Dispatches from the Place of Imminence, part 18

January 27 – June 24, 2023

On the morning of January 27th, I landed in Berlin. Having collected my suitcases, I dragged all three of them to the airport exit, the last gate of Europe for me to cross. In the meeting hall, I saw Asia in a black wool jacket, waiting for me with a bunch of white tulips. My flight was delayed, she had to run, and I continued navigating my way to a rented apartment in Schöneberg on my own. From a cab, I observed the historical mix of its Wilhelminian and Art Nouveau buildings neighbouring those from the 1920s and 1950s. The street was overparked, and the driver let me off near the next entrance to mine, Grunewaldstraße 85. “Danke schön!” “Tschüss!” I pulled my suitcases onto the sidewalk. Almost there. Overwhelming tiredness. Then my eyes rested on the tall heavy brownish entrance door in front of me, and I stopped motionless. Unbelievable. I was looking at a Z-sign on the door’s frontal space death-marking its elegant wood carving with the infamous mantra of the Russian invaders. “ZА ПОБЕДУ” – “TO VICTORY.” Sloppy black letters, running ink, they could have been written by a teenager. Berlin is occupied.

Reinstalled, my life is – more than ever – out of place. Struggling to fall asleep during my first night there – even after a hot bath – then falling out of the window in my dream – to death – and awakening. My first-floor apartment had a small inner yard with a bird singing every morning at 5am. I was always there for the song with my first coffee, breathing in the cold air, with my friend’s winter jacket on my shoulders.

On a warm sunny day in early February, we browse Berlin on foot. It has not changed since October – blue-and-yellow flags everywhere, but when you think about how long it took Germany to reach the decision on sending tanks to Ukraine, you’d wonder if it’s just a façade politics. “You need to understand,” Niels tells me as I punctuate the story of his long and open relationship with the city with my observations on the flag-decorated façades, “the decision to install them had to be approved by all big and small offices of these German institutions, probably down to student reps, before these Ukrainian flags appeared where you see them now. You cannot underestimate that.” As I imagine a gigantic bureaucratic apparatus of governing power mobilized for a simple expression of solidarity, I wonder whether it gives us hope or leaves us hopeless.

Behind the façades, relabelling misattributed Ukrainian artistic and scientific artifacts – from Malevich to Exter and Burliuk, from Vernadsky to Korol’ov – is slow, while volumes of our cultural heritage are being lost with each rocket strike. The analog evidence of our existence that emanates the aura of authenticity and the sense of locale, according to Walter Benjamin, vanishes. The aura, which “significance points beyond the realm of art,” is “tied to [the] presence” of the authentic object, it extends a particular historical moment when the object was created through time – the material evidence of cultural continuity. By early December 2022, UNESCO reported 224 heritage sites as damaged or destroyed by Russian aggression. But when I look through the issues of The Economist one morning, I stumble upon a report about various platforms and companies – Skieron, Backup Ukraine and Pixelated Realities – all busy making 3D scans of precious Ukrainian sites and objects, “to preserve Ukraine’s history” – “after the war,” it says, “scans could be used to guide restoration efforts.” Why not, right? Ukraine will be reborn from ashes, 3D-printed.

“It seems to me we are on the edge,” Zaluzhny tells The Economist in his December interview. “I know that I can beat this enemy, but I need resources. I need 300 tanks, 600­700 IFVs [infantry fighting vehicles], 500 Howitzers.” It’s simple. There is a limit to where this war can rely on courage and determination to survive. Beyond that, whether we want it or not, the war is pure math.

