Coming alive in the face of death

“Don’t ask yourself what the world needs. Ask yourself what makes you come alive, and go do that, because what the world needs is people who have come alive.” Howard Thurman

Greetings from Ukraine! I hope you’ve all had a great week.

I began my letter to you this week with the quote above because it’s been at the forefront of my mind these last few days as I’ve felt myself ‘come alive’ again since returning to my nomadic life after four months in the UK helping take care of my dad.

As soon as I arrived at the airport on Wednesday I felt something inside of me shift. A new expansiveness, a new lightness of being, as I slipped back into what had been my regular 2023 and 2024 routine.

After clearing airport security I holed up in a Departures cafe, writing away on my book-in-progress until my gate was called.

Then, as my plane to Poland took off, my eyes filled with tears of joy - even though there was a screaming toddler right behind me kicking the back of my seat!

I was back doing what I was born to do.

I was coming alive again.

I know that my home-free, nomadic existence isn’t for everyone, but ever since I started solo travelling at the start of 2023 I felt a sense of recognition deep within my DNA and, ironically, when I gave up my home, I experienced a sort of homecoming.

A coming home to my true self.

But the trouble with life is that it seems to love putting obstacles between us and our true selves.

Responsibilities. Other people’s emotional baggage. Political situations. All kinds of things can cause us to close down and act on a kind of auto pilot - and to mentally calcify as a consequence.

That’s why it’s so important to find the things that cut through fear, stress, apathy and resentment, and make us come alive again.

What makes you come alive? And how can you “go do it”?

I urge you to bring those questions to the forefront of your mind too.

I travelled into Ukraine via a different crossing this time, in a remote border town called Medyka in Poland, where you can cross on foot.

Back when the Russians launched their full scale invasion of Ukraine in 2022 the Medyka crossing was regularly on the news as it’s where millions of displaced Ukrainians left the country, having lost their homes and most of their possessions.

It was eerily quiet when I made the crossing. There was just me and one other woman walking into Ukraine.

Because the country is at war, security is exceptionally tight at the border, and staffed by the military. I cleared passport control fine, but then a soldier appeared, asking me the purpose of my visit.

I began telling her that my son had been working for a humanitarian organisation in Ukraine and ended up marrying a woman from Lviv and instantly her whole demeanour changed.

‘That’s so beautiful!’ she exclaimed with a beaming smile. ‘That’s so beautiful,’ she said again, as she waved me through. It was a wonderful moment of human connection, and proof yet again that Love trumps all.

The first thing you see when you cross the border at Medyka is a pop-up tent / office from the foreign legion, with a large sign welcoming service personnel from other countries who want to help Ukraine in their fight for freedom - and there are many here doing just that. It was a stark reminder of what is happening over at the eastern border of the country.

My daughter-in-law’s father had come to pick me up, bringing the papers he has to take everywhere that exempt him from conscription into the army, as he works in one of the professions that are protected.

As we drove through a military checkpoint it was another sobering reminder of what Ukrainians are going through and I’d only been in the country a matter of minutes.

We arrived in Lviv about an hour later, where I was reunited with other family members and we feasted on borscht and my beloved deruny (potato pancakes).

I arrived at my Airbnb at 10pm - or so I thought - unbeknown to me, the clock on my phone had failed to automatically update, and was still an hour behind, on Polish time, something I didn’t realise until late afternoon the following day!

Just as I arrived at the apartment, which is in the heart of the city, I got a lovely message from my host, welcoming me and letting me know that she’d left me a box of chocolates in the fridge.

I stayed at her other Lviv apartment when I was here last summer, and we ended up really bonding after the airstrikes on the city. As I read through the apartment details, I was struck again by how Ukrainians have had to adapt to life at war. Amongst the standard directions on how to operate the heating, log onto the wifi, and where to find the laundry airer I read: “If there is an air alarm, hide in the bathroom, there are very thick walls.”

Instantly, I was taken back to those terrible nights last summer when Lviv came under attack and I had to take shelter in the bathroom of the other apartment. Events I will never, ever forget as I heard the air defence shooting down numerous drones and hypersonic missiles zooming by the apartment to explode just a couple of blocks away, killing several people, including a mother and her three daughters.

