In our hearts we are the ocean, but we are islands in our minds

Hear me, all who can hear in Russia,
I am writing in Russian
from my native Ukraine
I have not been forbidden

What have you imagined,
what are they feeding you,
how did they brainwash you
while they are feeding us bullets,
fear, deaths,
Is this what you call saving us?

—A poem for Russia from the front lines of Ukraine, translated by R.B. Lemberg.

? זאָג, פון אוקראינע װאס זיינט איר אװעק —

Quite apart from events on the world stage, every day this week has contained some additional stressor, of which the latest example was spatch needing to spend the day at the ER for what turned out to be diverticulitis. He is home now with antibiotics and enjoying some well-deserved soup. My ability to do very much this week beyond work has been somewhat frustrated. Someday, statistically, someone I care for or even just know socially will catch a break and it will be awesome.

In terms of ongoing resources for Ukaine, Razom seems to have the bases covered. I found myself saying elsenet that I don't think I'm old enough to blame it on the failure of historical memory, but I keep catching takes from people who seem to have forgotten that the Yugoslav Wars—Bosnia, Croatia, Kosovo—even happened and it is very strange. I understand the significance of the eight-decade mark since one stable sovereign nation in Europe invaded another. But it's not as though we haven't seen sieges and airstrikes in places that didn't look sufficiently (there are not enough scare quotes in the world) foreign as to feel safely distant since then.

Courtesy of a friend who is not on DW: mir zaynen do, af Ukraynish.