastation visited upon Tigrayan peasants in northern Ethiopia, and then solidifying with the brutal Russian invasion of Ukraine in 2022. I won’t say my view on war evolved; hell, it might have devolved, but it is now radically different. I’m not sure why. The world hasn’t changed; it’s always been a bloody mess. Perhaps as I enter old(ish) age, I’m less willing to be patient and hope for peaceful outcomes. My experience tells me that conflicts rarely end because of a change of heart; they end because one side has bled more than the other. Ultimately though, I got sick of passively watching ordinary people being cut down and decided to do something about it.

So, with the blessing of my patient girlfriend, I moved to Ukraine and now spend half my time in the Black Sea city of Odesa, an elegant city full of belle époque buildings and sharp, sarcastic people, but one that is struck with some regularity by Russian drones and missiles. Operating out of cafes, I run my own little one-man charity, raising funds to procure equipment for several Ukrainian military units I’ve “adopted.” Tires and tourniquets, radios and rations, we try to fill some small gaps in the defenders’ supply chain.

From my Odesa base, I sometimes travel to areas that are only a couple of miles away from the invaders, calling upon isolated military units holding the line. I meet soldiers who, until recently, were farmers and factory workers, cab drivers and computer programmers, and, in one case, a massage therapist. They’re unfailingly hospitable, offering me bread and sausage and cups of tea, and both curious and deeply moved that someone from the mythical land of America would be interested in visiting them. Some of these men will die, and others will be deeply scarred. And knowing that makes me look back at my pacifist self with some nostalgia.

On a recent trip to the front, I mentioned offhandedly to a Ukrainian friend who accompanied me that I hoped the troops we’d met would remain safe. She nodded, then paused, and finally turned to me and asked, “But if they stay safe, who will protect us?”

The views expressed in this opinion article are the author’s and not necessarily those of Kyiv Post.