I watch stun grenades, bricks and Molotov cocktails fly across the screen, people scream and flee from the corrupt Ukrainian police and I'm only able to understand and comprehend what is happening through the English subtitles on the screen. Protesters toss tires into fires, causing thick, black smoke to billow up to the milky way and suffocate the cosmos, as well as the corrupt Berkut police ruthlessly killing peaceful citizens.
Winter on Fire is as cinematic as it is heartbreaking, and I have to remind myself the bloody bodies on screen are real people, and this isn't an action-packed dystopian Hollywood movie; the brains spilled across the asphalt, the blood running down their faces, the gunshots, the screams, they're all real— there aren't props or sets made by professionals, but barricades, recycled and makeshift and finely crafted by those defending themselves against the Berkut. They wave their blue and yellow flags atop their shelters and wear pots and pans on their heads, and I have to tell myself again, "There is nothing artificial about this. This is real."
I think about these people before the Ukrainian Revolution. I wonder if they feared for their lives before Maidan became a symbol of dissent, if now, they look over their shoulders skeptically or stiffen during police encounters; and then I wonder— what about those lost in Maidan? What about the 125 lives taken in Maidan? Or the 6,000 and counting lives lost in the war following Winter on Fire. Millions of people send smoke to the sky along with their compatriots' souls lost in battle; Muslim, Catholic, and Christian alike pray to the God of their understandings.
Ukraine is in mourning every morning and evening and some are still searching for those lost in Maidan, those never found or uncovered from kidnappings, and I wonder where they went. Why can't they be found? I see them hoisted onto stretchers and zipped into body bags, I see them stowed in the back of ambulances and whisked away at unusual speed, but I don't know where they go.
The Incas believe the milky way or Mayu is a river connecting heaven and earth, it is said the river flows from the Vilcanota in Peru. They say it is the road our loved ones walk in the afterlife to cross into the celestial realm in the sky. It is believed one visits the Hanan Pacha (the upper world) in their dreams.
The Incas celebrated a ceremony called Inti Raymi which translates to "sun festival." Inti Raymi is celebrated in June winter solstice and centers around the sun god Inti; the festival is believed to be the day when the Vilcanota aligns with the Mayu causing heaven and earth to come together and the sun to rise and set in the milky way.
Inti Raymi, the celebration of the sun god, is the largest festival in Inca religion. Today the festival takes place on June 24th, the last day of the Incas winter solstice, which technically begins on the 21st. The celebration of Inti Raymi is full of song and dance and fire rituals, the Incas painted their faces yellow and adorned their heads with deer antlers and doubled them as instruments.
I remember how fervently my grandma, who I called Manna, believed in heaven. She believed she was invited and papa and my sister and my mom and me, she didn't think my dad would ever make it, but prayed for him anyhow. She always said she knew she would go to heaven when she died, and I remember unable to comprehend a life without her, which led to vivid fever dreams about her dying from various causes. I remember calling her several times in the middle of the night for reassurance she'd live forever.
I remember she'd always tell me everyone has to die, because that's the funny part about life, to which I would cry until she calmed me down, hushed me and instructed me to look out the window at the moon, and I remember pressing my face up against the chilled glass and spotting the full, white moon just outside my bedroom window.
"Are you looking at the moon?" she said.
"Okay, good," she said. "Now listen to me sweetheart, we are looking at the same moon."
"Really?" It hadn't occurred to me.
"Yes, really. And we'll always be looking at the same moon. No matter where I am."
I remember her telling me not to worry about her dying because eventually I'd meet her in heaven and I remember asking, "can we meet on the moon?"
President Yanukovych resigned at the dissenting demand of Maidan, and the celebration that ensued paid tribute to those lost in Maidan. The people applauded at the announcement on that Yanukovych resigned and re-elections would take place in May, and they cried and sang for their freedom, proudly waving their blue and yellow flags, with tears of joy tearing through their matching facepaint.
The beauty in the film is restored, after mass bloodshed and war, I can see the beauty of Maidan. I can Maidan as a place of togetherness, not a war torn city. In Ukraine, the passion for freedom outweighs the fear of oppression.
