Kiev

I've never felt much attached to the verses, but the chorus of Peter, Paul and Mary's version of the folk song "there, but for fortune" has always stuck with me. Short and to the point, it says "there, but for fortune, go you or I," speaking to the randomness that defines who we become, and the luck that has filled my own life.

Having spent time in March in Kiev, Ukraine, on a work trip for my new job with the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee, those words seemed to follow me wherever I went--and with them, the burden they seem to place; the duty to make life better and easier for others. In my own mind, taking care of family--in my case the Jewish people--has always been the way I have lived those words, and I have never felt it more clearly than in Kiev.

Sonya, with the towels we brought her

Sonya, in her kitchen

I visited Sonya, an elderly woman who was never married (so many Soviet men died in the war that many women are that way), and who is alone in the world (pictured above). She lives in two small rooms, with no toilet or shower, an empty, 60 year old fridge, and a broken television. Of her monthly pension of $110 per month, $75 goes for roof repair to a neighbor. $35 is what is left. She has health problems, and can hardly leave her house, requiring medicine she cannot afford, and leaving her unable to go to buy food. In Sonya, I saw my father's students at the JCC, my friends' grandparents, and a fate not so far from my own. "there but for fortune..."

Sonya would die without help. It's literally that simple. But JDC provides her with a home care worker three times a week, who empties the bucket she uses as a toilet, lovingly provides her with care, cleans her home, and eases her loneliness. As Sonya spoke, tears welled in her aide's eyes. We provide her with hot meals she can reheat at home--not as much as she or we would like, but enough to live on. Without the help she gets from JDC, Sonya would not be alive. Because of us, and only us, she is. There's not a lot of competition, you see, for providing essential services to elderly Jews in the Ukraine. At the start, when JDC arrived there, we too came with books and ambitions to build schools--we had no idea of the poverty we would find.

Taisa, in her finest clothes

Taisa, with JDC crafts

After Sonya, I met Taisa, and her mother. Walking up the five flights of stairs to their apartment, I carried only small gifts for them, unlike the food and supplies they must carry daily. Taisa's mother is hard of hearing, and a nurse who works 24 hour shifts at the hospital, leaving her ten year old daughter to feed and care for herself and their tiny apartment, because there is no alternative. What would happen, we asked, if something happened--if she forgot to turn off the gas, or got sick? The answer was that she tries not to, and they try not to think about it. Taisa has a digestive disorder (though you wouldn't know it to look at her--video once I upload it), and her mother cannot afford to care for her--there is not even a bed for her mother, who sleeps on a chair.

But through JDC, Taisa and her mother received a fridge and a washing machine, and a monthly food card enabling Taisa's mother to care for herself and her daughter with dignity. Taisa takes art classes, making projects that I must have tossed by the hundreds--papier mache, small bracelets, etc. All were kept as treasures in a worn shoebox, and she showed them to my colleagues and myself with great pride, explaining how much she loves Jewish holidays like Purim and Passover. Through JDC, Taisa goes to camp in the summer, and has a social worker, who checks in with the family regularly (as the mother was raised in an orphanage, she is alone) and who was waving from downstairs back up at Taisa as we drove off. "There but for fortune, go you, or go I. You and I..."

Babi Yar, the second memorial.

Babi Yar. A tragic story, and one worth knowing.

We visited Babi Yar, too, where tens of thousands of Jews (that's not an exaggeration) were shot, point-blank, over mass graves. We heard the story of a mother who shoved her live child and herself into the grave, realizing it was the only way to survive. They did survive, but what comes after survival?

Children playing, kilometers from Babi Yar

Milla, who captured my heart

We are what comes after that. After Babi Yar, I met Milla, a student in the nursery school of the community. A yummy child (that's the only word) with slightly crossed eyes, she immediately invited me to come dance, and I was sold. With her blond hair and bright smile, Milla is what comes after Babi Yar. Because of JDC, kids like Milla and Taisa get to grow up cared for, loved, part of their Jewish community. As she danced around to a children's song in Hebrew, I thought of all the children of Kiev who didn't get to grow. And then I realized the honor implicit in this work.

I do my job--we do our jobs--so that Milla can dance, and Taisa make bracelets, so that they can dress up for Purim, and so that Sonya lives to see tomorrow. We do it so the other women I met are not alone, so that they are cared for, and loved. We do it because they are ours.

Some of the clients who get food cards through JDC

A JDC food card, like a debit card, can be used in the grocery store.

Evelina--93 years old, still volunteers for JDC!

A warm-home, where seniors who are alone come together several times a week. They were so excited to meet us!

Having originally written this in March when I returned, it seems appropriate to be sending it out during Pesach, when we celebrate the story of how the Jews returned to Israel, our home. How Pharoah (himself a tool of fortune) was so cruel, and how JDC is so very kind seems, to me, the best kind of story of redemption. Chag sameach.