Tired from 24 hours of travel, I fell asleep pretty quickly but then woke abruptly at 2am, gripped by fear. What if there was an airstrike that night? (I share this not in any attempt to gain sympathy but to demonstrate what Ukrainians have now been experiencing EVERY SINGLE NIGHT FOR OVER THREE YEARS.)

I watched TV for about an hour until I was too tired to keep my eyes open and eventually fell back to sleep.

The next day I had the first of several meetings I have planned while I’m here, as I carry out research for my next novel, which will be set in Ukraine.

It was a meeting with key members of the Lviv Regional Society of Political Prisoners and Repressed People, where I met with the descendants of political prisoners from the World War 2 period, and a fascinating 91 year old man, who was himself a political prisoner for many years after he was arrested in 1949 at the age of 15.

He was hugely inspiring and shared some incredible stories from his life back then.

When I asked if he had any words of encouragement for the young people of Lviv today as their freedom is once again at stake he replied: “Don’t lower your dignity, and know that you are from Lviv.”

I got back to my apartment that evening feeling so inspired, and so, so grateful for the warmth and resilience of these people.

I took myself out to dinner at one of my favourite Lviv restaurants, and then decided to go and get a take-away slice of cheesecake from Grand Cafe Leopolis, in the heart of Rynok Square, a restaurant that only serves the most exquisite selection of cakes and desserts, with nothing savoury on the menu.

It was a beautiful warm spring evening and the cobbled streets and squares were bustling with people, the air filled with the sound of laughter and chatter and music.

As I walked home with my huge chunk of cheesecake in its fancy box I felt so happy to be back in this beautiful, vibrant city, feeling fully alive again.

But then, at midnight, as always since the start of the war, the streets suddenly emptied and a deathly silence fell as the nightly curfew began.

Just like the night before, I fell asleep quickly, only to wake a couple of hours later with a sense of dread. I checked my phone for the air alert map of Ukraine, which lets you know which areas of the country are currently under attack by illuminating the regions in red.

While I’d been asleep the red part of the map had grown and crept its way west and now most of the country was under alert.

I prayed and meditated and watched some Netflix before finally falling asleep again, waking to the news in the morning that 18 Ukrainian civilians, including 9 children, had lost their lives in air strikes.

Then, scrolling through Instagram, I saw this heartbreakingly moving post from a soldier on the frontline.

“I write this from the front, cold and exhausted, but unwavering in my duty to defend my home, my people, and the very idea of freedom. I do not know if I will see tomorrow, but I do know this - without your continued support, Ukraine may not see victory. We are fighting with everything we have. Every day we face waves of destruction, missile strikes tearing through our cities, enemy forces trying to break our spirit. But we stand because we must. We fight not just for our land, but for the principles that bind all free nations - justice, dignity, and the right to determine our own future. But we cannot do this alone. The words you speak in support of Ukraine are not just statements, they are shields against silence and apathy. Stand with us, speak for us. Fight for us in every way you can. Because if Ukraine falls it is not just our nation that will suffer - darkness will spread, and the world will be forever changed.”

Reading his words pierced me to the core.

There are people in Europe right now fighting for dignity and freedom in the most horrendous conditions and, as a World War 2 novelist, the parallels between then and now are chilling.

So, if you’ve ever found yourself wondering what you would have done if you’d been alive during World War 2, what you’re doing - or not doing - right now is probably the answer.

If we want the privilege of being able to live the Howard Thurman quote I began this letter with, and we believe that we’re all entitled to be able to find what makes us ‘come alive’ and ‘go do it’ then sometimes we have to be prepared to make sacrifices for that freedom. Or at the very least, we should offer support to those making the biggest sacrifices of all.

this Lviv cafe sign demonstrates just how important freedom is for Ukrainians

Tonight, when I wake up at 2 or 3am gripped by dread, I’m going to re-read that soldier’s words and I’m going to pray for him and all Ukrainians that a just and lasting peace will come to this country, and I’m going to give thanks that for now at least, I have the luxury and the freedom of being able to ask myself what makes me come alive and doing it.

Until next week, sending love from Lviv,

Siobhan