Vigil for Ukraine: Three Personal Statements from Student Organizers

On February 24th from 7:30-8:30 PM, Ukrainian students from Harvard College gathered on the Harvard Memorial Church steps for a vigil for Ukraine. The event marked the 3rd anniversary of Russia's invasion of Ukraine. In the words of organizer Mariia Hnatiuk, it was a "moment of grief, remembrance, and resilience."

Three of the young undergraduates who coordinated the vigil, including Hnatiuk, delivered personal statements from the church steps. Their speeches may be read below.

Oksana Trefanenko

Sometimes, I allow myself to think about a parallel universe.

About a universe, where everything had stayed ordinary—just like it had been planned one thousand ninety-seven days ago. I kept complaining about school starting at 8 in the morning. I had taken that scary chemistry test on Friday and finally wrote the Geography Olympiad on Saturday. My class had gone on the trip we’d been dreaming about, successfully hiding from our teacher after curfew. I had seen my best friend every day, sipping coffee at our favorite café, convinced we had all the time in the world to figure things out. I had walked my dog in the park, never thinking about the people I passed, whose lives, too, would have stayed ordinary.

In that parallel universe, I had never been awakened by my mom saying that Russia had launched a full-scale invasion. I had never had to say goodbye to my parents, who had decided to stay at home but had sent me away with a ready suitcase. I had never had to answer my sister’s questions about how soon we would be home and had never had to check group chats with my friends from all over Ukraine, reading how Russian tanks had entered their hometowns.

In that universe, I, along with thousands of Ukrainian teenagers, had kept having lessons in our classrooms instead of using Zoom or going to bomb shelters. We had also never had to learn the difference between air raid signals or memorize how long it took different types of missiles to reach the area where we lived. We had kept joking in history lessons, calling them boring and outdated instead of becoming history ourselves. We had kept living the latter years of our childhood instead of being forced to grow up immediately.

In the same parallel universe, millions of young boys and girls, men and women, had not left their families and friends to go and fight on the frontline or learn tactical medicine. They did not need to witness their friends dying or going missing without being able to help. They had never had to attend more funerals than birthdays and kneel regardless of their location whenever the fallen came home. In that parallel universe, they had kept following their dreams instead of gambling with death under artillery strikes.

In my imaginary universe, parents had never had to bury their children, witnessing how they disappeared under the ground. They never had to sit next to the bed of their child, fully paralyzed, praying to whoever would listen to them so that they could talk to them one more time. They had also never had to see their homes crumble, carrying all the memories of time together. In these homes, living rooms had never forgotten the kids' laughter and the loud sounds of movie nights, while kitchens still smelled of new recipes and stolen dances to songs playing in the background.

But this universe does not exist. Instead, we are here. In this one. And here, we carry on, remembering a life that should have been ours and choosing to fight for it.

Standing here today, we mark three years since the Russian full-scale invasion began. Three years of trying to find light in the darkness, strength in uncertainty, and resilience in every corner of our souls, because this is all we can do. This is what we must do.

Today, I especially want to express my gratitude to everyone who has done everything they can so that my home country and my people can live. Not survive, but live. I want to thank our Armed Forces, who have fought and paid the highest price so that our hearts, despite everything, can still believe in tomorrow. I want to thank everyone who has contributed to this fight, regardless of whether it’s donating, volunteering, spreading awareness, or just offering your Ukrainian friends a chance to talk, making their burden a little lighter.

And today, especially, as we stand here at Harvard, a place of knowledge and power, I am reminded of the responsibility we carry. The privilege of being here, learning, and having a voice in shaping the future comes with the power to act. We are not just passive observers of the world’s pain—we have the power to amplify voices, to make a difference, to create change. As we move forward, we use the opportunities we have to advocate, fight for justice, and ensure that our generation is not defined by the absence of action.

Today is difficult for many of us, and I know it will remain so for years to come. And though the parallel universe I spoke of never came to be, we have lost too much to afford to lose more. So, the fight for that life—the life we should have had—continues. It is a fight for those who are no longer with us, for those who are yet to be born, and for the generations who will one day know peace, all because of the price we are paying today.

