How Do You Explain War to a Child?
Today, Friday the 13th, is my daughter’s eighth birthday.
She understands what war is now. When she was four, she didn’t, and I wasn’t sure how to explain it.
Half her lifetime ago, we left Ukraine, thinking we’d be back a few weeks later.
On my old blog, the post I’m sharing below became my most viewed and commented upon post.
I believe it also pulled at a few heart strings (sorry).
I’ve deliberated whether to share this now, but…well, here it is, obviously, in its original raw form, with only the tiniest of tweaks for clarity. I wrote it at around 2am after another long day of being glued to Twitter checking for updates on whether Kyiv had fallen. I’d probably had a scotch or two beforehand as well.
Updates from the present day, including a note on silver linings, follow afterwards.
“Daddy, when are we going back to our new flat in Kyiv?”
How do you explain war to a 4-year-old?
(Originally published March 02, 2022)
My daughter has reached that magical age where she constantly asks ‘why?’ to just about everything. Why can’t I stick my fingers in that electrical socket? Why do the birds sing every morning? Why does the Gruffalo have a wart on his nose? Why do you read books without pictures, daddy?
Kids are insatiably curious.
‘Daddy, why are bad people trying to hurt Ukraine?’
How do I explain the concept of pure, unadulterated evil and cruelty and megalomania emanating from the most despicable, reviled, loathsome person in the world, and how they are inflicting untold misery and devastation on our beloved home?
How do I explain what’s going on right now and how we may not be able to return to our home, and to our new, long-awaited, finally-completed flat that we’ve only recently moved into, and how do I explain to her that she might not see her kindergarten friends again?
Two weeks ago I made one of the most agonising and gut-wrenching decisions of my life. I took my daughter and came to the UK. My wife stayed in Kyiv, with her family. She, her sister and mother have since left and just completed their long and winding trek to Poland, where they are safe in Warsaw. We will all be re-uniting very soon, either there or elsewhere.
Sunday, 13 February: one of the most surreal days ever. My daughter turned four. We had a birthday party in our new flat, still largely furniture-less. My in-laws were over. The mood was somber and bittersweet. We were leaving the next day. We all put on a brave face for our darling little one on her special day. Emotions were all over the place. I alternated between being numb and being in a daze.
That night, Super Bowl Sunday, usually one of my favourite nights of the year. I tried watching it, staying up all night, to keep myself distracted. I hadn’t slept in weeks anyway, so what was the point? I barely processed the game and what was going on.
I feel helpless, gutted and beyond heartbroken. The word ‘surreal’ is getting thrown around willy-nilly and we’re starting to run out of adjectives to describe the monstrosities being inflicted upon Ukraine.
My daughter maybe seems to get what’s going on.
Her take:
‘In war, there are bomba – daddy, say with me, ‘bomba’. And people die. But me and mummy won’t die, because you will protect us. I don’t want to die. I will die when I am old.’
‘Daddy, I don’t want you and mummy to die. You are not old.’
‘Daddy, why can’t we go back to Ukraine?’
I’m an anxious wreck during normal times, but this…I can barely function, my thoughts are barely coherent, my mind is constantly foggy, my heart constantly palpitating, the anxiety steadily courses through my veins…and christ, I’m not even there, experiencing the most traumatic things a human being could ever expect to face in life.
I first came to Ukraine in 2005, for my first teaching job in Lviv. I left after nine months – I loved Lviv but that was the plan all along.
But I couldn’t stay away forever. I returned in 2010, this time to Kyiv.
Over a quarter of my life has been in Ukraine. It’s the closest thing to home. It is home. I’m not sure where home is. Was. Will be. Has ever been. It’s complicated. I’ve lived everywhere, never settling anywhere.
Until now, where I met my wife, had a daughter, bought a flat. This was it, our future, my adopted home.
