Anton Eine - The Thin Blue-Yellow Line Between Love and Hate: A war diary from Ukraine

The Thin Blue-Yellow Line Between Love and HateA war diary from UkraineAnton EineKyiv-Lviv, February-June 2022

Translated by Simon Geoghegan

Copyright 2022 Anton Eine

All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by: Anton Eine

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank all the people who agreed to share their stories, their experiences and the extreme emotions they have been through with me and the rest of the world. As well as their pain, fear, love and hate.

I am immensely grateful to those who have so bravely held our countrys defenses together over the last one hundred days, preventing Russias fascists from wiping our people and culture from the face of the earth. To the valiant men and women of the Ukrainian army and to all the volunteers who support them.

I am grateful to all the people of good will from around the world for their support, help and weapons, which have allowed Ukraine to continue to fight for its independence and existence and repulse our cruel and brutal invaders.

I am grateful to our relatives who sheltered us in Lviv, providing us with a secure snug apartment, sharing their familial love, care, delicious homemade food and Lviv hospitality.

Not Quite A Beginning

I started writing this book not knowing if I would be able to finish it. Knowing that at any moment an Iskander or Kalibr missile might come flying through our window and it would no longer matter or make any sense. But the idea was born somewhere deep inside my heart, emerging out of strong feelings of love and hate. Out of a desire to destroy our enemies and protect those I love from danger.

I started writing this book one sleepless night in Kyiv. Once again, I had been kept up all night by the constant roar of our aerial defense systems and the enemys exploding bombs nearby, listening out for their approaching missiles and wondering whether I should grab my wife and young son and run for the air raid shelter.

I was lying on the floor by the front door, where we had slept every night since the beginning of this relentless war, and suddenly I knew what I had to do. I had to write about all this. Because I am a writer, because I can and because I want to. Because someone has to write about this war, someone has to share with the world the feelings, experiences and the stories of the different people who have since been in touch with me.

This realization came to me on the third night. For the first three days, I was simply in shock, almost in a complete stupor, our world was collapsing before our eyes and in an instant, everything that had once been important ceased to have any value. Our world changed forever with the roar of the explosions and gunfire that woke us on the night of February 24th.

Elizabeth Kbler-Rosss theory of the five stages of accepting grief states that people who are going through loss experience a series of emotions: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Despite being perfectly acquainted with this theory, I couldnt stop myself refusing to accept this new reality. I did not understand my place in it. I did not know how to live with it.

Then there was the Russian warship, go fuck yourself! episode, which struck home with its insane heroism and our border guards subtle and masterful sense of humor. Then I read a poem by Oleksandra Smelyanskaya, which was complex, heart-wrenching and full of protest and anguish. A little later on Twitter, I came across Jenni Williamss verse Slava Ukraini (Glory To Ukraine), dedicated to the children of Ukraine during these cruel and brutal early hours of the war. I was extremely touched to read such a subtle and supportive handling of this complex topic from an English-speaking author.

And suddenly something in me cracked and broke. Like a dam hit by a missile strike. I was lying awake at night, mulling the news and other peoples literary reactions to it over and over in my head, when I abruptly realized that over these first three days, I had completely forgotten that I myself was a writer, a poet and songwriter.

I had had other priorities on my mind I needed to ensure my familys security, to stock up on food and water, to get cash out of the bank, to charge our power banks, to pack our emergency bags, to make sense of the madness that was going on around me, to decide what to do next...

Creativity, books, songs and poems were the last thing on my mind. We had suddenly hurtled to the foot of Maslows pyramid of human needs that asserts that people are motivated first to fulfill basic needs (food, clothing, safety) before moving on to other, more advanced and complex ones. We were sitting there stunned, propped up against the bottom step, at rock bottom and all we could think about was survival. At that moment, I was a father, a husband, a son and a brother but definitely not an author.

The rumble of artillery and explosions was not helping me sleep but any hope of rest was dispelled by the thoughts racing through my mind. I have a very unhealthy psychological tic. As soon as I start composing something in my mind at night, and my brain picks up speed, stalking, chasing and finally pouncing on the challenge at hand there is no way I am ever going to be able to get to sleep.

And that was how I started writing my poem: Little Russian Soldier Boy. The result turned out to be complex and straightforward, but I was pleased with it. All night long, I tried to keep the different stanza options in my head to avoid waking my wife and son, and as morning approached, I ran for my laptop to get everything down.

By the break of day, I realized that I needed to write a book about this war. To hell with my sci-fi-fantasy and Jesus-Christ-rock-star novels I was supposed to be prepping for publication. The only thing that mattered now was the war. And I felt the need to empty my feelings, emotions and experiences onto the pages of a book. To help other people tell their stories and to bring them to readers all over the world.

This meant that in accordance with Kbler-Rosss grief acceptance theory, I had immediately jumped from the first stage denial, to the fifth acceptance. Although the anger stage hasnt gone anywhere in a hurry. But the real me had returned, pushing aside the small frightened creature curled up on the rug by my front door.

This me stroked the creatures head and quietly and reassuringly whispered to him that everything was going to be fine now. It was clear now what I had to do. To do what I do well. To write. To awaken people from their indifference. And to seek and find understanding and develop a response. The creature stopped whimpering, got up from the rug, dusted itself off, and snarled softly at the enemy:

Right, you bastards. Words are my weapon of choice. And I will not sleep or eat until I have done everything in my power to stick my words in your ravening craw and long may you choke on them afterwards.

The fourteenth day of this bloody and senseless war has just ended. I am sitting in Lviv, where the sound of gunfire and explosions cannot be heard. My son is sniffling softly next to me in the bed. I had just finished another interview, this time with Canadian cable TV. It involved a lot of correspondence and coordination. I was tired. I could have done with a drink. A wee dram of whisky. But alcohol is not for sale, and when we were fleeing our home, I didnt bring any of my precious supplies with me. There were other priorities. But I do not regret this and have no complaints. I have a roof over my head, Im warm, Ive eaten. Millions of Ukrainians today do not have any of these luxuries.

So, all I can do is quietly close my laptop and try to get some sleep after a long and difficult road and the complete absence of any rest over the past two weeks. In the meantime, Ill sign off this not quite a beginning with Little Russian Soldier Boy.

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