Brokenhearted Ukrainian-Americans turn their sorrow to resolve. The war hits home

Last week I visited a Slavic church in Meridian and met a crowd of single-minded people on a lifesaving mission. Hustling with resolve, they were packing supplies for Ukrainian refugees; the high school gym-sized room had perhaps 30 people of all ages diligently sorting and boxing donated items. Some of it was blankets, socks, baby clothes, hiking boots and camping gear; some was food like protein bars; all of it was nitty-gritty essentials.

The walls were already piled high with large identical shipping boxes about the size of a kitchen stove. There were already more than 50 boxes, and more piled up by the minute.

I joined an efficient line of people dropping off donations, which included an offer of Ukrainian food for each donor, which didn’t surprise me. My ancestors were from Lithuania in roughly that part of the world — and those cultures are what my mother used to call “cookie pushers” — if you refuse an offer of food they are truly hurt. Seriously, don’t even try. They will plop a plate down in front of you anyway, so you might as well save your breath and eat it.

Seeking Ukrainian translators for a journalist friend, I ventured inside and asked if I could help with packing and was handed tape and scissors. I found a place where volunteers sorted donations, removing excess packaging materials and passing them down an assembly line to be boxed up.

Before I could start a young woman gestured that I should come with her. She apologized, but wanted to know who the heck I was, saying they had to be cautious for a number of reasons. I said I understood and introduced myself. She was thrilled to find I had contacts in the world of media, and called over four women whom she said were educated and would love to help with translations “if it will help fight Putin’s lies.” They all excitedly exclaimed in Ukrainian; three were explaining what I had said to one non-English-speaking woman.

Eagerly, they offered photos and videos on their phones of family and friends in Ukraine. They told me about what was happening that very day with some of them. Their despair threatened to suffocate, but I was there to listen.

A young man ventured over and showed me a video of his wife and son, on the road out of Ukraine into Poland. He cried as he told me he’d come to America as a student and she and the baby were soon to join them “when Putin smashed our world.” Two men heard him and put their arms around his shoulders. He leaned on them and tried to stop crying. I could feel the brotherhood among them and had to choke back tears, not for the last time that day.

Outside, a couple sat on boxes taking a coffee break, and I asked if I could join them. The two broken-hearted Ukrainian-Americans were eager to talk. The husband was half-Russian with parents in Kursk. He has not been able to reach them and couldn’t think why, and was very worried. His wife’s family had fled Kharkiv and made their way all the way across Ukraine to Poland. She had talked to them when they arrived at a refugee center, but not since and was clearly exhausted with stress and worry.

“This is why I am here today,” she said. “Many people need these supplies and I have hopes that some will reach my parents and brother.” Both came to America as students, and now, she runs a home daycare and he is a mechanic. They feel safe in Idaho, but also guilty about living an easy life while tragedy unfolds in their homeland, and long to go back and fight. “But we are told we would be a burden, taking away food needed for refugees.”

Inside again, I stood back a moment and took in the scene. The volunteers were moving with speed and zeal, and the air still crackled with both sorrow and enthusiasm. I went to my car and cried.