My mama would sing a Ukrainian lullaby to me every night.

“Metelyk, metelyk, zaletiv vin u sad.” she sang. A Butterfly, butterfly, flew into the garden. 

“Na bilu kvitku tykho pryzemlyvsya.” Tenderly sat down on a little white flower.

“A nash malenʹkyy Hreh spiymav metelyka.” And our little Hrytsko caught the butterfly.

“Vin skhopyv yoho za kryla i poklav u banku.”He caught him by the wings and placed him it in a jar. 

“Ale yoho molodsha sestra, Khelen, blahala i molylasya Hrehu,” And his little sister Halyna begs, implores Hrytsko, 

“O miy bratyku, budʹ laska, zvilʹny metelyka z vʺyaznyts.” "Oy my little brother, let the butterfly, out of prison" 

“I malenʹkyy Hreh mav dobre sertse,” And our little Hrytsko had a tender heart 

“Vin ne dav metelyku zahynuty. Vin dav yomu svobodu.” He did not kill the butterfly, but gave him freedom. 

“Todi vona skazala yomu,‘Davayte teper poveselymos’” And he says to him “Have a good time now”.

My mother pecked me on the cheek kissing me goodnight. I thought if we ever became butterflies, people would capture us and handle us delicately with their rough hands, then let us go. And the world was so peaceful we could all be Hrytsko and let go of every single butterfly. 

“Now?” I asked. 

“We go now.” my mom replied. 

Frightened screams broke into my ears. 

“I’m scared!” I grabbed onto my mother's hand. 

“You’re a big girl now. Fourteen years old. We will be free, ok? Hold my hand!” my mother reassured me. We were now running through a town getting bombed by the Russians. 

“Did we do something wrong?” my 8-year-old brother had asked minutes ago. 

“No, no. We didn’t do anything, kokhana.” My dad replied back. Kokhana, the words that surrounded me with love, and the last words my father said: beloved. And then, the building behind them crumbled and everything went so fast. 

“Iryna, stop blanking out!” I heard my mother's voice and I snapped back to reality. “Kokhana.” I heard her say. 

Bombs rang through the city like thunderclaps. But, only one voice filled my ear. 

“Vin ne dav metelyku zahynuty. Vin dav yomu svobodu.” He didn't allow the butterfly to die. He gave him freedom. “Please,” I wanted to shout, “let me be that butterfly.”

There were millions of pieces of rubble on the side of the road, falling on innocent people. I wanted to be home again and smell the warm corn porridge linger and the strong fragrance of our roses. 

“Iryna, we are here.” my mother said. We were soiled and frail. 

A train station was crowded with millions of people. 

“Please, let us in. I have four kids, PLEASE!” I heard a man cry. 

“Don’t kick us out! Please! My mother is ill!” A woman wailed. 

“Mama! Where are you?” A child’s weak voice screamed. 

I squeezed my mother's hand and heard her pray. She ended with, “O Good One, save our souls.” 

We waited patiently for the chaos to end, only to be straying there for hours. “When will the war end?” I asked Mama. 

“Soon, it will end soon,” she whispered back. But, her eyes told a different story. Like her broken self would never be repaired as if the fire within her were extinguished. The worried look on her face was growing deeper each minute.

“Do you remember when we would go to the park? With Alla?” she asked, attempting to divert my attention from the war.

Those words brought back memories of how much I enjoyed those moments. “Yes! We would get ice cream and Khrustyky.”

“You would never finish your homework until 10 o’clock. I still don’t know how you managed to do well in school!”

We both laughed until our mouths became sore. 

“Remember the lullaby I would sing to you? Metelyk, metelyk, zaletiv vin u sad,” my mother started. 

I froze up. “Mama, I won’t say what isn’t true.”

“Na bilu kvitku tykho pryzemlyvsya,” a woman’s voice said calmly. Her family stood with her, her face covered in dirt and her two children among the frailest I'd ever seen. My mother smiled at her. 

“My mama would tell me that lullaby,” the woman said.

“It was a beautiful one, wasn’t it?” My mama sighed. 

The woman nodded, smiled, and walked away to her train. In her eyes, I saw was the growing pain. Almost as if the song was to take over her damaged insides and soothe her, a weed had grown in her soul that was too deeply rooted to pull.

“Our world does not work this way, so why sing it?” I snarled. 

“You’ve got to imagine what’s never been.” my mama said. “We can be at peace, we can be free, we can live a life. Just you wait.”

Just you wait? I thought to myself, I’ve been waiting for years, Mama. I cannot wait. After that, an overwhelming feeling took over me. Rage, sadness, guilt and a field of emotions arose from inside me, chipping away the child I was inside. “I WON’T!” I yelled. It was the first time I had yelled in front of my mother. 

I couldn’t help it anymore. I couldn’t take how I would see boys fight physically at my school over a girl; I couldn’t take how tourists would say slur words at us, and I couldn’t take how every minute we live we learn something bad about this world. I couldn’t take it anymore; I wanted peace in the world and in me. 

While guns were shooting, while bombs were tearing down cities, I was having my innocence and purity tore apart by the minute. What is this world we live in? I thought. What have we done wrong? We use our hands to hug and raise each other up, not to punch. Our mouths we use to make people feel better, not to harm and destroy another person forever and declare war. Everything God created to bring us peace, we use it wrong.

“What have we done wrong?” As I crumpled into a ball, I cried, hoping that this world would release me from its pain. I could feel the world ushering to silence and could only hear the small puffs of breath escaping people’s mouths. What will they think of me now?

“Metelyk, metelyk, zaletiv vin u sad.” A voice called. It wasn’t my mothers.  

“Na bilu kvitku tykho pryzemlyvsya.” Another voice called. 

“A nash malenʹkyy Hreh spiymav metelyka.” A third voice called out. 

An entire crowd of people reached out to grasp my hand as I looked up at them. Each one of them sang a line and smiled.

“Vin skhopyv yoho za kryla i poklav u banku.” 

“Ale yoho molodsha sestra, Khelen, blahala i molylasya Hrehu.”

“O miy bratyku, budʹ laska, zvilʹny metelyka z vʺyaznytsi.”

“I malenʹkyy Hreh mav dobre sertse,”

As I grasped a hand in front of me, I felt warmth envelop me. Suddenly, everyone became quiet, with all eyes on me. “You know the lines.” my mom whispered. I heard a bomb go off, but I continued, “Vin ne dav metelyku zahynuty. Vin dav yomu svobodu.” He did not kill the butterfly, but gave him freedom. 

“Todi vona skazala yomu, ‘Davayte teper poveselymosʹ” We all said. 

“Shall we go on the train now?” A woman from the crowd asked. “Together?”

We all climbed on the train, but everyone kept singing. “Metelyk, metelyk, zaletiv vin u sad.” They kept saying the words over and over again. “Na bilu kvitku tykho pryzemlyvsya.” They never stopped. 

“Mama, what is this?” I whispered. 

“Kokhana, this is what happens when we come together. It wasn’t me, it was them; it was all of them.”

I search the world for a Hrytsko to catch us, to free us like butterflies. I thought that when we became free we would find peace. When the war started, I tried to tend the fire in my heart, but there is no way to do so without the help of others. 

Some people held hands closing their eyes, but only they would want me to say the lines, “Vin ne dav metelyku zahynuty. Vin dav yomu svobodu.” He did not kill the butterfly but gave him freedom.  A feeling I’ve been searching for overtook me; illuminated my heart. It wasn’t me, it was them, it was all of them. One day, it could be the world.