I
was
in
Ukraine
this
fall.
While
I
was
there,
I
happened
to
be
in
Lviv
while
it
was
being
bombed
by
the
Russians
in
the
worst
assault
on
the
city
since
World
War
II.
Hundreds
of
explosions
rocked
the
city
for
hours.
Machine
guns
churned
in
the
distance.
Some
locals,
particularly
those
with
children,
heeded
the
air
raid
sirens
and
took
refuge
in
the
nearest
bomb
shelter,
these
provided
by
the
Ukrainian
government
and
the
owners
of
any
structures
sturdy
enough
to
withstand
a
cruise
missile
strike.
My
cousin
and
I,
probably
foolishly,
did
not
join
the
others
in
relative
safety.
We
watched,
awed,
senses
heightened,
adrenaline
coursing
through
our
veins.
I
felt
no
fear.
A
few
months
after
arriving
back
in
the
United
States,
I
had
the
misfortune
of
being
in
a
city
here
as
an
army
of
masked,
seemingly
unaccountable
ICE
agents
descended
upon
it.
Traffic,
the
crunch
of
snow
and
ice
beneath
my
boots,
the
occasional
distant
siren;
everything
sounded
normal.
It
did
not
feel
normal
though.
People
were
on
edge.
Lines
of
palpable
anxiety
were
etched
into
every
face.
The
recognition
of
distress
in
another
was
married
to
suspicion:
was
this
one
worried
that
ICE
would
kidnap
and
shoot
more
people,
or
worried
that
ICE
was
not
kidnapping
and
shooting
enough
people?
There
was
desperation,
hopelessness.
Five
innocent
people
were
killed
in
this
Russian
attack
on
Lviv.
Many
more
lost
their
homes.
These
losses
were
felt
universally,
even
by
relative
newcomers
like
me.
Still,
that
day
—
the
bombing
took
place
early
in
the
morning
—
was
the
most
collectively
joyous
one
I’ve
ever
been
a
part
of.
Lviv’s
coffee
shops
were
abuzz
in
the
morning.
Later,
crowds
of
people
packed
themselves
into
bars
and
restaurants,
drinking
toasts
to
the
fallen,
shouting
with
eyes
ablaze,
“Slava
Ukraini!”
Teens
gathered
around
boomboxes
in
public
spaces
and
danced.
Everyone
shared
unity
of
purpose.
We
were
alive.
We
gazed
upon
the
horrors
together,
and
didn’t
blink.
The
Russians
lost.
Their
dark
purpose
was
futile.
The
dead,
the
heroes,
the
victims
of
an
unfeeling
violence:
their
sacrifice
meant
something.
We
all
made
our
own
small
contributions
in
our
own
small
ways,
and
felt
honored
for
it.
Moreover,
we
were
assured
by
our
certainty
that
Russia
would
eventually
be
repaid
for
its
cruelty.
Bombing
campaigns
by
one
nation
against
the
civilian
population
of
another
in
order
to
break
the
spirit
of
the
people
never
work.
On
the
contrary,
they
have
the
exact
opposite
effect.
From
the
Blitz
against
Britain
in
WWII
to
our
own
misadventures
in
Vietnam,
the
survivors
are
only
galvanized.
It
feels
good
to
be
galvanized
against
a
great
external
evil.
I
felt
fantastic
in
Lviv.
Meanwhile,
as
the
largest
army
of
immigration
agents
ever
assembled
laid
siege
to
Minnesota,
fear
and
despair
were
rampant.
Fear,
because
these
masked
men
could
suddenly
appear
and
seemingly
murder
with
impunity.
Despair,
because
it
was
our
own
federal
government
waging
a
terror
campaign
against
its
people
and
there
wasn’t
anything
anyone
could
do
about
it.
Fighting
back
in
any
way
would
subject
you
to
arrest
or
worse.
Being
in
a
city
under
attack
by
your
own
government
is
chilling.
When
the
president
and
vice
president
of
your
country
label
the
slightest
act
of
defiance
“domestic
terrorism,”
and
make
clear
that
anything
they
assess
as
such
is
to
be
punishable
by
death,
even
as
they
lie
through
their
teeth
about
their
assessments
in
the
face
of
overwhelming
video
evidence
to
the
contrary,
that
is
very
demoralizing.
You
feel
powerless
when
the
only
thing
you
can
do
to
stem
the
violence
is
vote
in
the
next
election
and
pray
those
in
power
fail
in
their
next
attempt
to
storm
the
Capitol
or
send
fake
electors
or
whatever
other
devilish
evolution
their
designs
on
depravity
take.
You
can
expose
yourself
to
risk
through
protest
(and
I
did)
though
even
as
you
do
you
know
your
leaders
will
only
double
and
triple
down
in
response.
I
didn’t
even
see
ICE
agents
myself.
But
knowing
they’re
out
there
unseen,
lurking
somewhere,
perhaps
coming
to
your
neighborhood
next,
is
frightening.
This
is
why
Spielberg
didn’t
show
the
shark
for
the
first
half
of
“Jaws”
(well,
that
and
the
mechanical
shark
prop
was
on
the
fritz).
I
was
probably
at
more
risk
of
death
as
explosions
rocked
Lviv
than
I
was
as
agents
of
my
own
government
shoved
brown
people
into
vans.
Mentally,
however,
going
through
the
former
was
incredibly
uplifting
whereas
going
through
the
latter
has
proven
incredibly
depressing.
I
would
return
to
Ukraine
in
a
heartbeat.
I’d
happily
shake
my
fist
at
the
sky
and
curse
the
Russian
war
machine
as
drones
rained
down.
Being
in
a
city
selected
for
one
of
Trump’s
reprisals
against
his
own
constituents
is
unquestionably,
unequivocally,
unambiguously
worse.
Jonathan
Wolf
is
a
civil
litigator
and
author
of Your
Debt-Free
JD (affiliate
link).
He
has
taught
legal
writing,
written
for
a
wide
variety
of
publications,
and
made
it
both
his
business
and
his
pleasure
to
be
financially
and
scientifically
literate.
Any
views
he
expresses
are
probably
pure
gold,
but
are
nonetheless
solely
his
own
and
should
not
be
attributed
to
any
organization
with
which
he
is
affiliated.
He
wouldn’t
want
to
share
the
credit
anyway.
He
can
be
reached
at [email protected].