Honoring my creative lineage: Baba Xima

This month, I will write a series of vignettes honoring my creative lineage, which includes the people and forces that have shaped me, prayed for me and dreamed me into being, so that I may walk my own empowered path guided by them and the gifts they shared with me.

Baba Xima

Baba Xima was my paternal great-grandmother. Here I am 7, wearing my favorite navy turtleneck dress and standing on her left side. My sister is on her right. She was in her mid-90’s when this picture was taken; it was the last time I would see her alive. I remember she was quiet and kind. It was a long journey to get from our apartment in Kyiv to the Skorinets village in the Chernigiv Oblast where generations of my father’s family originate. It was white-washed and very clean, a traditional hata (cabin).

My great-grandfather Gregor and Baba Xima were devoted Christians and they practiced their faith in a private, humble way. They lived simply and honorably, raising their four sons to study hard and live honest and respected lives. They raised their own cattle and grew their own food. They were earth people, grounded and practical. Their village was busy and well-populated. If a neighbor needed milk, it was provided for. Everyone took care of each other.

When the Communists came to Ukraine in the 1930’s, their children were very young: 11, 9, 7 and 4 y.o. One day, there was a loud bang on their door. When they opened it, a handful of soldiers were standing outside demanding that they give up the church money they were responsible for safeguarding. I imagine their blood turning cold, their honor not allowing them to betray the congregation in this way. They said no. Without so much as a warning, they both were thrown onto a train and sent to the Siberian prison camps where they spent the next 10 years.

Prisoner ID, Siberian Gulag.

My body shivers at the thought of her babies being left behind to fend for themselves. Baba Xima’s tears and hand wringing worries, not knowing if her children were hungry, sick or dead, and praying they would all survive to see each other one day. When people asked her how she survived she said her faith in God kept her from freezing, from giving up entirely. She prayed every day.

I never got to say more than a handful of words to her but I know she was proud that her children not only survived but carried the light of the family’s flame. I carry her with me, her faith and conviction gives me strength when I do not know which way to go. Her spirit guides me in my work: breaking chains of trauma and revealing the sacred keys of our connected journeys.

Oftentimes, I feel like we pray together.

Thank you Baba Xima for all your prayers and the gifts you continue to share with me.