When we walk along Unter den Linden, Niels maps the ideology of its architectural composition. He explains to me what he thinks I don’t notice – the significance of the building’s symbolic placement in the city’s architectural assemblage as the expression of international relations, he points to how the power assemblages have been reconfiguring over decades and how we can read that in the location of different intuitions. While I agree with the framework, my reading of the architectural assemblage is different – the picture I see is too grim. As we approach the huge Aeroflot building, I see a military base and it seems the only missing element is a road runway for military aircraft unless the entire Unter den Linden is one in disguise in the very centre of Berlin. The monumental dual-purpose Russian Embassy clearly embodies the foreign diplomatic and military power of control and communication amid the German capital. Its size is proportional to the number of embedded agents and spies – which, as Christo Grozev has recently reported, has typically been about 30 percent against the typical 10 percent for other countries, and I wonder how it has changed with the war. When the permanent Russian diplomatic mission, established by the Tsardom of Russia at the beginning of the eighteenth century, moved to the Palais Kurland, which was on this spot back in 1832, the Palais was three times smaller than the current building. The gigantic new headquarters landed on the territory of the Soviet Occupation Zone only after the war, just one year before Stalin’s death, when the Soviet empire started feeding on the newly established German Democratic Republic until it drained it dry by the late 1980s, sending German undervalued natural recourses to the imperial centre in Moscow and selling its overprized technology back to East Germany – the Soviet trick to boost the economy outside the global market by creating its own small colonial market of the Bloc. Wherever you are in Berlin, there is no safe distance from the Embassy’s presence whose infrastructural duress extends the Soviet Occupation Zone through time to your here-and-now. It reaches you anywhere you go by marking your door with the letter “Z.” Berlin is occupied.

After Transmediale, I stayed for several days with Asia. On February 5th, I had to attend the opening of the ARTE and Deutsche Welle documentary Propaganda Battle for Ukraine by Saskia Geisler and Kristian Kähler, in which I had participated as an expert. I spent that morning on the phone with the nurses from the elderly house who informed me that my father’s condition had worsened over the last several days. “I think my father is dying,” I told Asia. “Hasn’t he been dying for all these months?” “Indeed.”

Then Asia and I cabbed to the beautiful Cinema Delphi, where, they say, Quentin Tarantino got the idea for the final scene of his Inglourious Basterds, and where we installed ourselves in the soft chairs closer to the screen. The documentary opened with a famous viral video of a Ukrainian family, recorded by their in-house security camera, where they jump off the bed, quickly collect their kids and necessary stuff and leave their home early on February 24th to escape the bombing. The song by Ukrainian indie-rock band One in a Canoe filled in the uncomfortable silence of the greyish footage. “The point is / That I got no home / And now I am nothing or anything for anyone / You are the first with whom I share my cola / And more… But in the end, / If I had a home / I would have left it to people, to cats / I would have left it all anyway, as I don’t like corners!” The initial message of the song about the fear of being cornered at your own home, one that usually resonated with me, has changed its meaning entirely, and instead of a flirty refusal to be rooted, in the context of this documentary, the song is now about the tragic necessity of uprooting yourself to survive the invasion. Freedom, of course, is a luxury. The ground must be there, under your feet, before you can choose to pull yourself out of it. Embarrassingly, my eyes got wet.

Next, I went up on stage for the discussion moderated by German historian of Eastern Europe Gabriele Freitag. Saskia, Russian sociologist Greg Yudin, several others and I respond to the questions from the audience. Greg talked about the totalitarian shift and extreme atomisation of Russian society, and I spoke about the ecocidal consequences of the vertical occupation by pollution as a weapon of war. When after the screening Greg and I sat down to talk at the café nearby, I suddenly received a phone call from my mother asking me whether I prepared a funeral suit for the father. I was trying to calm her down. “Please forgive me, has your father just died?” Greg asked. “He has been dying for all these months.”

The message about my father’s death arrived the next morning, on February 6th. The nurse from the elderly house texted me to request that I organize the removal of his body “as soon as possible.” I spent the morning searching online for funeral homes in Ukraine, calling them all one by one, until I found the company that offered “extended services” for handling all matters in the situation of the relatives’ absence. It took me about three hours and by the time Asia woke up everything was arranged, and all payments were made to initiate the process. “My father died.”

Then I took a walk to get some air and deliver my receipts from October travel for reimbursement to the Berlin Producers’ office several blocks away. As I passed them to Saskia, I said, “My father died earlier this morning.” When the company sent the team to film me in Kamyanets last September, they shot a lot of footage with him picking apples in the garden, Saskia mentioned in our calls how she liked it, but in the end, it did not make the final cut. “I am sorry,” she said. I felt I had to leave. “My father died this morning,” I texted Niels on my way back. “How are you? Wanna call?” “No.”

Why do I keep bouncing the news of death against all people, forcing them into a conversation that I cannot handle myself? I am puzzled by my numbness. It had to be the distance, the burial mediated by phone and online banking. The purpose of a ritual is to extract your feelings in the moments you feel nothing. The purpose of a funeral is to amplify and redistribute the sense of loss and sorrow among everyone partaking in a sacred service. Then, to provide closure: you nail the coffin shut and place it under the layer of soil. The closure opens the space to grieve. Tradition is wise.

