The Dniester River canyons with their rocky banks, are called one of the natural wonders of Ukraine.
I’ve seen them only once when I interviewed a bereaved mother. The woman had the fluffiest white dog and the cutest little daughter who was helping her bake cookies, whose sugary scent filled the whole house. The smell of happiness.
The woman, Alla Kvach, was telling me about her son and how he was born on a wild, stormy night when the weather knocked out the power and the whole world seemed a mess.
The power returned but her world would ultimately slip into darkness. When we talked, her son, Orest, had been dead for a long time. He was 23 when he was killed in battle in the Luhansk region in 2014, soon after volunteering for the army during Russia’s initial invasion of our country. He was recognizable only because of a military patch on his uniform — a patch that his fiancée embroidered as a talisman. As something that was supposed to save him.
It probably saved him from being buried as an unknown soldier.
Back then, there was discussion of building a water plant there on the Dniester. It would have completely changed the landscape and the life of the villages and towns nearby. Knowing that, and many other unpleasant things, Alla Kvach — the mother of the fallen soldier — applied to stand as town mayor. And she was, actually, elected. “I won’t let anyone destroy what my child gave his life for,” she told me. And that seemed the purest, yet most terrifying explanation for such responsibility that I’ve ever heard.
For many years, she remained my inner example of what people can do when everyone around expects them to lay down and cry. Sometimes, the death of someone you love, or the danger he or she faces, gives you not only unbearable pain (which is still there, I’m sure) but also exceptional power.
When it’s solely about physical abilities, this phenomenon is called “adrenaline surge” or “adrenaline strength.” While it’s not a formal superpower like those found in comic books, it captures the idea of people performing extraordinary feats under extreme stress or in life-threatening situations, like lifting a vehicle off someone.
The superpower I’ve seen in Ms Kvach — and that I’ve unfortunately and fortunately, seen in many, many, many people since the beginning of the full-scale Russian invasion — is not physical. Or not only physical. It’s mental, it’s moral and social.
There are people whom society would expect to fall apart, to fade away, or to crumble. And then to be in need of help from others. To be the helpless ones we take groceries to and hug (which is still always a good idea.)
Let’s imagine a young woman whose home is under Russian occupation. She has had to flee from that occupation and is now living in a tiny, rented apartment in a city that she doesn’t really know and which is bombarded nightly. On top of that, she is fighting cancer, and guess what? Her husband is in Russian captivity. His captors mock the Geneva Conventions. Like most of our PoWs, he is held incommunicado; there has been just one brief letter from him in years.
And she’s an activist. She goes to rallies to remind everyone about people in Russian captivity. She communicates with dozens of state and international organizations, unites families of other PoWs, and instructs other women in her situation on what to do, where to write, and whom to turn to. She moves mountains to bring her loved one back home (and others, too — exchanges are a lottery).
She’s one of thousands. Of many, many thousands. I now work for Amnesty International Ukraine, and we’re in the process of preparing PoW research findings that will be linked to a campaign to attract worldwide attention to these violations of PoW rights. I meet such women daily now. One of them, a super actively involved person, smiles a bit more often now. Her niece, whom she was fighting for as she fought for them all, was recently exchanged.
She could have become less active. She could have stepped back and avoided another super-difficult meeting with the Red Cross. But she didn’t. She achieved a personal aim, but her collective aim remains. It is so much bigger, there are so many to help.
Or another woman, the mother of three children. I’ll never forget the pictures of her little ones standing near their father’s coffin in one of Kyiv’s churches. And her — not crying, in traditional Ukrainian dress. Keeping her head as high as possible — because she is the wife of a hero.
She found the unimaginable strength to leave her children with family and friends and to join the army as a combat medic so that the troops she saves can return home to their children.
Out of the ashes of loss, we rise not just for ourselves, but for those we love. And for those we don’t know, but love, too.
Lera Burlakova was a Democracy Fellow at the Center for European Policy Analysis (CEPA). She is a Ukrainian journalist and former soldier who served as an infantrywoman from 2014-2017 after joining up following the Russian invasion of Crimea. Her war diary ‘Life P.S., received the UN Women in Arts award in 2021. She lives in Kyiv and works as the Media Officer for the new Amnesty International Ukraine team.
Europe’s Edge is CEPA’s online journal covering critical topics on the foreign policy docket across Europe and North America. All opinions expressed on Europe’s Edge are those of the author alone and may not represent those of the institutions they represent or the Center for European Policy Analysis. CEPA maintains a strict intellectual independence policy across all its projects and publications.
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