When I travelled through Europe this year, the contrast broke something in me.
When I spoke at the conferences with social workers from Vilnius, Riga, Tallinn, people are preparing. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But you see it in how they talk, in what they’re building, in how they look east. In Prague, the awareness is sharper still. These people understand geography is destiny.
Then you cross into Austria, the Netherlands, further west—and there are more Christmas markets. Glühwein. Lights. Children on carousels. Both realities exist simultaneously. Geography dictates who gets to be oblivious.
I usually post about the beautiful parts. The architecture, the food, the moments of normalcy. People sometimes ask why I don’t write more about the war, about what I hear when I talk to Ukrainians, about the conversations that keep me awake at night.
Here’s why.
What I Hear But Rarely Share
I read today Serhii Marchenko‘s post. He serves in the 4th Recruiting Center of the Territorial Defense Forces. He wrote about ТЦК—the Territorial Recruitment Centers that have become, depending on who you ask, either the only thing keeping the front from collapsing or symbols of everything broken in Ukraine’s mobilization system.
The key points he made deserve to be heard:
The math is brutal. Recruitment centers working with volunteers cannot fill the army’s needs. Not even close. The numbers are classified, but everyone who pays attention knows: without forced mobilization, the front line doesn’t exist. Every month, soldiers die, are wounded, become ill. They need replacements. This is not opinion. This is arithmetic.
The people doing this work are mostly veterans. Many working in ТЦК were wounded on the front, classified as limited fitness, and transferred to rear positions. They earn poverty wages—20,000 hryvnias ($662CAD) per month. They don’t want to chase civilians and push them into vans. But they’re soldiers. They follow orders.
The orders came from politicians. ТЦК’s function was supposed to be registration and distribution of conscripts. Finding and detaining people evading service should be police work. But politicians, worried about their ratings, pushed these functions onto the military—so citizens would hate soldiers instead of politicians.
A soldier (ТЦК worker) was killed in Lviv. A veteran. Someone who volunteered for the front when he didn’t have to. Who didn’t take medical discharge when he could have. His own people killed him. And under the news, people laughed. Posted mocking emojis. Called him what they call all ТЦК workers.
The comments under the post are a wound. Hundreds of Ukrainians arguing about whether mobilization workers deserve death. Whether it’s fair that poor men are caught on streets while rich ones sit in Bukovel. Whether the whole system is so corrupt that resistance is justified. Whether politicians have so thoroughly betrayed the country that nothing matters anymore.
And threaded through it all: people who understand that if the front falls, everything falls with it.
What Happens If the Front Falls
This is what people further from the border don’t seem to understand—or choose not to think about.
When Russia occupies territory, the families of those who fought for Ukraine are killed. Older people starve. Children are taken to Siberia, or indoctrinated to believe Ukraine was evil, or conscripted into Russia’s army to fight against the Czechs, against the Baltics, against whoever is next.
Russian ТЦК won’t give you a choice between service and hiding. The choice will be: fight for Russia or die.
This has happened before. It’s happening now in occupied territories. People walk quietly onto buses heading to the front—to fight against their own country. No protests. No resistance. Because resistance means death.
Those fighting on the front lines know this. They know that when they die, their families may die too. Or worse—their children will be raised to hate everything their parents loved.
This is not new. This is how empires have always been built. But many people don’t study history.
The Judgment From Both Sides
I left Ukraine more than twenty years ago. Became a Canadian citizen. For nearly four years now, I have helped to organize weekly vigils in Kamloops. I’ve raised money. I’ve taught students. I’ve tried to keep attention alive when the world wants to move on.
And still, sometimes, when I meet Ukrainians—especially those who stayed or in Diaspora—I hear it: Why aren’t you fighting?
The implication: I’m ukhylyant. A dodger. Someone who left to escape what others face.
I’ve stopped explaining. I don’t tell them I left in 2004, ten years before this phase of the war began. I don’t justify my citizenship. I simply say: there are many ways to stand with Ukraine. I’m grateful for those on the front line, and for those who support them wherever they are.
But it sits with me. The judgment. The impossible moral position of being neither there nor not-there. Of carrying Ukraine in my chest while someone tells me I abandoned it.
Why I Post Sunsets (at least on this post from the place in Europe I discovered in November, thanks to Ryanair and the wonderful social workers I met in Bucharest, and hope to join their conference in January 2027, PM me if you want to present there too)
Because I cannot post this every day.
Because the people reading my feed are exhausted too. I keep my feed semi-private (I create blog posts, too, that everyone can share from my website but not facebook posts). I know those who support me read them. Public education can be challenging, and I do not work 24/7, which means that sometimes I cannot respond but together we can keep raising awareness and keep balancing. It is not easy.
Because doom-scrolling through mobilization debates and casualty reports and political failures creates paralysis, not action.
Because sometimes I need to believe that beauty still exists. That a cathedral at sunset or a good meal with friends and family (my previous post) is not betrayal of those who suffer—it’s proof of what we’re trying to protect.
Because the war is not just about survival. It’s about whether there will be a Ukraine worth surviving for. A culture. A language. A way of being in the world that includes joy.
I don’t post sunsets instead of truth. I post them alongside it. The truth is in both: the Christmas markets and the military training. The glühwein and the body bags. The people who prepare for war and the people who pretend it won’t reach them.
What Can Be Done
Serhii’s post ended with a plea: understand why you’re still alive. Understand that without people filling those frontline positions—however they got there—there is no Ukraine.
For those in Ukraine: every contribution matters. Volunteering. Working. Paying taxes. Documenting. Training. Staying sane enough to function. The question isn’t whether you should join the army—that’s one answer among many. The question is: what can you do from where you are?
For those in the diaspora: sustained advocacy. Persistent fundraising. Counter-disinformation. Cultural preservation. Keeping media attention alive. Hosting displaced Ukrainians. Using professional skills. Not letting fatigue become silence.
For those who stand with Ukraine: contact your representatives. Donate to verified organizations. Learn actual Ukrainian history, culture, language. Push back on “both sides” narratives. Support Ukrainian businesses and show solidarity in the way you can.
The worst thing is not making the wrong choice. The worst thing is pretending the choice doesn’t exist.
A Note on the Division
What frightens me most in that Facebook thread is how military and civilian have become two separate peoples within one country. Serhii wrote it plainly: This is exactly what Putin needs.
The fracture is real. The corruption is real. The political failures are real.
But so is the front line. So are the 1-2 infantrymen holding kilometers of territory. So is the math that says without reinforcement, everyone loses—including those who hid.
I don’t know how to heal this. I don’t think anyone does. But I know that posting only about concerns or only about joy doesn’t help. Both exist. Both are true. The task is to hold them together without breaking.
Вічна пам’ять загиблому. Eternal memory to the fallen.
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