“I invite you to join me for a session of acupuncture,” Asia said when I was back after the walk. And indeed, a bunch of needles in my belly sounded like the best idea. “I came from Ukraine. My father died this morning,” I said when the acupuncturist asked me to explain why I am here. “I am sorry,” she said. “You will receive ten needles – to stabilize your core.”

On February 7th, I gave a talk at the ICI on “terror environments” and the overdetermined nature of the war. I managed to look calm and collected, while the funeral of my father was happening during my presentation. At some point, I noticed the Viber messages coming one after another from my cousin Lesya, who was there in attendance, sending me photos of my father’s body in the coffin.

Luckily, Ben accompanied me on my trip to Lüneburg after the lecture – public transport started triggering my panic attacks and vertigo. “I must tell you something because it’s becoming too awkward to be silent about it,” I said to him when we were waiting for a train to Hannover, “my father died yesterday, and his funeral has been happening this morning.” Somewhere midway through our journey the train suddenly stopped, and Ben told me, reading from the news, that an anti-tank mine from World War II was detected and the extraction was in process. We waited.

When several days before we travelled to Lüneburg with Niels to drop off my suitcases, he gave me my first lesson on reading the signage at German train stations: “Don’t let it overwhelm you with the information you do not need.” “They always give you too much to process,” he said when the “platform change” was suddenly announced. And while we were running in search of more information down and up the elevator and then down and up again, it appeared we had to move only three meters left to the other side of the platform. He turned to me, breathing heavily when we were back in the same spot, “You see!” As Ben listened to this story, he agreed: “This train system is just like how they describe German bureaucracy: ‘not sufficient but thorough,’” which made me think again about the façade solidarity and the flags.

Lüneburg is utterly beautiful. Kamyanets, the same age as Lüneburg, could have looked like that, but every fifty or so years of its ten-century-long history it was destroyed time and time again in every war. Life is weird in how it drags you through time and space in circles. Twenty-one years ago, in January 2002, in that short time window when the euro banknotes were circulating in Germany along with the German marks – I was here, in Lüneburg. I came from the outside of this newly defined by its new currency Eurozone. Twenty-one years later, I am still from the outside.

When you search on Google Maps for anything you may possibly need in town, it would be always three-five minutes away. My first apartment was two minutes from the thirteen-century St. Johannis Church, which the hive mind of Google Maps identified as an “unusual church in the Brick Gothic style.” And of course, there is nothing “usual” about it, especially not its godly bells that structure my days in a temporal grid of fifteen-minute slots. This is where German Baroque organist and composer Georg Böhm used to give first organ lessons to young Johann Sebastian Bach for almost two years, while he was enrolled in the St. Michael’s School nearby as an organ scholar.

I wondered whether the bellringer of St. Johannis was human. If you listen attentively, every performance is different in how it is saturated with human errors. And if you keep listening, you can feel the labour of their arm muscles extracting the magnificent bell sound. Otherwise, the silence between the bell strikes is extreme. It is extreme to the extent that the plein air of your surroundings is hardening to become a piece of amber, especially in the orange sunrays of the sunset. First, it fills in your ears, and then it paralyzes your body movement and thoughts, so that all you can count on in such moments is the bellringer who is always there every fifteen minutes to crash this solidifying silence of solitude and set you free.

The second spoken language in Lüneburg these days is Russian; English only comes third. After several weeks in town, I heard Ukrainian only once. I walked to my office at Leuphana and suddenly saw a woman crying on her phone near the park, and then I heard the words. My eyes got wet immediately, and even though I knew nothing about the woman’s pain – or maybe I knew enough – my heart started racing intensely. I passed by her without intruding on her intimacy. Unlike Ukrainian, Russian is everywhere. Every evening it gets into my bedroom from the restaurant downstairs, bold and loud amplified by the acoustics of the narrow space between the buildings. Russian is heard in the farmer’s market, in the supermarket, and everywhere on the streets. Even for someone like me, whose mother tongue is Russian – I speak this language every day with my mother – such constant immersion in Russian is not easy. In the end, it became a dual-purpose instrument of this war. Sudden proximity to its phonetics delivered by unfamiliar voices often gives me goosebumps, but the worst is that I do not know who these people are – Russians, Ukrainians, Tatars, Buryats, or Evenks.

