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ties would cut power to the TV station and Yu shchenko would disappear to be replaced by some cliched WWII era Soviet movie. It didn't happen. And it was at that moment that I realized we were witnessing a very unusual event. I ran to get my cam era and even though it felt silly, I took pictures of the television images from Maidan Nezalezhnosti. The urge to document what I thought was going to be a brief shining moment of media freedom before every thing went back to business as usual in Ukraine was irresistible. I couldn’t wait to get back to Kyiv to see for myself what was going on at the Maidan. For two days I engaged in what I call “revolutionary tourism.” I mingled with the crowds, took pictures, sang along with the performers on stage, visited the tent city. By then the protestors’ numbers had swelled to well over 300,000, and even though I don’t like being in large crowds, there on the Maidan I felt perfectly safe. The atmosphere resembled a carnival more than a demon stration. The crowd seemed almost giddy, releasing frustrations that had been pent up for the last decade. But through the giddiness one could not help but see the undercurrent of steadfast determination. It was perhaps the first time in my life that I had witnessed a mass display of the dignity of the human spirit. What I saw was the innate desire of people to be reckoned with, to have their vote validated. I saw their desire to live in a better world, in a society free of corruption. It wasn’t East vs. West or Ukrainian vs. Russian—it was quite simply humanity vs. oppression. And it was this universality of the emotions expressed on that Maidan that kept me fighting back tears for two days. At the same time, my heart was breaking for the young students who had set up their tents on the snow covered, icy ground of Khreshchatyk, freezing in 15-degree weather. How crushed they will be, I thought, when their efforts bring about no changes. How terrible it will be to see the crowds melt away like the snow after a few days of initial fervor. My most anxious thoughts came when I wondered not “if’ but “when” the authorities would use force against the demonstrators. Rumors were flying around Kyiv that the Russian special forces were being amassed around Bankova Street where the President’s Administration was, that thugs from Donetsk were being brought in by buses to provoke violence, which the authorities would then use as a pretext for using force against the demonstrators. The tension of waiting for that to happen was almost un bearable. And then we began hearing representatives of the “sylovyky,” those who controlled the troops and the guns and the tanks, addressing their col leagues. They were calling on the interior police, the army, and the security service not to act against the people in an unconstitutional manner, demanding that their forces respect their fellow citizens who were demonstrating peacefully and that they not be the cause of bloodshed. It was then that hope returned. Fast-forward two months to January 20, 2005: inauguration day in the United States. Federal government workers in DC have the day off, so I am indulging myself by sleeping in and enjoying a lei surely third cup of coffee, still in my pajamas at 11:30 a . m . The TV in the background is tuned to the inauguration proceedings. The only thing on my agenda that day is to start packing for a week long vacation in Key West that is to start in a few days. My phone rings—it’s the Operations Center of the State Department, the nerve center of U.S. diplomatic life. Like the proverbial phone call in the middle of a the night, a call from the Ops Center on a holiday is also dreaded. And this call turned out to be a classic case of bad news and good new—no, make that spec tacular news. The bad news was that I had to be on a plane to Kyiv the very next afternoon. The spectacular news was that I was going there with Secretary of State Colin Powell, the official U.S. representative, to attend the inauguration of Viktor Yushchenko. And just like that, my “to do” list for that day was turned upside down. I would have to put away bathing suit and dig out the warm woolen underwear. Barely 48 hours later, Colin Powell and a small group of advisers and I were being ushered into the office of President-elect Yushchenko. The inau guration was about an hour and a half away when we sat down in this modest but comfortable two-room suite for a short meeting. Considering he was going to ascend to the office of the President after months of bruising election struggles, massive demonstra tions and political tension, not to mention a poisoning attempt, Viktor Yushchenko was remarkably relaxed. Naturally I can’t divulge the content of his meeting with Colin Powell; I can, however, say that Yu shchenko was confident and upbeat. After the meeting, Colin Powell lingered a minute surveying the room, and Viktor Yushchenko seized an opportunity to give the Secretary of State a little tour of the office. Over a small fireplace hung a painting by Yushchenko himself, an amateur painter. In the comer of the room stood a three-foot high clay vase. With a smile on his face Yushchenko asked Powell to guess its age. "Six hundred years old?" ‘НАШЕ ЖИТТЯ”, БЕРЕЗЕНЬ 2005 17
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