Volunteers for Ukraine show the core good of people

Cries of partisanship scream throughout our country. Positions on white-hot issues draw cutting lines in communities, between neighbors, friends, and partners.

Name it: abortion, immigration, gun control, climate change, the “stolen” election, LGBTQ+ rights, social programs, the list goes on.

A lawn sign, a flag or a bumper sticker instantaneously brands our neighbor or friend.

“This is my tribe,” it shouts! “This is who I am and what I believe!” We’re all vulnerable to the labels and are left to our assumptions. We leap, headlong, “knowing” who my neighbor is, where she stands on issues, what news channel she watches and what social media feeds she reads. From here, we’ll leap to other conclusions about backgrounds, education, income, etc., and make other decisions about a potential playdate, or not, or a friendly dinner invitation, or not, and the safe topics of sidewalk conversation.

I’ve spent more than a year working to raise money and to provide humanitarian aid to thousands of orphans and displaced children in Ukraine. It’s a simple, efficient model. We raise money here in the U.S. from generous donors — from $5 to $50,000 — who want to support our efforts to help the youngest, most innocent victims of the war in Ukraine.

We’ve supplied, so far, more than 800 tons of food, 10,000 sleeping bags, generators and lots of trauma counseling. We deliver this aid through a small army of volunteers in Poland and Ukraine. The volunteers are strangers-now-friends who purchase, assemble and deliver the aid into the deepest reaches of Ukraine. These are Rotary Club members, mostly, and other humanitarians who dedicate days of each week, putting aside work and family commitments, to drive into a war zone and deliver food and sleeping bags to kids they’ll never know. These are heroes in my book.

Common Man for Ukraine has worked with these volunteers for over a year. We strategize, prioritize and implement humanitarian aid programs. We raise money and deliver basic humanitarian aid. We’re focused on getting food, warmth and counseling to kids caught up in a war. We’ve Zoomed endlessly.

We’ve eaten together, driven thousands of miles together in cramped, humid vans and trucks. We’ve tensed our shoulders together as we hand over our passports and cross yet another military checkpoint. We wince together as the first air raid siren blares. We’ve gotten lost in a war zone together.

We’ve laughed with each other when the turn of phrase unravels hilariously when translated from English to Polish to Ukrainian and back. We’ve collapsed with fatigue after a too-long journey. We’ve slumped with the enormity of the need. We’ve wept after seeing and beginning to understand the trauma these war-children carry. I count these heroes, these humanitarians, as dear friends.

Funny thing, though. I have no idea what signs perch on their lawns. I’ve never seen their cars or their bumper stickers. I don’t know if they ever stood, before the war, on a corner and waved flags about this atrocity or that, this real or perceived injustice or that. I can’t jump to conclusions about their opinions on this economic dilemma or social problem. I don’t know if I would have invited them to dinner. I don’t know if our kids would have played together or if we would have been best girlfriends. I’ve never asked and I likely never will. What I have learned is that it doesn’t matter. These heroes are humans like me, caring for other humans like them who need help. That’s all. How it came to be that we are together on this rutted Ukrainian dirt road to yet another children’s safe house doesn’t matter. We are here, joined by our simple compassion for kids who deserve better.

My personal challenge is to remember this core connection. Can I remember that my neighbor with one of “those” signs might also sit with me, someday, in a truck helping someone else? Can I remember that a small but precious donation from a stranger may have come from someone who has “that” bumper sticker, but cares just the same? Can I remember that we can all be heroes in some small way for each other? Can I learn to un-see the dividers that cleave through our lives and see instead the caring that connects us?

Susan Mathison co-founded the New Hampshire-based nonprofit CommonManForUkraine.org, worked for 30 years at the USDA Forest Service, and serves as President of Pemi-Valley Habitat for Humanity.

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