I open a thread on a popular forum and instantly fall into a digital meat grinder. The topic titled “If the border were opened now, would you go?” reeks of cheap valerian, chronic sleep deprivation, and barely contained rage, Ukr.Media reports.
Seventy-eight comments. Words fly like debris.
The author of the post throws a match into the gasoline: she regrets not leaving with the whole family to the great war. She refuses to go without her husband, because the country has turned into a trap, where rights have been annulled, and the word “powerful” has long become the worst curse word. And that's it.
Then you can simply watch as the traumatized, tired women begin to methodically tear each other to pieces.
It took exactly three messages for a discussion about geography to turn into a battle for men. This is now our new caste system.
If your husband has reservations, works in critical infrastructure, or is simply miraculously not touched, you will most likely write that you are staying. That you should believe, build a second house in the Lviv region, and in general, everything is not so bad. Your patriotism is fueled by this basic security.
But if this security is not there, the tone changes dramatically.
Someone writes that the husband's disability was lifted. The officer, 54 years old, old sores suddenly ceased to be an argument. They sit, wait. Another snaps, saying that her husband is already in the DSHV, so everyone else should also go, and not sit in the rear. A user appears with the obligatory comment: “No one is holding you, go down, release the air.”
We have reached a point where hatred for those who make decisions up there is channeled to those closest to us—the same women on the other side of the screen.
Amidst the curses and accusations, a harsh, unglamorous economy emerges. There is no thought here about where to make the best coffee or how hard it is to find your therapist. One commentator writes very frighteningly and simply: in Ukraine, we lived like beggars, counting pennies in a city with a population of 300,000. And abroad, she went to wash the floor – and for the first time she was able to go to the supermarket to simply buy the food she needed without a calculator in her head. For her, the crisis is not a loss of status, but the realization that poverty was not her fault.
On the other side of the barricades are those over 45. “What should we do there?”
People had their own small business, an organized life, a paid apartment. Starting from scratch, learning a language, working in a warehouse, or caring for other people's elderly people, while having four sick relatives on your hands who are physically impossible to take out? This is not a way out of your comfort zone. This is a one-way ticket to absolute marginalization.
And over all this hangs a total sense of hostage-taking. No one has any illusions anymore. No one believes in quick solutions.
The comments reveal a cold realization that the state is planning a war for another ten years, and people are just a resource for this mechanism.
The names of those who jump around the stages, sit in on telethons, or rest in the rear while ordinary mechanics and fitters disappear into the trenches are heard. This sense of profound injustice poisons any conversation about the future.
Those who left write that they will not return. Those who stayed snap at them that they are not expected.
Someone is googling how to get an Argentine passport, because they don't give subsidies there, but they do give citizenship. Someone is ironic that if they introduce women's military registration, even those who swore to stick it out to the last will leave.
You refresh the page. Twelve more new comments. Someone insulted someone again, someone sent their opponent to clean European toilets, someone reminded them of karma. The digital coliseum never closes for a minute. Everyone bleeds, but no one wins.
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Have we become enemies because of our shared pain, or is this chasm between us now forever?
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