The weight we carry
Personal thoughts and a recording and translation of a Belarusian poem that helped me through a very difficult week.
Every week, I see a doctor for a chronic disease that I was recently diagnosed with. During the past consultations, we discussed strictly health-related topics and the ways to help me navigate and manage my diagnosis. However, this week, the doctor asked whether I deal with a lot of stress, as the illness could have been triggered by it, and stress makes my symptoms much worse. I took a deep breath and started to talk. I talked about the Russian invasion of Ukraine and the dictatorship in Belarus. I talked about my husband’s family, who fled the war, and my family, who fled political persecution, and how we support and provide for them all. I talked about the loss in the family, financial struggles, and fear for the future. I talked about my friends on the front, about the non-stop news that makes you want to scream and numbs you at the same time. I talked about being an artist before the invasion, but haven’t been able to paint since 2022. I talked about my activism for Ukraine and my translation work for documentaries that involved watching raw war footage for months. I talked about “20 Days in Mariupol” and “2000 Meters to Andriivka” and what it took to make these films. I talked about the exhausting, chilling feeling that no matter what I do, it’s never enough, and it’s often too late, but I can’t stop doing it.
When I finished talking and looked at the doctor, I saw them holding hands to their face and crying. We sat in silence for a while. Then, the doctor quietly spoke, “I just want to say that we are incredibly lucky to have people like you in this world. Thank you.”
When the appointment ended, I thought about the weight I carry and how simply describing it makes people cry. Yet, I continue putting on a brave face every day and keep going, keep working, keep showing up for my family, people I care about, everyone, except myself. Probably, it wasn’t right to open up with the doctor the way I did. Probably, it was.
Yesterday, I opened a poetry book by Belarusian writer Maksim Bahdanovič (1891-1917). This old, worn-out book made it all the way from Belarus to Poland, and then to the U.S. It’s the only book that Bahdanovič published during his life, as he died at the age of 25 from tuberculosis. One poem particularly resonated with me, and I translated and recorded it to share with you:
Maksim Bahdanovič 1915 I would like to meet you on the street On a quiet blue night And say: “Do you see these big stars, Shining stars of Hercules? Our sun is flying to them, And the earth rushes after the sun. Who are we? We are only travelers in the sky. Why do we have so many quarrels and fights, Pain and grief, When we all fly together To the stars?”
Recording of the poem in Belarusian:
Warmly,
Darya
Email: daryazorka@substack.com
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Thank you Darya for sharing the weight of your personal journey. It is up to us to extend our reach beyond our comfortable chairs grounded in The West to do something, anything we can do from calling our representatives and demanding US support for Ukraine and all those suffering from the barbarism of russian aggression, to writing letters to the editor, to giving as little or as much as we can to the organizations you highlight, to displaying the Blue and Yellow, and even just remembering and acknowledging that Belarusians too are a cruelly oppressed people yearning to be free.
That poem certainly puts things into perspective. I felt a burden lifted off my shoulders. When are we ever enough? How do we know if we're doing too little or too much? How many struggles can we endure and for how long? No one knows. But opening one's heart is the greatest gift to be given. Thanks for sharing.