For a long time my left hand was my enemy, my burden, my secret. Everytime I would see someone look at it, I would immediately feel paralyzed with fear. Fear that I would be exposed for who I really am \u2014 a \u201cfreak\u201d with a left hand that had no fingers on it. For as long as I can remember myself I would always hide it. At first it would be with the help of long sleeved tops, then I got a prosthetic glove to cover the lack of my fingers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
From time to time, I\u2019d ask my parents, \u201cWhy did this happen to me? What did the doctors say? What\u2019s wrong with me?\u201d<\/strong> <\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n
But they\u2019d always say that there was no particular explanation for it. They always said that it was rare but that there were others like me \u2014 in Ukraine and beyond. But I never believed them. I always felt that it was extremely unfair that I was given this \u201cinconvenience\u201d in my life. When I\u2019d feel particularly sorry for myself, I\u2019d even tell myself that because I was so unlucky with my hand I would be lucky with everything else in life. It would bring me some reassurance and relief.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
From kindergarten to school, kids would always ask me questions. Some were curious, some were disgusted, some wanted nothing to do with me. There were those, of course, who were kind to me. I still remember in third grade, when I still didn\u2019t have a prosthetic hand to disguise my limb difference, there was a boy in class that really liked me and would always sit next to me in class. I remember thinking back to that time as a teenager and not understanding how anyone could have liked me \u2014 I didn\u2019t have a hand after all, I wasn\u2019t normal. I was convinced that I would be unhappy for the rest of my life and would never find a partner that would want to be with me. Or good friends for that matter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At the age of 13, I decided that I wanted a prosthetic hand to help me pretend to be like everyone else. <\/strong><\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n
I was lucky and privileged enough that my parents had the means to take me to the UK to get me one. It was virtually impossible to get a prosthesis in Ukraine and thousands of others had to make do with what they had access to, which most often was nothing. Since then I\u2019ve had one done almost every other year.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But that didn\u2019t save me from strange reactions from people I\u2019d meet. Once, after seeing my prosthetic hand a guy I liked in Ukraine told me, \u201cYou must be joking right? Show me your hand again. Don\u2019t play tricks with me. I don\u2019t believe it.\u201d But the thing is that I wasn\u2019t joking. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
My prosthetic hand wasn\u2019t \u201ca trick\u201d, no matter how much I wanted it to be one. I remember feeling extremely ashamed and hurt. But instead of voicing how I felt, I just responded, \u201cNo, it\u2019s real.\u201d I can recount countless incidents, like that one, that made me feel deeply isolated and alone. If this is how I \u2014 someone who was easily able to hide her disability \u2014 felt at many points in my life, how did others \u2014 who couldn\u2019t \u2014 feel?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t know back then that there were others like me. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I wasn\u2019t aware of the fact that people with disabilities in Ukraine were made to be invisible.<\/strong><\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n
This was a harsh legacy that we inherited from the Soviet Union. In a land of allegedly free and equal opportunities, authorities propagated the false belief that there were simply no people with disabilities there. They erased them. That, of course, meant that there was no support for people like me in the USSR. Thousands were ignored and made to become invisible. This sadly continued into the years of once again independent Ukraine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I still remember breaking down in tears one night in my 20s when I came across a video of a girl on youtube with exactly the same hand as mine playing a piano. Just like me, it was her left hand, and just like me, she had no fingers on it. Before that, I had never seen anyone like me before. Tears were rolling down my cheeks and onto my pillow faster than I could process what I was experiencing. Relief? I wasn\u2019t alone. Sadness? How tough must her life have been. Hope? Her hand couldn\u2019t stop her from beautifully playing the piano. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
As life went on and I moved to the UK, I grew more comfortable with my differences. I still hid it: at my first job, at my second job, on many dates and nights out and on social media. In Ukraine, I never saw people in the public sphere with limb differences or other disabilities. And so would hide my hand even more when I\u2019d come home. To be honest, it wasn\u2019t much better elsewhere.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But then Russia\u2019s full-scale invasion of Ukraine happened. So many soldiers, civilian men, women, children \u2014 injured by bombs, mines and bullets. I started seeing so many of these brave and courageous people who survived the unimaginable but lost limbs or other parts of their bodies as a result. Their stories were deeply tragic, but it made me so happy to see them being celebrated by everyone in our country \u2014 their resilience, their courage, their hope. It felt like people with limb differences were finally being seen. \u201cFinally, my country is moving forward in how we treat those that had disabilities,\u201d I thought to myself when I saw a beautiful and tender photoshoot of Ukrainian veterans with prosthetics on Instagram.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMaybe, we\u2019ll all be more accepted now.\u201d <\/strong><\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n
I would never understand what it must have felt like to have had something and then lost it in such a traumatic way. I would never understand the feeling of injustice that so many of these people felt. If Russia didn\u2019t invade Ukraine and didn\u2019t send thousands of missiles onto our cities, this wouldn\u2019t have happened. People wouldn\u2019t have had to go fight on the frontlines or live in constant fear of missile attacks. But I could, to a degree, understand what it must have felt like to have so many people ask questions and stare at you. To feel isolated and alone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There\u2019s no doubt that the war forced us to look at ourselves as a society. To become more open and accepting to people\u2019s different experiences. Yes, it has undoubtedly drawn our attention to the conditions of life for people with disabilities in Ukraine and also the attitudes in society towards them on a scale like never before. But to truly make life better for all people with disabilities in our country, we have to be curious about the diversity of different experiences \u2014 both during and before war. Wars tend to exacerbate existing conditions, and this is no exception.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
What support did people with disabilities get before the war? How readily available were prosthetics? Has that changed? How much of the state budget was spent on making cities more accessible? What\u2019s the situation now? How have people\u2019s attitudes towards people with disabilities changed? And what has been done to change those attitudes from Soviet times? <\/p>\n\n\n\n
We cannot wait for more people to be injured in this war by Russia to catch our attention to look at the conditions of thousands of people with disabilities in Ukraine. We must start making life more safe and accessible for everyone. It matters for us all. And if we truly want to shake off the horrid colonial Soviet legacy, we must start seeing the whole diversity of people\u2019s experiences.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Valeriia Voshchevska, a human rights activist, international expert on digital activism and social media strategies, director of communications at a British-Ukrainian initiative, Ukraine Solidarity Project, co-host of the Ukrainian Spaces podcast.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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