Dear President-Elect Trump:
Thirteen years ago, on a cold November night, my family and I stood surrounded by a million half-frozen Ukrainians, all crowded into a small plaza ironically called Independence Square. We had been in Kiev for two weeks; long enough to watch the country die and suddenly burst back into living flame.
When we had arrived, we’d noticed tinges of orange popping up all over the city. Old women stood on street corners handing out orange fliers. College students wore orange ribbons tied to their coats. My co-worker, Yuri, explained the meaning of the orange. “Orange,” he said, “is the color of the opposition.”For nearly a century Ukraine had been ruled by the Soviets, and the fall of the USSR did not bring change. Soviet-style throwbacks seized power and proclaimed Ukraine “independent,” but the same group of rulers went right on running the country. Yuri explained how elections ran.
First, the Ukrainians would get hyped up about change and reform. Then they would vote for their choice and, finally, the government-selected candidate would win–because he always won. The government counted the votes.
“So where’s your orange?” I wanted to know.
“I’m not stupid,” Yuri said. “I know what the government does to those who oppose it.”
And, just as Yuri expected, on election night the government announced that it had been a close race but that their candidate had won. Ukrainians returned to their homes feeling deflated and without hope. Then the opposition candidate, Viktor Yushchenko, planted himself in the middle of Independence Square and called on Ukrainians throughout Ukraine to join him on the square. They would not leave until he and his people had won their freedom. Within a week tens of thousands of Ukrainians crowded the plaza.
The government took measures to keep people from the capitol. They suspended rail and bus travel, and they lace highways with tacks and nails to flatten tires. They began fabricating newscasts, telling Ukrainians outside of Kyiv that there were no protests and that life was back to normal.
People stopped coming. The tens of thousands of protestors were cut off from the millions who would protest—if they just knew the truth.
Natalia Dymtruk was a 48-year-old sign language translator for Russian television. She protested with the protestors by day and by night translated the Russian propaganda. She told her deaf audience that the elections were over, that the Russian candidate had won, and that the revolution did not exist. “After every broadcast,” she said, “I felt dirty. I wanted to wash my hands.”
On November 25th, 2004 Natalia decided, “This is the day I will tell the truth.”
She walked to work as usual, but under her sleeve, she concealed an orange ribbon, tied to her wrist. She knew that when she signed, the ribbon would be visible. In the middle of the broadcast, Natalia stopped listening to the speaker and began signing directly to her viewers.
“I am addressing everybody who is deaf in Ukraine,” she signed. “Our President is Viktor Yushchenko. Do not trust the results of the Central Election Committee. They are all lies. I am very ashamed to translate such lies to you. Tell all you can that we are in a revolution. Maybe you will see me again….” At the close of the broadcast, Natalia stood up and left her post, never expecting to return.
But she did return, again and again. Soon the entire newsroom wore orange.
The message of revolution was spread, not by the powerful, but by a largely forgotten deaf population.
People flooded the square, and the revolution blossomed into a new direction for Ukraine. Busloads of supporters arrived from the Carpathian Mountains. A woman hitch-hiked 800 kilometers from a village named Guta.
Fiery teenagers shook their fists and bounced up and down in rhythm with their chant.
Children with little orange flags rode the shoulders of their somber-looking fathers.
Gnarled babushkas in scarves stood hunched over, silent and weeping.
These were the faces the night we left our safe apartment to witness what the fight for freedom looked like up close. It was snowing that night, a genuine Ukrainian blizzard. After five minutes, a hill of snow had formed on each of our hoods. As we moved among the Ukrainians, we didn’t notice the cold. They didn’t seem to notice either.
Within ten days a million people occupied the center square. Ukrainians united—peacefully. My co-worker, Iryna, opened her 450 square foot apartment to 35 out of town protestors to sleep on the floor. Hundreds of other Kyivites replicated that act.
From our apartment just two blocks away we could hear them chanting:
“YU—SHCHEN—KO! YU—SHCHEN–KO!”
Or they chanted his campaign slogan, “TAK! TAK!” which was Ukrainian for “Yes! Yes!”
One does not easily forget the chorus of one million people, reverberating off of concrete buildings. The sound will never be replicated; yet it will live in my mind, forever.
Sincerely,
David O. Leavitt
