Ukraine is on my heart. Even before I set up altars around the house as focal points for my peace prayers, there were Ukrainian artifacts in every room but the bathroom. I have been to Ukraine ten times since 1989. In the living room, red and black lacquered plates decorate one wall while the shelves hold a collection of lacquered boxes illustrating enchanting fairy tales. In the kitchen, Matryoshka (nesting) dolls watch over my kitchen table which is covered by a simple Ukrainian tablecloth. In the bedroom, an embroidered rushnyk (ceremonial cloth) festooned with blue and purple flowers covers one table, and in my office, a beribboned headdress reminds me of Ukrainian friends far away.
Victoria and John escaped to Poland and are trying to decide whether to return. Lidiia and her son have found refuge in Berlin where he celebrated his 6th birthday today. Lesya went to Lviv for emergency surgery but has returned home to Cherkasy, southeast of Kyiv. Irina was in the U.S. when the war broke out but flew to Poland to take medical supplies for the refugees. Yulia and her nine-year old son are in western Ukraine with relatives while sons, husbands and fathers fight in the war. Much of my news comes from Ukrainian Facebook posts of horror, friends missing, tips for helping people through panic attacks and fierce determination.
One of my Ukrainian treasures stands out to me today—it is a blue and white knotted fabric doll. Instead of eyes, nose and mouth, there is a cross of threads over the faces of these dolls. I first thought them odd and unattractive until I heard about one of Luba’s childhood experiences. In April, 1994, I met Luba, a professor of English and the translator for our Sister City women’s delegation. Our delegation comprised of nine American women and my six-month old daughter Maria.
That first women’s visit prompted numerous exchanges resulting in the Cherkasy Women’s Center, and Luba was frequently our translator for visits there and in northern California. I always admired Luba for her keen intelligence, beauty, innate strength and sense of humor. The women attending programs in Cherkasy supported the center with refreshments and their time. Older women at the center revived the tradition of making the knotted dolls, which we sold after the Sunday service at a Santa Rosa, California church to raise program funds.
Luba told me that when she was a little girl, her family escaped from her village as the Nazis burned it to the ground. When they fled, the only possession she had with her was the knotted doll made by her grandmother. Luba’s experience eighty years ago is being repeated today as millions of mothers and children cross over borders to flee the war.
Traditionally, knot dolls were made in the villages of Central Ukraine. Dolls were knotted from cloth rather than sewn—hence the name. Their clothes were made of pieces of fabric held together with knots and wound threads. Ukrainian knot dolls have neither arms nor legs, much like ancient Cucuteni-Trypillian figurines unearthed there. The dolls are connected to ancient matriarchal figurines, like the one shown below, from prehistoric times when goddesses were understood to bring fertility, prosperity and protection. It became customary when a young woman married to bring her knot dolls with her to protect her new home and as a remembrance of her maternal line.
I am not surprised by how hard Ukrainians are fighting—they have weathered war, famine, economic collapse, corruption, Chernobyl and Soviet rule. And in each generation their resilience, pride in their traditions and love of life shine through. Luba has taught me that. May the mothers and children fleeing Ukraine be safe and may they return home someday soon to a country at peace.
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