A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
John Keats
“La plantation d’un arbre est une forme modeste d’immortalité.”
“The planting of a tree is a humble form of immortality.”
Finding Consolation
Friends having #warcoffee with me in the virtual reality called X, will immediately remember this tweet of a #hometown walk Yaroslava took us on during the Christmas holidays. On this walk we were taken to an open space on the edge of an older forest. The tweet read:
“Every time when I am in my hometown, I visit this place. Oak wood.
An oak tree is planted near each flag,
A plate with a name, date of birth and death is near each oak tree.
Ukrainian heroes.
The number of oak trees is growing.”
Yaroslava Antipina, X/Twitter
While the flags were immediately visible to me, the saplings took me a little more effort to spot. Nevertheless, they are there.
Each tree is small, as freshly planted trees usually are. They are also in winter attire, but in the spring, new leafy green will spring from them, and as time passes, the saplings will grow into magnificent trees. I have no doubt they will be part of a place where people will come to walk or sit beside their deceased loved ones.
Why am I writing about this? Well, in the week that Yaroslava took us on the walk to this silent commemorative place, I happened to visit an exhibition in Saint Peter’s Abbey in Ghent (Belgium). There was something there that immediately reminded me of the oak trees in Yara’s hometown.
St Peter’s Abbey is a magical place really. Lots of history, yet at the same time quite silent too. The halls and inner courtyard are now mostly left in peace, except for conference or seminar participants, or visitors to exhibitions there.
The exhibition I visited went by the name “Countryfolk”. It displayed a road trip of sorts. A while back, someone decided to drive his tractor from a town in West Flanders, all the way down to the Ardennes, a region in the South of Belgium, driving further through Limburg, a province in the East, and continuing all the way to Zeeuws-Vlaanderen, a lovely region in the South of The Netherlands. On this road trip, the tractor-loving driver stopped in a number of the smallest villages, talking to inhabitants from all walks of life. The multi-room display showed us the locals’ views of their region, their lives and livelihoods. The retrospective also demonstrated how progress and “the ways of the world” have affected their way of life.
I was taken by the very first picture and the dialect used in a quote of an elderly café owner, which expressed an art of living in your average Flemish small town long ago. I remember the notion of life in a small town from my grandparents’ stories, album pictures, older movies, and from riding through some of these towns when I was a child. Nostalgia.
Then I saw about how horse breeding and cow farming evolved when, after taking a turn in the room, I came across a large black and white picture of a field. The field was used for crop farming, but somewhere in the middle of the field, there was a great, lone oak tree.
From the exhibition Countryfolk, Saint-Peter’s Abbey, Ghent, Belgium
Intrigued, I read the explanatory plaque by the side of the picture. It told the story of a woman’s husband who was working with his tractor on the field one day. He happened to hit an “obus” with his tractor, and was killed. The obus is a bomb which was very frequently used in the area during the First World War. Many of those still remain undetonated and “buried” in the West Flanders countryside today.
The plaque went on to read that years later the woman’s son, working with his tractor in a field, also hit an obus but, fortunately, he survived the incident.
On the other side of the picture, I read the woman’s quote (I translate freely): “On the spot where my husband died 39 years ago, we planted an oak tree. It happens that I go and sit under the tree. Recently, I was there, and suddenly a wind swept up, and I thought: ‘Is he here somewhere, perhaps?’”
Thirty-nine years on, and still a strong sense of the deceased loved one’s presence.
It also struck me how a war waged a century ago can still dramatically alter the lives people share with one another, as much as a war being waged today does.
I quietly swallowed some tears to the back of my throat.
In my garden there are two oak trees standing tall. My father planted the first one about 40 years ago. The second, he planted together with my grandfather about 20 years ago. The trees are in family marriage pictures, have been the delight of the children playing in the garden, and have simply been with us through the years.
The spring and summer of the year my father passed away, I would regularly go and sit beside the younger of the two trees. In silence I would read, contemplate, or just look at the tree, its protective branches, and leaves. Light and shade, mild breezes, or birds’ chatter would accompany me in those hours.
I saw the young spring leaves on the trees turn into full grown summer ones, and I saw them change colors before falling. Again, and again, and again. Seasons in cycles.
In the natural decay that life and nature inevitably hold, I would be reminded of something my father had told me years earlier: “I know that after summer it is not spring that comes, but autumn has its beautiful days too.”
In April, it will have been seven years since my father passed away. To this day, as seasons come and go, and like the woman in the exhibition, I wonder: Is he here somewhere, perhaps? I am still looking for the answer.
