These three days on the Kovalam beach were unexpected. There is little time for leisure during my advocacy trips. Foreign colleagues often tease me about my inability to relax, whether it is at a party, while enjoying nature, or sightseeing. Thinking of our soldiers in the trenches, and Russian missiles and drones targeting my country, I can’t relax even while I’m away. Above all, it is devastating to leave my family in a war zone. With the skies closed to civilian flights, every trip to or from Ukraine stretches many times longer than before. I yearn to be home, but the work must be done.
“This is such a weird war,” writes fellow poet Eva to me from the frontline. “One moment, I am in an evening gown and makeup, reading poetry to a full room. The next, I am sleeping in a hole on the ground, washing up with water from a bottle, with black stripes of dust under my nails that only disappear after soaking my hands for ages.”
Eva Tur began as a combat medic, volunteering to join the army in 2014 when Russian forces invaded Crimea and eastern Ukraine. Before the war, she was a graphic artist and art scholar. A red-haired Renaissance woman, now a mother of two and the widow of a fallen fighter. Her husband, Maksym Zapichnyi, defended the Donetsk airport and other cities in the region from 2014 to 2015, rescuing many of his fellow servicemen. He rejoined the army in 2022 to fight Russia’s full-scale invasion—and so did Eva. She transitioned into defence intelligence, and is now working with air drones on the frontline.
I brought Eva’s poems to India as part of my project with Audiostories. In Tales of Hope and Courage, which portrays Ukraine’s dual wartime reality of the home front and the frontline, my poetry is interwoven with the works of soldier poets. Ordinary citizens—artists among them—take up arms and quickly excel at this new craft, driven by the highest stakes: their home and loved ones. The atrocities committed by Russians, even against the most vulnerable, leave no doubt.
“Don’t measure your life by others,” Eva tells me when I am caught up in my helplessness. She believes my activism is enough, but I am not so sure. Her raw, powerful poems—often rooted in folklore—almost make my heart burst. We discuss the manuscript of her debut collection during her rare free time. A poet always remains a poet. Poetry helps us feel alive and stay human. Poetry also proves culture exists, says historian Timothy Snyder. The endangered Ukrainian culture that Russian occupiers work so hard to erase, even as they have appropriated much of it to fabricate the illusion of their own cultural greatness.
This time in Thiruvananthapuram, some cancelled plans and a sky-high ticket rebooking fee left us stranded. My colleague Volodymyr from Audiostories suggested that we find affordable lodging nearby, on the Kovalam beach. I did not care where I worked—with the literary festival over, I could finally catch up on media requests and emails. We came across a small hotel run by a man named Nazar. To his surprise, we explained that Nazar is a common Ukrainian name. Maybe it was the reason we picked the place, we joked.
I had not packed beach clothes. In one shop, a petite, energetic woman helped me choose a sundress. One cannot underestimate the power of small talk. When the woman—her name could be Aditi—learned I was Ukrainian, she expressed deep sympathy for the suffering of my homeland. She asked about my family. “I have a son; he is in Ukraine now. I worry about him every minute,” I said.
In turn, Aditi spoke of her toddler son and the unborn baby she lost in an accident while running through a heavy rainstorm. I said how sorry I was and thought of all the women I knew who had lost their children to Russian attacks. Of the bombed maternity wards like the one in Mariupol. As I write this, I think of Diana Koshyk, killed along with her long-awaited unborn child by a Russian missile in Kamyanske. Of my fellow poet Svitlana Povalyaeva, whose two sons both died defending Ukraine.
Unlike storms, wars can be averted—but never through appeasement. Many believed colonial wars were history, yet the unpunished aggressor returned, targeting our country—independent since 1991 and thriving since we broke free from the corrupt Russian puppet regime in 2014. We fought too hard for our future to surrender it to the brutal past.
I stopped by the shop the next morning to say hello. Aditi greeted me with a smile and a hug. On my last day in Thiruvananthapuram, I bought another piece to support her business. As I was leaving, she ran after me and pressed a bracelet into my hand, made of glass and semi-precious stones. “A gift,” she said. “For my friend.”
I didn’t take it as a bonus, but a deeply personal gift. I wear it alongside my bracelet from the Memorial of Heroes, engraved with the words, “Who remembers, wins”. I’ll remember this small act of kindness—another scale in the imaginary dragon armour for my country, helping us survive the war. And the precious support women find in one another.
Meanwhile, Eva texts me: “We are under Russian shelling now, hiding. I am lying on the floor of the dugout, reworking the poem. I will let you know once I am done with it.”
Please let me know, dear Eva. Do let me know.
Yuliya Musakovska is a poet, writer and member of PEN Ukraine