Candle Lighting in Kyiv
Spending the Third Night of Hanukkah with Ukraine’s Future
Candle Lighting in Kyiv
Spending the Third Night of Hanukkah with Ukraine’s Future
by Edward Serotta
Edward Serotta is the director of Centropa, a Vienna-based Jewish historical institute, and the producer of the podcast series, “A Ukrainian Jewish Century.”
When spending time with the Ukrainian teenagers of the ORT Jewish high school, all of whom have been living with missiles, drone attacks, and power outages since February, how does one do anything but cry? They pepper me with questions: Why am I there? (To show support, visit friends, write articles.) How many times have I been to Ukraine during the war? (Twice.) Before the war? (Eight.) What do I think of President Zelenskyy? (I’m a fan.) Will the Americans continue to support Ukraine? (Yes.)
They are as eager as puppies to engage and obviously want to be assured. No 15-year-old who hides in a basement wants to hear about the nuances of U.S. congressional support. So I praise the Ukrainian army and especially the head of the armed forces, Valerii Zaluzhnyi. I tell them that for years to come military historians will study the opening battle at Kyiv, where a small band of Ukrainian soldiers repelled and then pummeled a Russian force several times its size.
When several of them rush over to take selfies with me, I feel relieved—I have passed the test.
Yurii Kinkov, headmaster of the ORT Jewish high school, tells me that at least 10% of his students have fathers serving on the front right now. A few have even been orphaned.
Of the 1,360 students enrolled in February of 2022, a great many fled the country or moved to western Ukraine. But even now, in these grim days of below-freezing mornings, spotty electricity, and iffy water in their homes, 500 students show up every day to a school with unreliable electricity, barely any heat, and a lunchroom that can’t function. The internet is, for the most part, dead, and the halls almost impassibly dark.
What little electricity the school has is funneled to the lobby, where a few power banks have been set up so residents in nearby apartment houses can come and charge their phones. They sit there bundled in overcoats, waiting to reconnect with family, with the world.
A few years ago, Yurii insisted on preparing the school in case visually impaired students wanted to attend, and over the course of a summer break, plastic stripping was added to the floors. The timing could not have been better. I follow Marina Pyasenets, one of Centropa’s most active English teachers, as she and two of her colleagues show me around the school. We rely entirely on those strips as we walk about the pitch-dark building.
Every student carries either a flashlight or a cell phone with a light in it—or, in some cases, they wear baseball caps with flashlights in their visors.
Ruslana Bernatsk, another teacher, explains that “kids adapt. And ours are used to this life now. Sure, we have sirens and everyone heads for our shelter. But no one runs. The kids don’t panic or cry out for mama. They just go. Sometimes we spend the entire day there.
“Every child is required to carry a bag we give them. It has in it a chocolate bar, a granola bar, some dried fruit, copies of their personal documents, a bottle of water, another of juice.”
Ruslana chuckles. “Actually, they eat the chocolates immediately. Later they nibble on the granola bars. Many don’t touch the dried fruit, and some just leave the bags at home. But sometimes they bring other snacks, and in between classes, they trade with each other.”
As if prompted, one student plops himself down on a windowsill in front of me and surveys his haul. He gives me a thumb’s up: It has been a good day.
Tetiana Ibrahimova, a third teacher, says, “I’ll tell you what’s different about our students today. They’re not aggressive, they don’t act out, so that’s a good thing. But they refuse to make plans. My daughter is 19 now, and when she was younger she would tell me all about where we should go on holiday, where we should go out to eat. Not today. Now she won’t even plan for tomorrow, and we haven’t gone anywhere since February. Actually, when the war first started in February, we got in our car for a few days and waited in a parking lot. Then we came home to the life we live now.”
Marina says, “Of course they worry. About their fathers, about their grandparents. All the time, they ask to be excused for a bathroom break, but I know they just go out in the hall and—what’s the term—doom scrolling, that’s what they do. Of course, how can they not?”
All 500 students gather in the auditorium to light the Hanukkah menorah for its third night. Afterward, a teacher asks the students if they have any last questions for me.
One hand shoots up. “Yes. Can you tell me, after we win this war, after our victory, how do you see Ukraine progressing?”
I tell them I can’t say for sure, but there seems to be genuine interest by most member states for Ukraine to join the European Union, and it is clear, at least to me, that Ukraine isn’t just fighting for itself, but for freedom for all of us. I tell them that the whole world is impressed with President Zelenskyy.
Smiles all around. I end by saying, “Thank you for having me. Slava Ukraini (glory to Ukraine)!” And 500 teenage voices roar back to me, totally assured, as proud as they are loud, “Heroyam slava (glory to the heroes)!”