Oleksandra Khalo

“Cry after everything’s over.” My mom tenderly whispered to my ear on a day that split my life into “before” and “after.” February 24th turned around the lives of more than 40 million Ukrainians. And on this day three years ago I learned three essential things that shaped me into who I am today. Firstly, I learned how to appreciate. Secondly, I learned how to lose. And, ultimately, I learned how to hate. I hated to see people abandon their homes and their loved ones in search of survival, I hated to see kids cry and animals helplessly look for a shelter any time the alarm would shake the sky. I hated to see tanks roll outside my window, and words cannot describe how much I hated those who fired missiles at my people. 

On the day of the invasion, I was ridiculously clueless. I had no idea what was about to happen even though the threat was in the air. At 6:29 a.m. I woke up from booming, roaring sounds. At 6:30 a.m. my legs slowly carried me to a nearby window. I forced myself to keep my eyes open and face the current reality. At 6:31 a.m. I trembled. I still don’t know if it was because of fear, rage, or simply because of my apartment’s floor shaking from the explosion of russian bombs outside my house. Silent tears rolled down my eyes. That was the moment when I promised myself, my family, and Ukraine, that this would be the last sign of weakness they would see coming from me. The next month was dark. The news was on 24/7, people didn't know how to react, behave, or who to trust. The only thing we were sure of was our faith in Ukrainian independence. I did start to lose my spark and close-off because of endless worries, and that’s when my mother said another phrase that I won’t be able to forget. “The war is not a reason for you not to educate yourself.” So she packed my younger sister and me in the car and drove us to France for 6 days straight, just so we could finish our school year. While I was in France, my life turned around down once again. One morning I received a message that I won a full scholarship through a program, which was willing to fully cover my education in a prestigious boarding school in the U.S. That was the moment when I swore to use all of my educational privileges to help my country – Ukraine

My pain, rage, and hatred turned into a fervent and undefeatable motivation to make a difference. As any other Ukrainian you see in this square right now, I came here to learn, create, and preserve our freedom. What I’m willing to emphasize is that we’re not broken. It’s not the first time we’re fighting against genocide and russian terrorism, however, this should be the moment in history, where we put a definite end to it. Ukrainians have been on these lands 30,000 years ago, we’re standing here right now, and, let me assure you, we will be here standing and celebrating our culture in the future. I encourage every single one of you to donate and support Ukraine. People are still dying, and time doesn’t heal. However, they do call us a brave nation for a reason. And I will cry, but only after we win, and this world can live in peace again. Stand for Freedom. Stand with Ukraine. And Slava Ukraini!

Mariia Hnatiuk

I used to live in the Bucha region, on the outskirts of the capital. When the war started, I was at home with my family. The first week we spent amongst constant bombardment and no electricity or internet. The only source of information for me was learning to distinguish where the two opposing sides of the army were when the rocket was launched, and when it fell. 9 seconds... exactly 9 seconds, it took for it to fly back and forth between Bucha and Irpin.

It was the place where I spent my childhood, a house my parents spent 12 years building with their own hands. I spent days in the forest or by the river with my friends, never following the rules and simply enjoying the lives we've had. There was always something special about it and until February 24th I felt safe in a place I called home.

We evacuated after a week. I spent ten 10 days on the road getting to Tbilisi, Georgia where I was pursuing IB Diploma Programme. And my family stayed in the capital patiently waiting for something... anything that would help us understand if we still have a home to come back to.

They watched the news every day but one of those days was different. They called me with their voices shaking. The main Ukrainian news program was broadcasting from where our house used to be. As they pulled out the body of our neighbor from our cellar, we realized how lucky we were to be alive.

My house was hit by two Grad rockets, each 3 meters long. They came through four walls, destroyed half of the house, and were proudly sticking from the floor of a place that used to be a kitchen. We had an overall of 9 rockets on our territory. I listened to the stories of my friends who lost everything, neighbors whose only hope now was a tiny trailer standing on the ruins of their once peaceful village, and journalists who came every week to interview my parents for a story… our story that was never supposed to become reality.

We were lucky to survive but many were not as fortunate. I am thankful for the opportunity to be here today with all of you but I wish for nothing more than for this to be over. I wish for the days to be counted in a calendar and not by how much time has passed since the last air raid siren. I wish to get on a plane and open my eyes in Boryspil airport in Kyiv. I wish for my people to live, not survive!

Slava Ukraїni!