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OUR LIFE MONTHLY, published by Ukrainian National Women’s League of America VOL XXXVII ___________________ OCTOBER 1980 No. 9 EDITORIAL THE NOSTALGIA OF AUTUMN Autumn in its full glory, in its full dress of brilliant color, is indescribable. Often a clear calm autumn day will force us to stop, breathe deeply, and rejoice in its beauty. But at the same time, this magnificent scene seems to elicit feelings of sadness and sorrow. In the depths of our hearts, we recognize the presence of nostalgic longings. We remember forgotten moments, which flash before us as pastels, far removed by time and space; we also long for unfulfilled dreams, wishes, fantasies. Some people consider sadness and longing in itself as a negative and even unhealthy state of mind. Memories, when not kept in their place, can indeed keep a person suspended in time; but a life without mem ories and nostalgia will allow a person to live only superficially, not experiencing life fully. Longing for one’s homeland will seem to bring it closer to us, will seem to breach the physical space in between. This longing, this eternal flame in our hearts, does not cover up the good points of the land we live in now; it simply adds a little something extra to our lives. If we could but light this spark in the hearts of our children, our youth, we would no longer need to fear for their future and for the future of our native land. We’ve indeed seen how our youth has worked in the name of our political prisoners. To paraphrase the little prince of Exupery: if you devote your time and hard work to something, if you feel responsible for it, only then do you love it. Unfulfilled longing is painful. But without a measure of longing, even life in the lap of luxury is empty and un fulfilled in itself. In this issue, we are including Nadia Svitlychna’s remembrances of Iryna Senyk and the time they spent together in Soviet camps. We are also reproducing an embroidery design of Iryna Senyk. Tremendous yearning for beauty led the prisoners of the harsh camps to create their own beauty and goodness, and make it flourish too. It permitted them to leave a living hell psychically richer than ever. Reading these remembrances brings to mind a vital question: what about us? Where are we heading, what are we striving for .... what are we yearning for? Translated by M. Jarymowycz For original, see pg. REMEMBERING IRYNA SENYK by Nadia Svitlychna Orysia was arrested for the first time while still a student at the university. But even 10 years of prison hardships could not dull the joyous spirit of Orysia. Serving her sentence she dreamed of love, wrote lyric poetry and embroidered constantly. I think Orysia’s fa vorite toy even in childhood was a needle and brightly colored thread. When she grew up embroidery became a necessity to her; it became her life. She always carried an unfinished piece of em broidery so that every free moment could be used constructively. At the time of her arrest she had begun a dress which was confiscated during the search. (No me tals, not even a needle, were allowed in the prison cell). Orysia declared a hunger strike and demanded that the dress she had begun be returned to her. The prison authorities gave in after a few days and in time Orysia finished the dress. Upon arriving in Mordovia in June of 1973 (Orysia had arrived a month before) two impressions immediately seared themselves into my memory. First I remember that there were flowers everywhere. They we re cared for and cultivated by the loving, motherly hands of Darka Husiak and Kateryna Zarycka. The second im pression is of pieces of bright embroidery covering window sills, laying near the beds, adorning the collars of the prison dresses of the Ukrainian women. (There were seven of them.) One might ask: ’’Why would they gild their cages?” It is true, in any cage captivity re mains the same. Yet the unrelenting grey monotony was somehow mellowed by the tireless hands of Darka who nurtured her flowers and Orysia, who decorated the barracks with embroidery done on coarse sackcloth given so that we could wash the floors. My prison sentence was short — only four years. And in my memories — even those of the hardest of times — bright colors predominate. A son was waiting for me at home; I could see the end of my sentence and in the place of dying illusions new ones were born. Orysia had already lived through 10 years of Stalinist concentration camps and 13 years of exile. Ahead of her lay 6 years in prison camps and 5 years of exile. Her colors were mostly dark: maroon with black, black with yellow, or simply — black. Behind her — constant vacillation between life and death, a difficult ill ness, which at the age of thirty left her an invalid, nu merous disasters almost too heavy to bear, the death of her sister, Leonida, whose heart stopped beating in exile after an unendurable prison sentence. НАШЕ ЖИТТЯ, ЖОВТЕНЬ 1980 23
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