Ukrainian National Anthem

Lango-Django

I thought I would surprise you guys by learning how to play the Ukrainian national anthem on my guitar, although it's a melody which is totally unknown to me.

So I asked Mr. Google, but upon hearing this YouTube version I soon realized that the tune had so many strange-to-me Slavic-sounding twists and turns that I would never be able to do it justice...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mUfwy3f3R4s

So instead, I sincerely request that everyone who loves freedom--- and perhaps takes our precious democracy and freedom for granted just like the air that we breathe--- to take a few minutes to listen to this stirring version performed a few days ago by the New York Metropolitan Opera chorus, just prior to their performance of Verdi's Don Carlos.

Hooray for Ukraine! 

Hooray for democracy and freedom! 

Russian dictator, GFY!

 

Will

Bones

POOTIE POOT IS A POS. THERE I SAID IT

Willie

I suffer from national-anthem-allergy, but here is one of the daily drawings by my friend Martin Graf. He was at the demonstration yesterday in Hamburg with 30.000 participants (my wife and I couldn't be there: quarantine because of covid).

Passacaglia

Hello all. My wife's family is Estonian. They couldn't see each other for 30 years. Many perished under Stalin. I'll share with you a post my wife's aunt, Mariann, wrote. In the photo below, Marianne is the younger one. My wife's mom, Viive, is the oldest. Viive's early memory is fleeing across the Baltic Sea with Nazi planes strafing passenger ships going one way and Soviet planes strafing ships going in the other direction. Body parts, shoes, luggage, all flotsam. She remembers only screaming the entire passage.

I won't go further here as it does no good for the Ukrainian people except to say when murderous thugs all across history tell you what they intend to do, years before they do it: believe them. This POS isn't so much a would be soviet premier as he is a Tsarist Imperialist romantic, as deep into his mythmaking and unreality as another certain fascist sociopath.

Talinn, Estonia, February 26 in solidarity.

******

Seasoned: March 3, 2022

Angst and Anger

I wake up every morning with a sense of dread. What has happened overnight? Have the Russians succeeded in overthrowing the democratically elected government of Ukraine? It’s déjà vu for almost everyone who suffered under Stalin or Hitler or experienced the later repressions in Eastern Europe. Social media is having a field day with prayer-hand emojis, Ukrainian flags on selfies, insulting Putin memes, clips of brave Ukrainians singing, photos of protests. I’ve participated too. All good, comforting, but in the end, rather useless. We also love our American myth about immigration—Ellis Island and the land of promise, happy immigrants starting over. True, but every war-displaced person has a different story.

What many of us know is the reality of forced emigration. My sister as a 2- and 3-year-old in 1944 and ‘45 experienced the noise, blinding lights, and gut fear as bombs exploded, windows shattered, and planes flew overhead. She and my parents escaped Estonia to Germany when Tallinn was on fire from the approaching Soviet army. Ships near theirs were hit. People drowned. Later, in Germany, while they waited for American liberation, they hid from friendly fire, lying in ditches or sleeping on the floor in their clothes, away from windows. Doesn’t matter whose fire it is, you can still die. They lived in war-torn Germany for 5 years all together before the war ended and nations started accepting “displaced people.” Reading the diaries, I realized that they had three occupations: their first, immediate occupation was getting food, finding ration cards, seeking black market items, and waiting for Red Cross packages. American soldiers added to the mix with their chocolate, canned food, oranges, and cigarettes that they shared out of goodness or for favors. Cigarettes, especially, were a hot medium of exchange. A million Ukrainian refugees will need to be fed and clothed.

Their second occupation or obsession was real news about the war and the postwar. Like today, propaganda, false news, and rumors flew. Would the Americans or Brits chase the Soviets out of the Baltics? Would the world let the takeover stand? Or would a savior appear? Going back to their homes and their families was a heartfelt desire. Like the Ukrainians today, the hope is always that somehow the aggressor will be stopped; some nation will step in and free them. Displaced people also spend time looking for friends and relatives. Who else got out? Who was alive at home? Our Estonian relatives didn’t know my parents were alive for many years, and we didn’t know about them. "Lost in the war" was all most people knew. War separation changes families permanently. Groups need to find ways to coordinate news and help people find each other.

When hope to return home ended, the third major occupation was navigating the news, rules, and red tape required for immigration. Every country had different requirements for getting on the list and for permanent entry. For example, some countries only took single men or women. My parents, having two children, waited for the US to open as it would accept families, but the US required a sponsor who could promise you an initial job and a place to stay. Separate individuals and organizations took on that task, making the resultant paperwork in a foreign language overwhelming. For my parents, that process took more than two years of intensive coordination. It took a week to actually get on the boat that brought us here—more medical examinations, more paperwork, and a stay in a displaced persons' camp. After landing in Boston, it took another three days to get on trains to find our way to Marquette, Michigan. Even though things went well overall, we were exhausted, hungry, and confused. A new life awaited us. We started over from scratch. Five years in limbo had finally ended.

I was born during this time and was 2-1/2 when we immigrated to the USA. I know that my family was overjoyed to leave Europe and get as far away from Soviet aggression as they could. They were smart and could speak English and were the “successful immigrants.” I was young enough to adjust easily. Yet, people who flee for their lives never really completely adjust. They did not sit down one day and say, “I want to be an American.” The question, instead, was “where can I go to keep living, to make a future for my kids?”

As I watch Ukrainian children leaving alone or with a mom or aunt, I think of my older sister in Germany who asked my mom, “Where’s Aunt Asta? Why don’t we go to grandpa’s house?” She had to learn German and go to school there. In the US she learned her third language and went to a new school where she was the foreigner again. My mother didn’t see her relatives or friends for almost 30 years. My dad’s brother and mother died before he ever got back. We always had gifts and fun on holidays and birthdays, but we also had tears and sad moments because our parents weren’t in their homeland with loved ones. They were strong Americans but never stopped being fervent Estonians until they died. They didn’t ask to leave.

Neither Ukrainians nor we know how this will end. We are observers with a cause; they are the unwilling participants, swept along in a stream, mostly helpless. Look out your window as you get ready for your day and try to imagine missiles flying overhead or bombers streaking across the sky or lines of tanks rumbling down your street, cracking the pavement. You can hear them from miles away. Inevitably they approach. Who or what will save you? This is Ukrainian reality.

Passacaglia

https://www.djangobooks.com/forum/discussion/comment/110329#Comment_110329

Bones

Thanks Paul. Puck Futin!

Noto

Here is an arrangement of the Ukrainian national anthem arranged by classical guitarist Oleg Kopenkov. The melody is the notes with the stems going up.

Ukraine National Anthem.jpg