They fill the memorials with assorted rose bouquets and prayer candles and family photos and Ukraine flags and priceless mementos, mourning and thanking their loved ones for risking their lives for the freedom and future of Ukraine. Muslim, Catholic, Buddhist, Jewish and atheist pray together as one, honoring their Ukrainian brothers and sisters.
Ukraine celebrates through the night, with soulful music and festival lights shining into the heavens in lieu of billowing smoke from the winter on fire. I wonder, when the smoke dissipates and the lights go up in Maidan, do the souls of those lost go with them?
While the Incas celebrate the sun I wonder where Mama Quilla is. Mama Quilla is the goddess of the moon, marriage, the menstrual cycle, Inti's wife and sister, and protector of women.
Mama Quilla is the epitome of feminism in Inca religion and is praised today, particularly by women. The Incas believe Mama Quilla's lunar eclipses were shadows of animals pouncing on her and attacking her; they responded by yielding their weapons of the lunar phases and threw rocks to help fend the animals off; and they collected silver from the ground and believed she shed silver tears on them.
On Inti Raymi, I wonder if she is full of life and gleaming white over Peru, or if she is a silver waning crescent hidden by the Mayu, ample with stardust and spirit animal constellations, as it flows from Vilcanota to the upper world. I wonder if she sees the souls of those who have passed float through the Mayu to the Hanan Pachu, and I wonder if she floats too.
I remember sitting beside Manna's chair in the dead of night, it was my turn to watch her even though my family urged me to sleep and rest and not 'take it upon myself to take care of her'. I remember when I began to drift off to sleep, my forehead pressed against the arm of her chair, I woke up as soon as she did. Her eyes opened and looked straight ahead at the small night light blinking in the bathroom. She let a small sigh escape her dry lips and she croaked for me, I asked her if she needed water, she didn't say yes or no, all she said was, "It's time."
I frantically pulled the crumpled note from my pocket and held my phone up to the constellation of words scattered across the page and read through a rushing river of tears. I told her everything I'd planned to tell her before she went.
I remember promising to never let a man treat me poorly, and if Josh, my boyfriend at the time, did anything to hurt me I would stomp him out with my combat boots, like she always promised to do for me. I remember promising to graduate from college, no matter how badly I want to drop out and runaway. I remember promising to write about her always, and to pick up where she left off with her memoir and to pursue my dreams in lieu of financial stability. Her eyes glazed over and opened again, she perked up at the invisible presence that watched over us both and I tried not to let my tears inhibit my words.
I told her I loved her, I think I told her 20 times. I promised to be kind to my father and my sister though our relationships were fleeting. I promised to always look at the moon when I missed her and to name a star after her.
And I remember when the time came, to name a star, it was 15 minutes after I'd heard she passed and I had finally emptied myself of my tears for the day; I looked up at the night sky and for the first time, I was unsatisfied. I couldn't name a star after her because I couldn't find one good enough.
I remember staying outside on my balcony for hours, lying on my back and criticizing the stars as they shot across the sky like a constellatory light show; with each star that fell from the sky, to wherever, I wondered where she went.
I remember the third time I tried acid. I was alone and outside, watching the sky during a meteor shower. I remember seeing patches of the milky way, aural blue watercolor splotches glittered with stardust. "Is that real?" I asked allowed to no one in particular, but was answered with a chill wind creeping up my spine and a star shooting through the galaxy.
I didn't decide the milky way was real and not just a hallucination, but the universe decided for me, and I named her Sandi.
I wonder if Manna has seen the milky way, or the souls from Maidan. I wonder if she's in heaven, and I wonder if I reject or accept the idea of heaven or spirits crossing into it through the Mayu. I wonder if I'll ever know where Manna went or if I'll meet her on Mama Quilla when my time inevitably comes. I wonder why we go where we go when we die, and if she's with Ukrainians or the Incas, or both, because it seems the only requirement for access to heaven is to fervently believe in something, which every fiber of your being, so much it makes you cry or risk your life.
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