Unfortunately, the indigenous people of the Russian colonized East and Far East are now left only with the language of the colonizer, as I was told in Berlin by Dankhaiaa from Tuva, the author of the “Говорит республика” (Republic Speaking) podcast collecting the remaining traces of indigenous cultures that have been suppressed and almost erased by Russian colonialism. Most importantly, as I understood during our four-hour conversation, the podcast is a network and an archive, it produces a space where indigenous people can recognize themselves and share their memories or hopes, and where they can send, upon Dankhaiaa’s invitation, small audio files; those tiny time capsules of disappearing phonetics.

In a Zoom call with Olya, who is now in Bochum, I told her about Danylo, who taught me how to use Kalashnikov in February 2022 – how he was wounded in the battlefield in the first months of the big war, how he was bleeding in the field, motionless, with a grenade in his hand that was meant to save him from potential captivity and torture. I shared with Olya the part of his story that has probably stuck in my mind forever – how he heard Russian-speaking male voices approaching him, but could not bring himself to end his life with an explosion. The soldiers appeared to be Ukrainian, so he was saved to tell me this story. “He heard the accent,” Olya said with certainty. “Unconsciously, he recognized the Ukrainian phonetics of the Russian-speaking Ukrainians, you know, such things are very deep, and he made an unconscious decision against exploding himself with the grenade.”

When I stopped at a local store, a woman approached me to help me choose the right pair of running shoes. She did not speak English, and she asked me, probably because of my accent, if I speak Russian. “I’d rather not,” I said. She looked me in the eyes, “I am from Kazakhstan.” That’s how I met Elvira who came from a German family deported by Stalin from southeastern Russia to northeastern Kazakhstan in 1941. After a two-hour conversation – in Russian – about the war, family histories, and the Soviet regime, I asked her, “When you hear Russian on the streets of Lüneburg, can you identify the accent?” “Absolutely.” “Are you sure it’s all phonetics, not some general reading of the body language, something else, I don’t know?” “I am sure, I have learned to hear it.” I was envious. On my town walks, I always wonder silently every time I hear familiar sounds of my mother tongue (and) the language of the enemy – who are you? where are you from? do we share the sorrow? do we share the struggle? are we on the same side in this war? I am split by language, as they say in psychoanalysis, I am split by this language – cut-open bleeding on the battlefield.

At the Sparkasse bank, Falk, who opened my bank account, speaks Ukrainian to me, he learned it during the past year via DuoLingo. I express my surprise. “What? You thought Ukrainian is too difficult for Germans to master?” “No, no, it is not about difficulty, it is a matter of care. You care. I thank you.” “I do care, indeed. You know it would have been easier for me to learn Russian because even Ukrainian refugees in town mostly speak Russian, but I do know they understand Ukrainian, and I do not want to learn Russian. No, not anymore. That is over. How is your book going, your war diary?” I am glad I have reasons to stop at the bank once in a while, so that we can have these moments. When we met in February, given his attitude, I wished Falk was Scholz. By the moment I am writing this, several months later, the opposite has miraculously happened: Scholz has become Falk.

Europe is changing. The Federal Chancellor’s harsh response to a group of pro-Russian protesters wearing “anti-vaccination” on their clothes and shouting “warmonger,” “liar,” and “thug” at the rally in Falkensee on June 3rd seems like a sign. “Dear screamers, welcome to the festival of democracy and festival of Europe,” Scholz said. “The warmonger is Putin, he invaded Ukraine with 200,000 soldiers. … Putin wants to destroy and conquer Ukraine.”

Events such as that on March 17th, when Pre-Trial Chamber II of the International Criminal Court issued warrants of arrest for Mr Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin and Ms Maria Alekseyevna Lvova-Belova, make me want to go to the Hague and perform a ritualistic dance of gratitude in front of the Court’s building.

When I arrived in the safe space of Lüneburg, a variety of symptoms secretly growing inside me went wild. Acute anxiety, heart palpitations, and the darkest depression consumed me. I would get dizzy leaving my apartment, and could not breathe in the open air. When I had to travel to Paris for a workshop on cosmopolitanism, the idea of getting on the train and then on an airplane felt so unbearable that I cried. Paris was a blur. When I returned, I sat on a couch for some time, motionless, in disbelief that I made it home.