There is another underlying truth to all these trees though. As much as they may be testimonies of people’s lives having been shared and lost, or of war having been waged in this or another time and place, these oak trees can also be trustworthy friends for those who stay behind and come to visit. Somehow, they possess the softness to heal and console. Having once read that, etymologically, the word tree relates to the word trust, I believe that in trusting there is also the hope of finding comfort and consolation.
In connecting the dots of these “tree stories”, I think that part of the answer I have been looking for may lie in the planting of the tree itself. To me, as I hope it will be for every person visiting their remembrance tree, the planting symbolizes a quiet and continued loving across time and space, which indeed holds an unmistakable form of immortality.
Acknowledgements
To my warcoffee friends reading this, my second blog post may feel more heavy-hearted than the previous one, but I still hope it may bring you soft and kind thoughts in return. Thank you for being there every day.
This piece of writing would not have come about without Yaroslava’s walk to the oak trees in her hometown. I am grateful that you shared this walk with us, and for so lovingly continuing to take us on your journey at home. Thank you, Yara!
As part of the close and involved family that is #warcoffee, Rachel recently asked me whether I would write this piece in French or English. My spoken French being better than my written, it had to be in English, but the question inspired me to find a French quote to accompany the text. I am uncertain of its origins, but it has brought me new insights and consolation, more than you may know, Rachel. Thank you.
Before writing, I talked about these three stories to Zarina and a (non-Twitter) friend, Nees. Thank you, both, for listening, and thank you, Nees, for gently highlighting the lingering effects of war into the present. Your words have a striking impact on me!
Last but not least, Mike. This was an unexpected joint undertaking, but your willingness to proofread my non-native electronic scribbles and your valuable suggestions have made this an infinitely better text. Time difference notwithstanding, you bore with me as I deliberated and searched for words, and their synonyms in translation. Thank you, more than I can say!
Veronique Christophe
18/1/2024
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Finding Warcoffee
It must have been sometime in July 2023 that I started noticing Yaroslava Antipina’s messages on my Twitter feed. I was on holiday in Austria, and in the mornings before our mountain walks, I’d see these friendly “Morning from Ukraine!” tweets. Concise, to-the-point, but always bringing something new to spark my interest.
I had been on Twitter since early March 2022, first and foremost, to find information on Ukraine faster than mainstream media would be able to absorb, and bring it to the masses. Imagine this. At the time, mainstream media would cover the invasion live, including their expectations of the outcome for Ukraine. However, Russia’s invasion, and the way its military actions unfolded in those first weeks of war were so unacceptable to me that I just needed to know more about what was going on, and, especially, know what was happening to the Ukrainian people.
So, all prejudices against Twitter set aside, I signed up. Initially getting to know Twitter a little better, I followed people of Ukrainian government (President Zelensky being the first), and EU institutions (Ursula von der Leyen being the second). Various other people in international relations, thinkers, historians, journalists, and activists followed.
For months I retweeted things that caught my attention or were of interest to me. Having no followers, I considered it a “logbook” of sorts, where I could find interesting opinions, or links to articles, or photographs that moved me.
Photographs have always held something fascinating for me – I enjoy their (potential for a) storytelling effect. And in this war there was no shortage of telling images. There are many that remain engraved in my mind. One such unforgettable image is of an Azovstal fighter, standing in the depths of the factory in Mariupol, looking up at a beam of sunlight streaming in from an opening above him, his arms spread wide open. The drama of the North and East of Ukraine, was also in the South.
Fast forward to the fall of 2022. A Ukrainian friend (not on Twitter) wrote me a message saying that her friends did not want to go to sleep that night, considering the speed with which the soldiers were liberating occupied land in the East. We were all in awe, impressed, and grateful for their efforts and results, to say the least of it.
And then winter came. As seasons changed, so did momentum, or so it seemed. In the months of quietly reading articles on mainstream and social media, I (somewhat selectively) continued adding people of interest to follow on my Twitter account. In doing so, I found people who have many, or interesting things to say about Ukraine.
Then, sometime in July 2023, Yaroslava Antipina from Kyiv kept popping up on my timeline. To this day I do not understand why the logarithm did not reveal her to me earlier, but it turned out to be the revelation of my year, for more reasons than one.
I discovered that Yaroslava had something called #warcoffee on Twitter. I noticed her messages, then starting noticing friends’ replies to her messages. Some added lovely words with eye catching pictures, like she did. I was intrigued. Besides photographs I’ve always liked reading others’ writing (storytelling!) too.
I noticed that Yaroslava would go out, hunting for beauty or color. She clearly stopped on her walks to take pictures of things she’d noticed on her way. This, for me, was “slow photography”. As she shared her pictures, she would write to us about what she’d seen. This was something I could learn, and take lessons from!
