A storm was coming and I needed to prepare. Did we have enough groceries? What work should I bring home? Will I need ice melt for the driveway? And what will I do about those tickets to the Boston Symphony for Friday night? Though I love a good snow, sometimes the disruption it brings becomes an unwelcome burden. Let the snow fall, just leave my life alone.
These things were on my mind the night when Russia began its invasion of Ukraine. Suddenly my travails became minor. A different kind of storm was beginning, equally out of my control, with disruptions that won’t be melting away when the weather warms.
It is beyond my comprehension, even with seventy years of lived experience, that Putin, one man, could be so full of evil, could cause such disruption, destruction, death, seemingly without reason or a moment’s hesitation. It is beyond my comprehension.
Having grown up in the post-World War era, my visions of war have always been in black and white, refugees wearing long heavy coats carrying tired suitcases down long roads, bodies in grainy pictures, a time that happened before my time on earth. Even when Vietnam and other wars came along my images stayed in black and white. These new conflagrations were to me somehow different, not like that war before I was born. Wars don’t happen anymore in neighborhoods that look like mine.
Or so I thought. Naively. But now there it is, in full color HD live on my television. Bombs falling, lines of cars full of people fleeing, buildings in flames and people seeking safety in subway stations. I’ve seen it all before, but it was always something in the past, something that lived and overcame and now only existed in books of history. Once upon a time, there used to be wars.
But war has always been in the lurk, waiting to be rekindled in some form and fill lives with uncertainty, hearts with sadness. What can I do? All seems so out of my control. Do I have a role here waiting to be played out? Is there some place to direct anger… my anger? Is there a weapon waiting that could stop it all at my command?
The Putin propaganda machine cranks on trying to soften up the ground. It distorts the truth. It brazenly spins lies and justifications. Facts are not part of this scenario. And those in Russia who dare challenge, brave as they may be, face consequences unfathomed here in the United States. Those are the seeds that are used for attacking a democracy.
I see those same seeds here, in our own country, festering like a virus waiting to explode. I hear it in the words of a former president, self-serving and void of any pretense of truth. I see it in the commentary of those on Fox, who as bombs started falling in Ukraine spent their time blaming President Biden. I feel it from every Republican who propagates the fiction that the election of 2020 was fixed and who advocates for laws that make it harder for anyone to vote. It is all part of the same Putin propaganda factory, creating seeds of distrust between Americans.
They are the American Putins, fixing their venom on whatever truth disrupts their power. They twist facts and obfuscate what they are doing by saying they are fighting for America, fighting for democracy. But they’re not. I don’t know what they are fighting for, but it is not about freedom. Other people’s dreams have no place in the world they wish to create. And it is past time for us to shut down this hate-filled, anti-American spouting.
A distant war intrudes on my life. And it is too easy to just ignore what is happening many miles away. I can turn it off with the ease of changing channels. But the snow outside. That is another problem. That I have to deal with. Get the snow shovel ready. Make sure there is milk in the refrigerator. At the moment, my biggest problem is how to get to Symphony Hall in a snowstorm — do I drive, or maybe take a bus? Or maybe just cancel.
Ironically, it is an all-Russian program, they are playing. Shostakovich, Stravinsky, Arvo Part. The beautiful side of Russia. Not going does not feel like an option. The world is in need of acts of defiance against a storm. Maybe there will be some salve, some understanding in the music. Maybe that Firebird will take on Putin and I will close my eyes for a few minutes to be enveloped by the sound of hope.
(John Gfroerer lives in Concord.)