A week after I travelled for a conference in Rome to speak about the terror environments of Russian torture rooms on the occupied territories. The trip felt a bit easier. I was hopeful. On March 25th, I took a long early morning walk in Rome with Geert from Piazza Mastai, browsing the streets he knew very well and those he did not know. Each time we consult Google Maps, we’d get lost, circling back to the streets we have just walked. Suddenly, getting lost felt nice, getting lost was enjoyable. It was one of the two gifts from the trip. Another, a sobering gift, was meeting people who witnessed unrecognized violence that remains of no interest to anyone. Next morning, we went to explore Trastevere with Kurdish film director Helin, whose incredible film Anqa had been shown this year at Berlinale. She told me about the struggles of Kurds in Turkish Kurdistan, her parents’ political life, imprisonment, and her childhood in a country where your very existence is not recognized by the state. When we stopped for a lunch at a nice restaurant with the tables set against an old shabby wall on the narrow street, the waiter approached us to express his solidarity with Ukraine, but he did not want to hear anything about Kurdistan. “Your pain is visible to many, you are heard,” she said, “ours is ignored… and probably, this will never change. For us, there is no hope.”

After trips to Amsterdam, Eindhoven and Berlin in April and May, my symptoms got under control. The world kept unfolding in all its complexity. I met a Chinese scholar who could not recognize the word “Uyghurs” asking me to reiterate my question several times and when I did, she gave me an answer to the question I did not ask. The same happened to me twice when I travelled to China in October 2019 – instead of refusing to answer difficult questions both students and professors pretended they were asked something else and gave me their enthusiastic answers on completely different topics. “Would you blame her?” my friend said when I shared my puzzlement. I don’t know. Would you? I still hope that solidarity is possible.

Then I met Afghani curator Shafiq at Van Abbe Museum who came up with an idea for the Living Room project – a greeting room near the museum entrance where people can have tea and share their experiences of seeking asylum in foreign countries. During his personal tour of the museum, he told me that the initial purpose of his project was rescuing people from Afghanistan and moving them through the border, and that participation in this project was designated in their papers as a reason for travel with the museum as an inviting institution. This is art at its best, I suppose. When it’s published, Shafiq thought, this diary could also land there, on the Living Room’s floor carpet.

Europe is not changing, and the peace discourse remains so easy to mobilize for war, even for free – Russia has been using it as a shaping operation for quite some time. On May 13th, our walk in Berlin with Samo was interrupted by the long column of protesters featuring a variety of groups from anarchists to Christians and Buddhists, all carrying their identification posters along with those of “stop war.” The show was dreadful. We watched these people marching in a somnambulistic manner, almost disengaged and alienated from the agenda of their own protest, as if they knew how utterly displaced their demand was and that its real addressee should have been the Kremlin towers. I looked at Samo, guessing what Lacanian or Marxist reading of this sad performance he would produce. “They feel they need to articulate something, but they do not know what to say, they are stuck on the unsaid,” one of us observed.

Ukraine is changing and is not changing at once. My cousin Lesya’s husband, who is fifty-two and with three children, is mobilized to war. He suffers recurrent epileptic seizures, but such a condition is overlooked when one does not have enough to bribe oneself out.

I wanted to end this diary on February 24th, 2023 – a year after the beginning of a full-scale invasion, I wanted to round off this text, but it ends up squared. I am finishing it on June 24th, 2023 – one week prior to my return to Ukraine. All of the above, of course, could have been let go, but now it is caught in the narrative by a detour shaped by a horrific event of the future I could not omit.

The future was a flood. It invaded the early morning of June 6th after several explosions of the Kakhovka dam mined by the Russian forces. That day, the New York Times broke the record of shady reporting to manufacture grey zones of doubt: “Internal Blast Probably Breached Ukraine Dam, Experts Say (Cautiously) – With Russia and Ukraine blaming each other for the collapse of the Kakhovka dam, experts say that an external attack or even structural failure might explain the disaster, but that it is not likely.” Blaming each other. Collapse. External attack. Structural failure. Remember these words when you teach your courses on disinformation. Track them spreading over networks foreclosing the evidence and breading conspiracies. The future was an ecocide.