Later I discovered how she, together with her son and cat (called Victory), was looking for ways to live life in the midst of war. As the summer turned into autumn, I started seeing short videos and photos of outings to musea, exhibitions, special stores with fashions made in Ukraine, and Yara’s “own little forest”. We got impressions from Kyiv, Chernihiv, Uman’s “most beautiful park in Ukraine”, and so much more. She mentioned she wanted to tell us about her beautiful country, its rich history and culture. Then, one day, I started seeing pictures of paintings, and sculptures by Ukrainian artists. We came to know of some of their lives and stories.
With autumn well under way, Yara noted that the war was being covered less in media around the world, due to the other terrible war in the Middle East. To keep us informed #warcoffeedaily was introduced, and then also weekly Public (Sunday) Letters.
In the daily or weekly overviews we get much appreciated updates on the frontlines, Ukraine’s progress on its way to EU & NATO, the impact of missiles and drones on the cities of Ukraine, and most importantly, on its people.
Speaking of missiles and drones, I will never forget the day Yara wrote us of air alerts in Kyiv, and warnings of incoming drones. Her plans to visit a museum that day were simply interrupted. I will also never forget the day she wrote her hands were trembling in the morning after a night attack on Khmelnytskyi where her mother lives. Not standing with my shoes in that raw reality, I knew I could never fully grasp what it must be truly like. And yet, those two tweets gave me a sense of what war could be like, and this for millions of people everyday. I must say that, for me, this was a very sobering experience, eventhough I am located at a “comfortable distance”. There is not a day that now goes by without me thinking how grateful I am for every moment of peace we have in our little corner of the world.
One day Yaroslava mentioned to us that writer and journalist Zarina Zabrisky would be interesting to follow, as well as journalist/ photographer Paul Conroy. Both are – incredibly – still based in Kherson to report and inform us on the impact of the war there. Reading their articles, I was deeply moved when I started to understand how Kherson and the region, inspite of their liberation more than a year ago now, continue to suffer in the most horrific ways due to continued Russian attacks. I learned from them about incoming missiles, guided aerial bombs and the like. Reading their updates or wartime diaries (notably Paul’s Kramatorsk Diaries) held yet another sobering reminder of the brutality of war, and its devastating impact on people, civilians, just trying to survive. At the same time, their photographs and writing made me see the incredible and heroic resilience of the people of Kherson, and Ukraine.
As Yara’s updates and letters had become established, I found that she would ask her warcoffee friends if what she was doing remained of any interest, or was even relevant to us. After all, the war was covered less in mainstream media around the world, interest in Ukraine seemed to fade, etc. Needless to say, there was a massive response from her cozy, tight-knit community in favor of more, not less news from her and from Ukraine. Throughout these past months I’ve noticed an enormous appreciation for Yara’s work, as well as for Zarina’s and Paul’s. Notwithstanding the turbulent global events of late, I also find that information about Ukraine is relevant, and remains relevant. The reasons are obvious: while people and journalists bravely stand their ground, the Defenders heroically fight those lines every single day. Their sacrifices are immeasurable.
A community is only a community when there are loving, caring people trying to be there for one another, whenever, or in whatever way possible. This has truly been another of this year’s important findings for me.
Inspite of this wretched war, and inspite of all of X’s failings in the past year, Yara, with her heartfelt reaching out, has in this space (X, of all names and places) gifted me with a community of kind and wonderful people, some of whom I have even had the privilege of sharing messages with. In doing so, I found interesting new friends, albeit Twitter friends, in this corner called #warcoffee.
Yaroslava, thank you for taking us with you on your journey during this challenging time for your country. You have made me love it even more. Thank you for sharing daily stories filled with Ukrainian culture and history. Your #Iamnotaprofessor tweets are incomparable, as are your photos, videos, news updates, and #1-minute (not to forget your sweet #inahat) walks.
Zarina, Paul, thank you for tirelessly toiling and reporting from places and under circumstances, which at times, frankly, I cannot find but bewildering. You shed so much needed light on Ukraine. I feel that we as a community can be engaged with your work as well; we can use this space to help spread your valuable insights and reports, or remind our leaders and politicians that we are here in support of Ukraine.
Warcoffee friends, thank you for the daily heartwarming marvels you bring in response to this community, and in support of each other, and of Ukraine.
If there is anything I have learned from being in your company these past months, it is that there is humanity to be found in war (as contradictory as these two are to each other, but that’s another story).
My Christmas/ New Year’s wish for each of you, and for Ukraine is Peace, Love, Light, Warmth, Kindness, and Strength. And Victory (not just a cat), of course!
With affection from Belgium,
Veronique
21/12/2023
Lights and Crystals 