Flaws: Vedmykiv

[1] A Plane of Indecisions

LILLIAN THOUGHT I was going to cover the war. And I was, but Lillian didn't know about Oxana. And Oxana didn't know about Lillian.

The magazine I worked for refused to send me to Ukraine. "The crisis is going to be over in a blink of an eye," my editor said. "What good can come out of you being there?"

Boy, she was wrong. But also, so right.

I decided to go at my own expense. The turmoil was just starting and as a junior photojournalist, I could make a name for myself. I could become a war correspondent. Why not? The problem was that I didn't know anything about wars. Or Ukraine. Or life. Or being honest, for that matter. So, I didn't say anything about Oxana to Lillian, and I didn't say anything about Lillian to Oxana. And instead, I ended up at an international flight gate, suddenly feeling afraid, numb, and confused. Am I making a mistake?

Rows upon rows of leather seats grouped in trios stretched across the cabin. It was the largest plane I had ever boarded and it was filled with hundreds of people, men and women, traveling, moving from one place to another, turning the wheels of civilization, perhaps returning home, perhaps seeking adventure, perhaps, like me, escaping to an uncertain situation. I took the seat on my boarding pass: 34C. Just the way I like it.

Because I could stretch my legs, of course. But as soon as I sat, a mammoth of a man pushed himself next to me and crowded my space. The man offered no apology, and instead, the smell of an early Thanksgiving dinner oozed on his breath. Russians and Ukrainians piled on their carry-ons in the overhead compartments. They pushed each other throughout the aisles and yelled to one another words that sounded like insipid insults of an existential crisis or the looming war yet to come. Everybody seemed to be upset about something. I pulled my phone out and went over my messages. Like a compulsive maniac, I read and reread messages all day long. Oxana's words were full of hope and adoration, wit, and understanding. She made me feel like a giant. She made me feel special. I wondered if she also numbed me.

My backpack was stowed away. My white snowboard jacket was folded in the compartment above my head. The lenses were put away, and so was the camera bag that screamed I was a real man, a professional, an artist of the digital age. Everything was above my head. I looked over the stout man sitting next to me and out the window. He looked angry but I was restless. He didn't say a word. I wanted to shout out of my lungs. He looked like he was the only man in the world. I felt claustrophobic and lost. I shook it off and reminded myself I had no fear of flying nor of what the future held. I had no problems traveling to a faraway country, nor did I fear the uncertainty I would face. I was unworried about the language, the weather, or even the bullets that very well could find me. The only thing I could not shake off was that damned pervasive feeling of regret.

My phone vibrated. There is no way in hell Oxana made it already. She had to take a twelve-hour train ride to the capital city. There would be no reception as the train crossed the countryside from where she came—some little town, barely a little more than an intersection on a map. Oxana was a volunteer who lived in the far east of Ukraine, near the border with Russia and about an hour away from the epicenter of a growing separatist sentiment in what they called the Donbas region. Blame it on the internet. I had met her online. Right before I boarded, reports of Russian mercenaries killing a Ukrainian officer in a major port on the Crimean peninsula circled the web. That was south of where I was going, and that was as much as I knew.

Only because Oxana had vacationed there last summer. She had sent me bikini pictures. It didn't look that special—the beach, not Oxana. Oxana looked okay. She was photogenic. She was also a photographer, and chatting with her had become my favorite pastime; a way to fill the void, perhaps. A void that was easier to avoid, like an invisible loop that is just as easily overlooked. These were no times to travel. These were times of war, times to learn what we are made of, times to construct and build, and rebuild and fight for what we stand for. These were no times to flee. But what if they were? I wouldn't know what was in store for me unless I looked. Right? Growing demonstrations by pro-Russian activists indicated the region where Oxana lived could go next. I had to go. I had to go despite my thoughts being all over the place.