“May God give us the strength to end this war,” she says.While acknowledging the war is shifting societal perceptions of female strength and capabilities, Eva Tur, like other Ukrainian female fighters, says that sexism, prejudice, and discrimination persist, requiring them to continually prove themselves to male colleagues. In this context, Eva Tur has penned a poem describing her identity in the ranks of the Armed Forces of Ukraine.
from time to time, journalists reach out, mostly women seeking an interview, to discuss the role of females in combat, being a woman on a male team, how to be, or not, an ornament, a source of inspiration or incentive, so many inquiries along those lines.
writers, fish, and sharks with pens contact me, requesting comments or interviews, but I decline, for I have naught to say, as I know not what it is to be a woman at war.
“what nonsense!” they protest, “with breasts, slender wrists, and waist so trim, those curvy hips, and surely a vagina and uterus she possesses.”
indeed, my womanly attributes persist, at war, in the rear, the canteen, in a landing, or deep in the woods, in the car, an unfinished dwelling, another’s gaze, from Luhansk to Transcarpathia, I’ve been (haven’t ventured further for a while, but I’m certain they wouldn’t have vanished elsewhere).
yet I assure you, I do not know how to be a woman or ornament in this war. people ask: “But how’s that? you, a female, engaged in combat - a perfect pairing, they assume. so why the contrary claim? seeking money or fame, perhaps? or some other reason we cannot understand?”
I could explain being a woman at war, existing as female amidst the fighting, but no:
in war, I am a sexless being.
my feminine traits may persist, never disappearing or erased, yet in this war, they hold no sway.
my breasts, my waist, my hips, and even my vagina and uterus - I assure you, they all stay with me, yet I do not cease to be a sexless being in the war.
my call sign’s “Boss,” I address others as “buddy” or “brother," swearing when the situation demands, making dark jokes to cope.
I wear men’s underwear (women’s seems thinner, colder somehow), and occasionally smoke cigars, drink whiskey, to let my mind wander and my body unwind.
no flirting, no coy glances, no well-groomed nails or lush lashes, no eyeliner or makeup bag tucked away - instead, a first aid kit, probe, and multi-tool.
my physical strength is less, it’s true, with small feet like a child’s, a petite military uniform, the lightest backpack among us all.
yet none can claim I lack knowledge, skills, or deserved respect, or tally fewer enemies faced.
so excuse me, dear media folk, I know how to be womanly in peacetime - applying makeup, donning jewelry, wearing elegant dresses or crisp suits, stilettos or dainty flats, choosing a new hairdo, a fresh perfume...
but I assure you, I know not at all how to be female in the hell of war, nor how to outlive each shattering loss, for every loss will persist beyond me.
a sexless being at war.
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