Some moments slip in quietly and change everything—like the morning I realized that the distance between academic theory and lived experience could collapse in a single Zoom call. Others arrive with the weight of history—like when a camera captures truths too urgent to ignore. On June 7th, 2025, in Kamloops, British Columbia, both kinds of moments unfolded—independently, but with a shared heartbeat.
What began as a Ukrainian Voices session for our international social work conference, Educating for Tomorrow: Social Work Values in a Global World, soon became something deeper. During our planning, fellow organizer Iryna Konstantiuk mentioned that her son Max had just completed a documentary about the war. He was in Vancouver. Could he come? The screening wasn’t planned, but the moment was too important to pass. I took personal responsibility for organizing Max’s visit to Kamloops.
I couldn’t have predicted how powerfully these two offerings—a mother’s virtual academic testimony and her son’s in-person film—would speak to separate audiences in a shared call for truth. Though only a few individuals participated in both sessions, together they formed one story of resistance across generations, mediums, and geographies.
Morning: A Voice from the Rubble
At 8:00 AM Pacific time—6:00 PM in Kyiv—Iryna joined our virtual conference not from a quiet study, but from the bombed remains of her home in Ukraine. Surrounded by rubble, she presented A Journal of Memories: Ukrainian Children about the War, based on her book Shchodennyk spohadiv: Dity pro viynu, a collection of poetry, stories, and drawings by children and teachers from Konotop, Sumy oblast.
Her voice, transmitted through a phone, cut through digital distance. The findings she shared—stories of violence, displacement, and survival—landed with devastating clarity. The statistics she cited became painfully real when delivered from the ruins of a home that had lived those numbers.
Those who joined the session from across Canada and internationally fell silent as she spoke. It was not simply a presentation—it was a transmission of truth. The book, available only in Ukrainian, was a deliberate act of cultural preservation. And in that moment, scholarship became survival. https://vsiknygy.com.ua/books/shchodennik_spogadiv_diti_pro_viynu_577086/
Evening: A New Audience, A Continued Truth
Later that day, an entirely different audience gathered at Thompson Rivers University. These were local Kamloops community members—students, faculty, newcomers, activists—who hadn’t joined the morning’s Zoom call. Most had no idea what had unfolded earlier, and yet what they encountered now was the second half of a story they hadn’t known was already in motion.
Max Khomenko, Iryna’s son, stood before them to screen Standing Free, his documentary on Ukraine’s war and the resilience of its people. Where Iryna had given voice to children’s memories of terror, Max showed what it looked like when adults refused to break under the same pressure.
The connection between mother and son’s work was rarely overtly stated, but deeply felt. Her morning testimony had honored children’s truth. His evening footage bore witness to what those children would grow into unless peace and justice prevailed. For the few who attended both events, the combined experience was overwhelming in its intimacy and clarity.
Parallel Acts of Witness
Though most attendees experienced only one part of the story, both events were bound by a common thread: truth delivered with integrity. Whether listening to Iryna’s voice crackle through Zoom from Kyiv, or watching Max’s images roll across a theater screen in Kamloops, participants were not passive observers. They were witnesses.
In both cases, people responded—not with apathy, but with care. Donations came in. Questions were asked. Conversations followed. Even without overlap in audience, both sessions reached their mark: the heart.
What I Learned as an Organizer
As an organizer, I had worried about tech glitches, travel plans, turnout. But that day taught me that meaningful impact doesn’t require perfect alignment—it requires courageous content and an open audience.
I didn’t need everyone to attend both events. I needed each event to carry its own integrity and invite its own form of engagement. That’s what happened.
The morning Zoom presentation wasn’t diminished because the evening crowd hadn’t seen it. And the evening screening wasn’t less powerful because its viewers hadn’t heard Iryna. Each moment stood on its own, yet together they offered something more: a testimony of truth that crossed every boundary—digital and physical, generational and emotional.
Conclusion: Truth Doesn’t Need Everyone—It Just Needs Someone
On June 7th, 2025, two separate gatherings bore witness to the same war, the same resistance, the same refusal to be silenced. One took place over Zoom, one in a university theater. A few people saw both. But many more were touched by one.
And that’s enough.
Because change doesn’t always require full attendance. It requires attention. It requires us to stop, to listen, to feel.
When Iryna’s voice carried from Kyiv to computer speakers across continents, and Max’s images illuminated a screen in Kamloops, they weren’t just telling us about Ukraine. They were asking something of us: to be present. To care. To act.
That day reminded me that whether we connect through a screen or sit together in a darkened theater, what matters is that we choose to show up for truth when it calls. Even if we only hear part of the story, our part can still change everything.
Special thanks to Natalia Bykovets for documenting Day 2 of our conference and to all the Ukrainian voices who transformed our academic gathering into something sacred.
Leave a Reply