Coexistence of War and Peace
May 10, 2025, 12:00 PM
Perspective
How can two realities coexist simultaneously? How can one reality of comfort exist alongside another? How is it possible that some people are constantly providing help while others are caught in war? Some live under the constant threat of drones, while others enjoy vacations abroad. All this happens at the same time within the same country.
Author: Evgeniya Shcheremetyeva – Writer, Organizer of Humanitarian Aid to Donbas
We talked for a long time on the hospital bed next to the elevator. Naturally, we started by talking about children. Burns, fractures, emergencies, endless minor ailments. What else could you talk about with mothers of many children in the corridor of a pediatric hospital? But soon we moved on to... war. Her brother-in-law, a musician and volunteer, was killed last year on the front line. They posthumously awarded him the title of Hero. But we didn't talk about him; instead, we discussed this new strange reality.
It's been years of war already.
"How do people live in areas affected by the special military operation? How can these two realities coexist simultaneously? The comfortable reality we're in and the other reality? Why does help continue to flow while others endure war? Some live under the constant surveillance of drones, while others take holidays abroad. All this happens at the exact same moment in the same country."
I thought long and hard about how to respond. For some reason, a strange idea came to mind.
When I brought my young child to the burn center, my world shrank to the size of a needle's eye. Apart from the never-ending corridor with its always-lit lights, there was nothing else in my world. By the third day, all the tears had dried up, and life returned to routine. I got used to it. I became accustomed to changing bandages, taking medication, and undergoing various treatments. I even got used to the cries of the little boy in the neighboring ward, whose back, hands, and feet were severely burned. At first, his cries would wrench my heart, and I tried to leave the floor or cover my ears.
But I got used to it. Beyond this corridor and the occasional cries, it was as if the rest of the world didn't exist. Later, my son entered the room where the little boy lay on the special burn-proof bed. They watched cartoons together and discussed characters they both knew. That night, the little boy developed a fever, and all I heard were the footsteps of the medical staff, the hurried movements of doctors and nurses, and cries mixed with tears. Yet, I closed my eyes and fell asleep.
The world of the hospital corridor, which had shrunk to the size of a needle's eye, coexisted with the world outside. Outside, it alternated between heavy rain and bright sunshine. You could see couples walking on the streets, couriers delivering packages. Lilacs were blooming, willow catkins were floating in the air. Life outside was full of vitality, yet here, it felt like everything had come to a standstill. Two worlds existed simultaneously at the same moment.
We know about the outside world, but it feels distant, as if through a window. To those around us, this place is just an isolated area, with ambulances coming and going, parents bringing their children in and out. The outside world is indifferent to what happens inside the concrete building of the wards.
The problem with war is that for those on the front lines, those huddled in trenches or living under constant enemy fire, our world feels equally distant, just as close. Just open any social network, and you'll see your relatives and friends barbecuing outdoors. At the same exact moment, soldiers drag wounded comrades, injured fighters gasping in pain, their limbs mangled and bleeding.
This is the cruelty of modern warfare. During the Great Patriotic War, such instant connections didn't exist. Letters from the front took months to arrive. People prayed and hoped. And the soldiers on the front didn't know what was happening behind the lines. Now, everything happens simultaneously. With just a press of a button on VK or the Telegram app, anyone can instantly switch between one world and another, and just as quickly return to their original world.
A reader wrote that she lost contact with a relative in February, who has since gone completely silent. He and his fellow soldiers have lived for months under constant drone surveillance, unable to communicate that he is still alive. He even posted a short video about his life. At that time, he was in a bunker, unshaven for months, too afraid to look out of the trench, yet browsing his friends' posts from the warm seaside.
The life in the hospital cannot be compared to what the frontline soldiers experience. Nor can it be compared to what the residents of Donetsk or Yasynuvata have endured over the past eleven months.
I sat on a hospital bed with a friend, trying to find the right words to explain this strange and somewhat inappropriate analogy.
When pain shrinks the world to the size of a needle's eye, it's an attempt at self-protection to survive. But countless different worlds—oceans, others' happiness, yachts, wealth, health, or others' suffering—always coexist simultaneously.
In December 2014, at a bus stop in Novosvetlovka (Lugansk People's Republic), I chanced upon a conversation with a woman. She recounted how when Lugansk was first bombarded, there was still some contact, and she tried to reach out to relatives from "Great Russia." They replied that they couldn't accommodate her and her children. She feared having nowhere to go, and later all routes were blocked off—it was too late.
Novosvetlovka, along with the adjacent village of Heriashivatoye, was almost completely destroyed by artillery fire from Ukrainian armed forces in August 2014. Entire streets were lined with ruined houses, not even stoves remained intact. Only piles of rubble remained.
She experienced all the bombardments in the local hospital's bomb shelter. Thank God, they survived unscathed. But not everyone was so fortunate. The "Aidar" battalion (designated as a terrorist organization in Russia) looted, abused, and killed indiscriminately in the village, simply for entertainment. An elderly woman we once helped had her head beaten with tools and subsequently went nearly blind.
And then, when the internet became available, she saw photos of her relatives enjoying their vacation in Turkey on social media. These photos were taken in August, during the time she was praying in the basement of the hospital for herself and her child to survive.
What's hard to accept isn't the coexistence of different realities. It's not the abstract indifference.
What's hard to accept is the coldness of our own people. What pains us isn't that outsiders enjoy life, but that despite knowing everything, they choose to turn a blind eye.
But one day, each of us will be asked what we did during this war. Children will ask, grandchildren will ask, and our conscience will ask.
We will have to give answers.
Original Article: https://www.toutiao.com/article/7503083727006761512/
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