C H I L D R E N: A Plea Ignored and the Stories We Must Tell Beyond Procrastination to Avoid Self-Betrayal
This is not a polished essay or a carefully outlined argument. It’s a wandering thought process—a flow of fragmented ideas about betrayal, the weight it carries, and the cost of avoiding what we’re called to do. As a storyteller, I’ve often found myself caught in a cycle of procrastination, evasion, and self-doubt. But every time I delay writing, every time I set aside the pen or ignore the blank page, I feel a quiet sting of self-betrayal. This isn’t just about the stories left untold; it’s about the responsibility I shirk—the duty to practice my craft, to document, to reflect.
“I’m Ukrainian, and now I live in Warsaw. I can’t explain it, but there is something very wrong with our world.” These words stayed with me. I had been attending a film festival in Reykjavik back in 2022 a few months after the war started in Ukraine, where the opening film, Klondike by Maryna Er Gorbach, was screened. Afterward, the leading actress, Oksana Cherkashyna, answered questions from the audience. But the questions weren’t about the film—they were about the war raging in Ukraine. The room throbbed with collective emotion, yet Oksana remained composed, her voice steady as she shared what was happening in her homeland. Among the horrors she recounted was the attack on Mariupol, now etched into history as one of the symbolic acts of terror in this war. Listening to her, I couldn’t help but think about betrayal as a theme.
What unfolded in Mariupol in March 2022, was not just another chapter of conflict—it was a mark, a wound, a betrayal of the oldest and most sacred trust: the promise to protect the vulnerable. It was a reminder that the rusted threads of betrayal, woven through the fabric of human history, continue to stain the present.
C H I L D R E N. That is what it read from the sky. The word was written in big letters in Russian so any angel or pilot could easily read it from the sky and draw a conclusion. Children are located here, embedding a wish, do not bomb. The Mariupol drama theater was bombed on 16th March 2022 where over 1,300 people had taken shelter in the besieged city. This attack was a fatigued reminder of a phenomena that blankets human history. The rusty tears of betrayel keep violating the rivarbanks with its current.
It’s moments like these that haunt me—not just because of the cruelty they expose, but because of what they demand from us as witnesses. Stories like Mariupol are cries for attention, for action, for remembrance. To ignore them is an act of betrayal, not just to those who suffer, but to ourselves. We are the ones tasked with telling these stories, with ensuring they aren’t lost to time or drowned out by silence. And yet, when I procrastinate, when I hesitate, I betray that mission. The stakes are high. To not write, to not speak, is to allow the erasure of these truths.
betrayal is not confined to any one moment in history; it’s a timeless shadow, always waiting to resurface.
The Scorn Wife
In the 18th century, in Piacenza, Italy, somewhere between 1724 and 1740, Geminiano Giacomelli composed an aria later featured in Vivaldi’s pasticcio—a patchwork opera composed of works from various composers. The piece, Sposa son disprezzata (I am a wife and I am scorned), explores the raw mindset of betrayal. In the aria, the scorned wife wrestles with the bitterness of revenge, her anguish a prison she cannot escape. It is the same bitterness, the same rusted betrayal, that echoes from Mariupol to history itself.
Judas
A Timeless Shadow
As I reflect further on this theme of betrayal, a painting comes to mind—a haunting depiction of Judas by the Norwegian artist Hjalmar Emanuel Peterssen (1852–1928). The painting captures the moment of ultimate treachery, the betrayal that echoes through centuries as a symbol of fractured trust and the devastating consequences of human weakness. Judas, the betrayer, stands frozen in history as the embodiment of duplicity, his actions reverberating with the same rust-colored anguish that stains the narratives of Mariupol and countless others. Peterssen’s work doesn’t merely illustrate Judas—it forces us to confront the universal nature of betrayal, how it seeps into the cracks of relationships, societies, and even the deepest moral bonds. It’s a reminder that betrayal is not confined to any one moment in history; it’s a timeless shadow, always waiting to resurface.
Now I'm thinking to myself, that betrayal isn't a left or right, yes or no command. And now a part of me is saying what the eff am I talking about, and the fact that I wrote it down, doubles down on the, 'I should edit this part out.' But I'll leave it in, since I'm a sucker for showing the debries of writing, beacuse I like teasing perfectionism, and it helps me move on when I write.
Responsibility
Another kind of betrayal comes to mind—more simple in nature. The story of Tony Hawk, the legendary skateboarder, and his mother is both humorous and poignant. Exhausted by his single-minded obsession and relentless drive, his mother once told him, “If you don’t stop being difficult, I’ll flush myself down the toilet.” Tony, as a headstrong child, didn’t believe her—and, perhaps worse, didn’t care. But his mother, in a moment of playful yet pointed frustration, decided to teach him a lesson. She went into the bathroom, flushed the toilet, and hid herself. For a moment, Tony stood defiant. Then he realized she wasn’t coming back. Left alone, staring down at the swirling Coriolis effect, he began to cry, calling out desperately, “Mommy!” In that moment, betrayal had flipped directions—it wasn’t his mother’s trick that stung, but his own disregard for her warning, his failure to take her seriously. It wasn’t until she was “gone” that the weight of her absence hit him.
Sometimes, when I decide to write and don’t follow through, I feel like I’ve betrayed myself. It’s a small, personal act of self-betrayal, but it carries a weight that lingers. Yet, I know that this feeling, this pattern, must be broken. Betrayal—whether of ourselves or others—is not an option, especially for those of us who have the power to write, to document, and to speak truth to the world. In moments of doubt, I think of those in Ukraine and beyond who have chosen to bear witness, to capture events of immense importance and share them with the world, even at great personal risk. Their courage reminds us that writing is more than just an act of expression—it’s a duty, a commitment to truth and history.
To betray that responsibility, to remain silent, is to allow the erosion of the stories that must be told. The current of betrayal, both personal and collective, has no place here. We must write, report, and bear witness—not just for ourselves, but for those who cannot. For the world needs voices that refuse to falter, voices that fight against the silence.
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