It’s not perfect. Friends, students, former students…you’ve heard my occasional gripes. Readers, you’ve read about the quirks that drive me mad. But I’ve always consistently maintained that nowhere is perfect. Everywhere has its foibles and drawbacks. I love Kyiv, warts and all. Probably more than anywhere else. And there’s nowhere else I really want to live.
I’ve had raised eyebrows and puzzled looks from people over the years when they ask why I’d stayed so long. I couldn’t always give a straight answer. But somehow, whatever I said, made some sort of sense. When all else fails, I quote William Hazlitt: “To give a reason for anything is to breed a doubt of it.”
And my god, do I love the people. Just look at what they’re doing. Ukraine is quickly becoming, if it hasn’t already, the most badass country on earth. You’ll never take that away from them.
My beloved Ukrainians, I’m with you in my heart, even though I’m afar. I feel like I’ve left you, like I’ve betrayed you. I want to be back. I’m aching to get back.
I still want to buy a couch for our new flat. I still have homework assignments to give back to my students (Viacheslav, that was a damn good essay you wrote about celebrity culture, sorry for doubting you). I still owe a friend a beer (Viktoria, I swear I’ll buy you that beer). I still have a present for a dear friend’s newborn son (Nastia, I’ll find a way to get it to you).
I want my daughter to be able to sleep in her brand-new bunk bed, which she’s only had for two weeks. I want my daughter to go to her weekly dance classes, which she loves and is doing so well at. I want my daughter to play with her new birthday presents, especially the microscope she’d been asking for for so long because she wants to see germs. I want my daughter to help us slowly continue turning our new flat into our cosy new home. I want my daughter to get excited when she sees the 118 bus come to take us home after I pick her up from kindergarten. I want my daughter to see her kindergarten friends again (except that nasty little shit Masha, who’s already a bad influence on her, but hell, in the circumstances I’m even ready to forgive her).
I want my daughter to be able to go home again.
But I’m not really sure how to explain what war is.
Слава Україні! Slava Ukraini! Glory to Ukraine!
Back to the present
I saw Viacheslav a couple of months later when classes resumed, online, and shared the essay with him. He’d forgotten all about it, typical teenager.
I saw Viktoria, a dear friend, one of my most loyal Substack supporters, and tireless, unpaid, unofficial agent promoting my book on social media, in Copenhagen in spring 2023, and I finally bought her that beer.
I’ve seen Nastia a couple of times, in Vienna and Kyiv, and finally handed over the present (and now I need to get one for her daughter).
Kind and generous relatives in Wales sent their little cousin a microscope and ballet dress.
On a visit back to Kyiv, my little girl did get to sleep in her bunk bed again, and run around in our not-so-new-anymore flat, see some of her old playgrounds, our cat, her grandfather and relatives…
No idea about Masha’s whereabouts, but I’m certain she’s still a nasty little shit.
How do you explain war to an 8-year-old?
I still don’t know how to explain war to a child, but she seems to know perfectly well what war is.
You can’t exactly hide this from a child, and nor should you. It might not be the typical childhood upbringing – from a privileged Western perspective anyway – but it’s her childhood.
She still asks about returning to Ukraine, but as these things go, it’s with much less frequency and she’s doing well in Vienna. When I see her happy and thriving and blabbering away fluently with her friends and family, that’s all I need to keep me going (sorry, forgot the trigger warning for ‘soppy fatherly content’).
She knows three languages, remembers two homes, has additional homes in the US, UK and Germany with relatives who love her, and carries both loss and joy with a steadiness that humbles me daily.
All I can do is keep answering her questions as honestly as I can, knowing that one day, far too soon, she won’t need to ask them anymore.
This isn’t the childhood I imagined for her, but it’s hers.
For now, that’s enough.
Happy birthday to your daughter!! This was really beautiful, and I'm grateful you shared it with us.
Wow, this is so touching. It sounds like your daughter has lots of wonderful family all around, and I'm sure she'll remember that more than other things during this time. Wishing her a wonderful birthday!