The Sunflowers Still Stand
Wes P. Davison
Wes P. Davison (he/him/his) has a seven-year background in teaching, facilitating, and designing youth education programming in four countries. Between 2016 to 2018, Wes volunteered with the Peace Corps in Ukraine as an English teacher. From his Master’s in International Conflict Resolution and Peacebuilding as well as his work abroad, Wes has developed a passion for empowering human capital, connecting communities to ideas of positive peace, and addressing systemic injustices to build more equitable and empathetic societies.
As I walked down the long corridor, I could hear the muffled choruses of children’s laughter, the pitched rise and fall of young voices only drowned out by the occasional announcement of a teacher, and even the melodious muffled sound of children singing coming from off in the direction of the kindergarten. I took a deep, methodical breath, noting the slight industrial smell of the fresh paint that still wafted through the hallway, along with the rich, savory smells of the homemade kotelti (chicken cutlet), bordtsh (traditional soup), and grechka (buckwheat) wafting up from the dining canteen I had become so familiar with over the past two years. I could not believe it was my last day in this school, I could not believe that two years had passed living in this small Ukrainian town. These walls and hallways had become like a home to me at that time, these students like my own family, the memories of thousands of moments we had shared together filled my mind in an instant, and now, after two years together, today was my last day.
I turned the hallway and approached the classroom. On the other side of the door I could hear the anticipated conversing of my dear students, these young men and women with whom I had watched grow from little 7th graders into mature, thoughtful, and idealistic young people. Behind that door, hearing the anxious chattering of their familiar voices, a smile crept across my face. Watching these young students develop, with their eagerness to learn new ideas, creativity for solving the problems around them, and their passion for building a new reality for their fledgling democratic nation had been the greatest gift of my life. With a deep breath, I reached for the handle, centered myself inside, and turned the knob.
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On the early hours of February 24th, while most Ukrainians were still tucked into their warm beds before the start of another winter sunrise, the Russian Federation, under the direction of Russian President Vladimir Putin, launched a full-scale military and terror campaign against the sovereign nation of Ukraine. What we as a global community have seen in the past three weeks has been utterly devastating, reminding us all of the horrific images we have witnessed in such places as Iraq, Syria, Yemen, Afghanistan, the former Yugoslavia, and even drawing parallels to the Second World War. The start of this horrific war is a reminder that, in an instant, any of our worlds can change completely. The direct targeting of civilians, those most vulnerable, is a reminder to all of us as agents of peace that peace is indeed fragile. It is a reminder to all of us that building a world of peace requires intentionality, a personal commitment that in every step we take and every relationship we make, we intentionally pursue peace in all things.
“It is a reminder to all of us that building a world of peace requires intentionality, a personal commitment that in every step we take and every relationship we make, we intentionally pursue peace in all things. ”
Ukraine is a nation with a determined population; a growing, infant democracy that longs for the security, stability, and prosperity that many of us, myself included, take for granted everyday. The Ukrainian people want a strong, independent, and stable nation, and instead they continue to face the barrage of bullets and assault of artillery by a tyrannical dictator. Instead of my former students spending their evenings playing piano, playing soccer, and studying for university exams, they are hiding in damp bunkers, sewing camouflage netting from their own childhood clothes, learning how to dress shrapnel and gunshot wounds, and digging makeshift graves outside their homes.
Despite the horrors of this war, there are moments of true joy. Next to the images of bombed out buildings being broadcast across the news, I see the faces of my friends, smiling from ear to ear next to dozens of mismatched boxes of aid sent directly from around the world. Next to the interviews of sobbing mothers as they stand near to the bodies of their children, I hear the serene singing of my students echoing down those school corridors. Next to the sounds of the air-raid sirens that blare day and night, trapping those in unheated shelters without food or water for days, I hear the calls of the first birds of spring hopping among the budding Ukrainian foliage.
Even during the darkest moments of this war, there are moments of hope. Even during this living nightmare, I have witnessed strangers supporting each other, of new friendships formed out of calamity, and of the kindness of sisters and brothers sharing everything together even as their voices quiver with the fear of tomorrow’s unknowns. Even in the deepest darkness of war, there are moments of true joy and peace. Hatred will not have the final word. War, like the darkness, cannot conquer all of the light.
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On that very last day of class, after the last little bites of the goodbye cake had been eaten and the photo slideshow the students made had looped for its hundredth time, I still remember one of my most engaged students, Yulia, approaching me. Though each student had come to say their goodbyes earlier in the party, Yulia had seemed to wait until the very end. Approaching me with her warm smile, she came up and hugged me tight, and reminded me of every volunteer project, class lesson, and summer camp that we had done together over the past two years. Before she turned to go, Yulia reached into her pocket and pulled out a small bag. Inside the bag were about a dozen small sunflower seeds. I immediately smiled. The sunflower has always been a symbol of Ukraine, a hearty flower with strong resilience that grows upon a single stalk to be over a meter high in the rich Ukrainian soil. Yulia smiled and whispered to me, “Now you will always have a piece of Ukraine with you, seeds to remember the seeds you planted here.”
I still carry those sunflower seeds with me everywhere. Now, as I watch the war destroy so much, I cannot wait to return to Ukraine someday and plant those sunflower seeds in that rich Ukrainian soil.