If Ukraine Had a Parade

No missiles, no medals, just the miracle of still being here

YOU SAW THEIR MISSILES. Their tanks. Their medals.

You saw their soldiers marching in perfect lines, while the world held its breath, trying to pretend it wasn’t a performance.

Because today, May 9th, Russia celebrated what they call “Victory Day.”

They stood in the Red Square, claiming to honor the fight against Nazism, while committing genocide on the Ukrainian people.

They spoke of peace while bombing schools.

They celebrated history while trying to erase ours.

They welcomed foreign leaders and displayed the very weapons destroying our homes.

They called it glory. But it was not.

It was a display of shame.

Of inhumanity. Of weakness dressed as power.

And if we had a parade, we would make it different.

We’d show a woman carrying three loaves of bread across a cratered road.

A father crouched in the mud, handing his daughter a piece of chocolate.

A boy trying to replant flowers outside a windowless school.

The child learning how to sleep through the sound of sirens.

We would show a hospital with no electricity. A school with no windows. A church where the pews are empty, but the candles are still lit.

We would carry photos of the ones who didn’t make it.

Not because they were brave, but because they had nowhere else to go.

We would carry people, not weapons.

Our anthem wouldn’t come from speakers.

It would come from the voice of a teacher, standing in a basement, reading Ukrainian poems by candlelight.

There would be no tanks in our parade.

Only shoes.

Worn out. Stitched. Still walking.

Because we didn’t choose this war. But we refuse to vanish in it.

We would not march for power. We would march for memory.

And for the quiet kind of dignity that rarely makes the news.

If we had a parade, there would be no flyovers.

Only silence for the gone. And applause for the ones who stayed.

If we had a parade, we’d show you who we are.

Not perfect. Not brutal.

But still kind.

Still here.

We would not display strength. We would display humanity.

Wounded, exhausted, but still intact.

And maybe it would have left you with something you couldn’t quite name, but you can’t ignore it.

Because something that’s missing from this world would finally appear.

A country still choosing dignity over cruelty.

Still choosing care over vengeance.

Still choosing to love what hasn’t yet been taken.

If we had a parade, we wouldn’t call it victory.

We’d call it survival.

A people who have nothing left, but still love their country. Still love each other. Still love truth.

That’s what we would show.

And that’s why we don’t need a parade. Because our survival is already the proof.

We don’t need to perform victory. We are living it.

Every time we keep going instead of becoming like them.

We don’t have missiles to show the world. But we have something else.

We have people, from across the oceans, who are still listening.

This quiet, ordinary moment you’re spending with me right now, this act of reading, feeling, remembering, is part of the fight.

We don’t last because we’re loud. We last because someone, somewhere, still cares enough not to look away.

There are days I worry this story is vanishing, one reader at a time. And then you show up.

You kept your flag on the porch.

You lit a candle.

You didn’t need a reason to keep caring. You just never stopped.

You believed that goodness still matters.

And it does. Because here you are.

Because you’re still here.

.

If Ukraine had a parade, you would not be watching.

You would be walking beside us.

🇺🇦

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🔖 There’s no team behind this, just me, writing from Ukraine. And every paid subscription helps me keep this open for everyone who needs to read these stories. Thank you so much for considering it if you can.

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📖 “The Divine Comedian: Ukraine’s Journey Through Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise” is more than my first book: it’s Ukraine, seen from inside the fire, and the hope that refuses to die. Download it for free (PDF & Kindle) and see what survival really looks like.