After browsing the cascade of links about the disaster that morning, I sat on the bed edge to go make coffee, but my legs were too soft to walk, and my knees were bending – I could not take a step without support. I reached the kitchen eventually, but I could not breathe. Opened the window, poured myself a glass of cold water, went back to the news, and then everything disappeared somehow. Later in the evening, I caught myself watching the video with Zelensky talking about the dam for several hours, over and over again – on mute.

On the morning of June 7th, I texted Niels, “I might be having a nervous breakdown.” He called, “Listen, concentrate on my voice.” Randi found a psychiatric hospital; Annika took me there. The doctor did not give me any medication for a panic attack but offered hospitalization, which I refused. “The horrific reality is not in you,” she said in English, “it is outside you,” and she gave me a card with an emergency number where someone could talk to me – “only in German, unfortunately.” I spent the evening sending donations to all emergency calls and writing statements.

The explosion of the Kakhovka dam by the Russian forces destroyed the lives of hundreds of thousands of people and countless other lives – on both banks, upstream and downstream. The toxic sediments accumulated in the reservoir over seventy years – speaking of ignored Soviet legacies and how poorly we dealt with them in Ukraine – were displaced by water and redistributed in the territories away from the frontlines along with legions of floating mines. The UWEC Work Group reported 500,000 hectares of irrigated fields are now cut off water. “Restoring a new liveable environment will take many years if not many decades.” As with everything in this war, this case of ecocide is not disconnected from “things nuclear,” it is tied with the dreadful situation at the Zaporizhzhia Nuclear Power Plant, occupied by the Russian military and corporate forces of Rosatom, impacting its cooling system. The weaponization of the nuclear infrastructure – directly and indirectly – has been central in this war. And now we have witnessed the case of weaponization of a natural disaster – or rather, unnatural disaster – where the nuclear constitutes one of the edges.

As always in the evenings, the street has been loud, celebrating life, as if nothing happened. The fragments of drunk chats in German and Russian coming into my bedroom window through the night. Somehow, I sleep through that noise okay, in the end, I did sleep through sirens.

My February 24th, the day of the Russian invasion, in 2023 – four months ago in a different apartment – was quiet. In the mid-day, I did a streamed conversation with Geert, commemorating the day of the invasion, after which I was wrapped in dead silence again. When I sat to write diary notes, I heard the approaching voices, speaking Russian. From the window, I saw two women and one man settling on a stone step in front of my door. They pulled two bottles of Jack Daniel’s out of the grocery bag and a two-liter Coca-Cola, opened the first whiskey bottle, cheered themselves, and started passing it around, their voices getting louder with each circle. Who are you? Where are you from? I tried listening to their conversation for clues – they should mention the war at some point, whoever they are, and then I will know… Instead, they talked about fucking and stupidity – “She is fucking Kolya,” “Kolya is a moron,” “Germans are stupid,” “You are stupid,” “They are stupid,” “Everyone is fucking everyone.” I still was not sure about the accent, except for their clear pronunciation of “h” in huliayem harasho – гуляем хaрaшо. Who are you?! And then – “Uncle Sasha is still there in the basement probably,” one woman said. No response followed. When they left the yard closer to six, I came out to collect two empty whiskey bottles and a smashed plastic bottle of Cola they left near my apartment, then I swept all cigarette butts between my door and my neighbour’s stairs and dropped them in the garbage bin around the corner. The order was restored in this always-super-clean doll-house yard. And by then, I already knew – I knew who they were, I knew where they came from. I knew it by then very well.

Finally, I took a walk to drop off the glass in the designated container two blocks away. On the way back, the bell tower of St. Johannis overwhelmed me with the flood of powerful reverberations mixed with the sweat of the bellringer I never met – getting deeper and deeper in my broken heart – with every mighty bell strike – no man or woman is an island entire of itself – every man or women is a piece of the continent, a part of the main – if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as any manner of thy friends or of thine own were – any man’s or women’s death diminishes me, any dog’s death under water, any fish’ death on the shore diminishes me, any bee’s death from phosphorus, any forest fire, any shell funnel in the fertile fields diminishes me because I am involved in a vibrant community of life forms tortured, poisoned, and torn to pieces in this fucking war – and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls – it tolls for thee – cаме так, it tolls for thee.