I’m heartbroken.
Russia’s unprovoked invasion of Ukraine has unsettled me in a way that even the life-changing COVID-19 pandemic hadn’t.
I lived in the Ukrainian capital from 2004 to 2006 – two of the best years of my journalism career and two very happy years of my life. I ran The Associated Press’ Kyiv bureau, having arrived there from my previous AP reporting job in Moscow.
My Ukrainian colleagues became good friends. They were patient with my often stumbling Russian and my endless questions. Even the camo-wearing, gun-toting guard who responded to our office alarm every time I accidentally tripped it when working too early, or too late, was kind.
Weekends, I explored Kyiv. In winters, I tried not to slip on the invisible ice patches and dodged falling icicles. I warmed myself with mugs of glintvein, a mulled wine, bought off street vendors. I frequented a fast-food varenyky (dumpling) spot with more regularity than I should admit.
‘If we need to we will die here’:Life in Ukraine as Russian forces assault Kyiv, Kharkiv
I stuffed a scarf in my purse so I could drop in to the many Orthodox churches for a moment of prayer and peace. I became fascinated by the rather sordid biography of St. Volodymyr, the former pagan whose baptism into Christianity earned him a spot considered an equal to the apostles. I read Mikhail Bulgakov. And I happily spent hours spitballing about Ukrainian politicians after work ended.
Why did I believe better of Putin?
I embraced Ukraine and…
