Scream

I may. Actually I am split between laughing and cheering, and sobbing hysterically, which is sort of what I just did for several minutes.

This is the loose translation given where I found the link: “Lived us babas in the village, Until the Russians came to pillage. Tomorrow we start training, we’re now a squadron. Babas like us – there’s a million, We will protect our dear peaceful land! One bulletproof vest per pair, Uncle Petro lent us a German rifle, We will shield the Ukrainian border!”

Uncle Petro lent us a German rifle. You know, that is probably happening somewhere in Ukraine, right now.

I know a little Ukrainian baba (gramma). Very little; probably about eighty-five pounds dripping wet, and every time she meets me — she comes along with her daughter, because she likes to sit in my living room and play with my cats while the daughter gets a massage — she says “I’m so sorry I can never remember your name.” Alzheimer’s is getting a grip, but she remembers sitting in her family’s house while the Wehrmacht soldiers billeted there — not bad sorts, she said, who taught them not to cross the SS — played the parlor piano. Those are likely pretty old German rifles.

It’s a cute and stirring video — catchy, too — until you think about what battlefields look like at the end of the day.

I’m all out of thoughts. I’m all out of even questions, except to wonder why this never stops.

“History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awaken.”

— James Joyce

 

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