Jostein

There are no words for what we felt when we saw the first bombs fall, the first soldiers passing the border, the first tears, the first blood. We tried to find words, we tried to swear and curse, but it always dwindled back to sighs and shaking of heads. But what could we do?

There are no words for what we felt when we saw the first speeches from Zelensky, in the streets, from his office, we are here, we stay here, Slava Ukraini. We tried to cheer, we tried to pump our fists in the air and go ra-ra-ra, like American college students, but it always dwindled back to sighs and slight nods. We don’t believe in God. But we prayed: may God help Ukraine win this war as soon as possible. What else could we do?

There are words to describe the plans we had. Hang a Ukrainian flag in our garden. Learn Ukrainian. Take our electric car down to the border and, well, do something. But what? In the chaos and uncertainty, what could we do, how would our efforts make the world a better place? (And where to charge the car?) So our plans always shrank and withered and came to naught. There are words, but they are just like our plans: not nearly big enough to be sufficient.

Slava Ukraini, we whispered, fingers crossed. May this soon be over. What else could we do?

There are no words for what we felt when we saw millions upon millions of Ukrainians fleeing their country. We saw clips of kids walking alone, of exhausted women with a suitcase or a backpack, everything else left behind — and we cried. We saw Poles and Germans with signs (ROOM FOR 3 or HELP FOR UKRAINIANS), we saw people helping people, and we cried again. A bit. We try not to be too sentimental.

So we signed up for hosting refugees. We have a room, we said – but the bureaucratic wheels turn slow here, slower than one would think possible. We waited, we sent e-mails, waited some more. And then we gave up and turned to word of mouth instead, we found someone on Facebook, and he found two sisters, or they found him, and they asked him, and he asked us, and we said yes, of course, of course, as soon as possible.

And then, a very unbureaucratic amount of time later, T and S knocked on our door. (Or S and T, we couldn’t tell the difference.) We didn't have many words — Hello, how are you, our names are – but we had one word above all. Welcome. You are safe here, you can stay here, you have your own room, the dog is nice, although he sometimes growls, the kids are nice too, usually, and although the food is mostly Norwegian and quite bland, it’s edible. Welcome. Thank you, they said, and went to bed and slept for 36 hours.

6 months later, they are suddenly quite easy to tell apart – but they remain just as welcome. And now it is us who are thanking them. Thank you for your laughter and smile. Thank you for becoming buddies with the dog. Thank you for making Ukrainian food and teaching us about Ukrainian words and traditions and culture. Thank you for being a part of our family. But above all, thank you for trusting us and feeling safe here.

We can’t do much. We can’t save the world or end the war or stop the dog from annoying the neighbours. But we can share a room and a table, we can eat together and laugh together and hope for a better future together, for everyone. So that’s what we do. May it make a difference.

Dear C and P. You have two good-hearted daughters. They are good people. May the roads ahead be easier, both for them and for you. And may we, when this all soon will be closer to being over, meet at a dinner table and eat our favourite foods and laugh and learn and live.

And may we at last find at least some words: pass me the salt, these potatoes are perfect, would anyone want some water – and Slava Ukraini.

Slava Ukraini.