Part II
The Great White Pelican is revered in Ukraine as a deeply respected symbol of love, mercy and self-sacrifice. This majestic waterfowl with snowy plumage and a piercing, golden-eyed gaze, stands over five feet tall with a wingspan up to twelve feet,
In a few weeks, Ukraine’s Great White Pelicans will travel from their winter homes in Sub-Saharan Africa, back to the Danube Delta, where they will build nests out of sticks, grasses, and reeds, in the marshes and mudflats. There, they will lay their eggs and raise their families. Before the war, the Delta was a serene UNESCO-protected paradise, popular for birdwatching and eco-tourism. Most of the Delta is just over the border in Romania, but a crucial 20% is located in Ukraine, where it empties into the Black Sea, near the vital port cities of Izmail, Reni and Odesa – all major targets of Russia’s unrelenting drone, missile and rocket attacks.
What will Ukraine’s Great White Pelicans find this year when they return? Destroyed wetlands and forests, pollution from chemicals and unexploded ordnance, constant, crushing noise and military activity in key breeding zones, and the most mine-filled country in the world – with as much as 30% of Ukraine contaminated with landmines, cluster munitions and booby traps.
The return of the Great White Pelican will come as the war enters its fifth year. These masters of the air emerged more than 35 million years ago right after the dinosaurs. They have always called the Danube Delta their home. This year, when they return, they will build fewer nests, with fewer babies and with fewer birds surviving to the next migration.
Life as they knew it has ceased to exist.
The Great White Pelican is my friend, Leona’s, favorite bird, a comrade in arms as she and they navigate the fierce desire to survive in their war-torn homeland. In the courtyard of Leona’s Kyiv Airbnb, where I have now spent 172 “virtual nights” renting a one-bedroom apartment in a graceful, war-beleaguered five-story building, there are statues of two Great White Pelicans staring adoringly at each other. They commemorate the well known Ukrainian folktale of lovers who travelled the world and eventually flew to Kyiv. The city so delighted them that they decided to stay there forever. A kind wizard granted their wish. And now they grace Leona’s courtyard.
She tells me that is why she named her Airbnb, The House of Swans. I gently tell her that these are pelicans not swans, two completely different species. She sends a laughing emoji and says she likes the sound of Swans better. I smile and celebrate this moment of levity, so rare in our four-year correspondence. We usually discuss literature, our fears for the Ukrainian people, our soul-shaking frustration with Trump and Putin, her unrelenting love of Americans and our constant mutual hope that the war will end someday soon.
Leona wrote me recently, “Hope is something we hold onto very carefully here, because more than anything, we long to return to a peaceful life — to days filled with simple human joys, without fear, without sirens, without loss.” I tell her again that as soon as the war is over, I will travel to Kyiv to embrace her, my dear friend that I have never met. She writes back that the support of Americans is an enormous contribution to the history of her country. She says, “It reminds me that we are not alone, that across oceans there are people who see us, understand us, and stand with us in spirit. This solidarity gives strength not only to endure, but to believe in the future.”
Leona actively prepares for that future. Even when she feels sad, she tries to find reasons to keep going. “It is heartbreaking to watch the world continue to develop while everything that once felt stable and dear is being destroyed, and innocent lives are being lost. Yet despite all this, I keep moving forward. I continue to work. I am studying psychology to help myself and the children I care for overcome fear, and move through stress with greater strength and resilience. And I feed homeless animals — dogs and cats especially need food in such severe frost. I truly believe that even our smallest acts of kindness can create miracles on this Earth.”
Four years ago, when I first started renting virtual nights in Leona’s Airbnb, I told my sister, Denise, what I was doing. She immediately said, “What a great idea. I’d like to contribute as well.” Like me, she started with several listings, trying to find one that was not a scam or corporately owned. She searched for a family, living in a threatened area of Ukraine, where her support could make a meaningful difference in their lives. She found Sergiy (not his real name) and his three young daughters. She booked an entire month at their garden view, $32 a night apartment. Sergiy wrote to her on the message board, “Thank you for your support, Denise. You are a guardian angel for our family.”
Sergiy’s Airbnb is in Odesa, one of the hardest hit areas in the country. Odesa is home to three major ports and handles 70% of Ukraine’s exports. They have experienced near constant bombardment, damaging critical energy, residential and port infrastructure. Six months into the war, Sergiy wrote, “If not for you, your country, and your President (Biden), we would not have been able to survive. Sirens sound every day and several times. Today there was a hit in a residential building in Vinnitsa. Twenty people died, three children, dozens of wounded, some seriously. This is terrible.”
Denise wrote back, “I cannot imagine the stress and anxiety for you and your family. The only thing we can do is continue to help one another. When the war is over and victory is won, I will be there to dance in the streets and celebrate with you.”
A few months later, at Christmas, Denise told me, “I’m not buying Christmas presents for anyone this year. Instead, we are all buying a generator for my family in Ukraine.” That generator was enough to comfort Sergiy through some of the most desperate winters in Ukraine’s history, offering warmth and hot meals to his family and friends.
When I started writing this series of articles on Leona’s House of Swans, I asked Denise how her family was doing. She said she had not talked to Sergiy in several months. She reached out to him, “Please let me know how you are. I know it has been horrible there this winter. Sending love to you from here.” Sergiy replied, “We are all alive and well. Preserving life is now the most important task of all residents of Ukraine. This winter is really, really, tough. Everyone is tired of everything that is happening, but despite the difficulties, we believe in victory. Good always wins.”
I asked Denise how many nights she has stayed in Sergiy’s Airbnb in ravaged Odesa. She said, “I don’t even know.” She went to her computer and calculated, “It’s been 1,017 days. I’m there now.”
On February 24th, Leona and Sergiy and the roughly 36 million Ukrainians within the country’s borders, and another 7 million refugees scattered worldwide, will mark the 4th anniversary of Putin’s invasion of their beautiful homeland – now reduced to a humanitarian, economic and ecological disaster.
Life as they knew it has ceased to exist.
