As Russia Invades Ukraine, Students Abroad Fear For Their Families

Michael Ray Smith is a professor at Lithuania’s LCC International University, where 25% of the students are from Ukraine. In the following essay, he shares how his students are coping with what many consider to be the biggest attack on Europe since WWII. Some of the students’ names have been changed to protect their identities.

Some students from LCC International University rally to support Ukraine against Russian aggression on Feb. 24. Photo by Michael Ray Smith.

KLAIPEDA, Lithuania— The crows near the shopping center known as “Studlendas” (students) are as big as feral house cats. The other day, one captured a cracker, holding it defiantly in its beak, and flew off only when a persistent photographer came too close.

It’s the tone of life in a country bordered by a Russian satellite, Belarus, that is part of the Russian plan to control Ukraine, the country just to the south.

Despite the Russian invasion of Lithuania’s neighbor, life in Klaipeda goes on as normal, with students attending classes where I teach at LCC International University — home to about 780 students from nearly 60 countries, including Belarus, Ukraine, Lativa, Georgia, Poland, Hungary, Romania, Russia and others. Twenty percent of the students are from Ukraine.

Today, students dropped by for face-to-face conferences to discuss their news articles. All are aware that Russia has invaded Ukraine, a huge country that is about the same size as Texas and considered the crossroads between Europe and Asia.

Klaipeda is the third largest city in Lithuania, a country of about 3 million. The state of Maryland has twice the population of Lithuania.

Klaipeda is a port city where the Baltic Sea meets the Danė River. The beaches, just a couple of miles from LCC, are full in the summer, but this time of year, the wind is considered a threat. Every day, the weather brings a cascade of snow or unrelenting rain. Lithuania gained its name for the rainfall that pounds it throughout fall and winter.

I live in a Russian-style apartment that includes a living room, kitchen, bedroom and a toilet in a closet. It took months for my landlord to agree to install an internet connection.

Visitors to my apartment remark on the appearance of the floor-to-ceiling shelve units and the salmon-colored drapes.

“It looks like my grandmother’s house when Lithuania was under Russian occupation,” one Lithuanian friend said with wonder.

The Baltics, including Lithuania, were annexed by the Soviet Union in 1940, but Lithuania was the first of these countries to declared independence in 1990. We celebrate freedom and independence in January and February.

Now Russia is threatening nearby Ukraine, and Lithuanians are calling Russian President Vladimir Putin a bandit and much worse. With the communist-influenced Belarus to Lithuanian’s southern border, Lithuania is preparing to accept refugees fleeing for their lives.

Amid these grim reports, university classes continue. Anastasia, whose name means resurrection, is one of my 100 students. She is a tall woman dressed in the typical fashion of Lithuania — long black coat, black leggings and black combat boots. I was unsure her appearance because all of us wear face masks, but her eyes appeared wet despite the green eye makeup.

“My father is a veterinarian,” she said. “He’s 45, but he’s been called up to fight for the Russians. He has no choice.”

We prayed together.

Soon, another student from Ukraine arrived. We reviewed her work, and then we chatted about her family.

“We live about 100 kilometers (62 miles) from the Russian border,” she said. “My parents are trying to plan for a place to hide the babies. They think a basement may be the safest place.”

Her soft voice — so young, so sad — made my eyes well up. I tried to hide the tears, and finally, I asked if I could pray — something that is not standard at most universities.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “I am not religious.”

Then Jawed, a Muslim from Afghanistan, dropped by. He speaks excellent English and was quick to laugh and offer help with a cell phone app that was troubling me.

“Let me do it, Professor,” he said. His family is in a shelter in a remote village of Afghanistan: “I haven’t heard from them in a week. They had to leave their home because of the Taliban.”

The students at LCC are resilient like the crow. They continue to work on their degrees. They come to class and rarely take off their heavy winter coats. They keep their feelings to themselves until asked, and then they politely tell of the pain in a matter-of-fact way.

After a class, they leave and regularly say thank you for the interaction. Today, one woman, who wore purple-framed eyeglasses and a stubby pony tail, wanted to talk about her paper. She said her family lives in a dangerous part of Ukraine — lives with anxiety — but managed to ask, “But how are you?”

I felt stupid. My feet hurt from working out in cheap tennis shoes.

“I am good,” I said, my eyes filling up for the third time in an hour. I showed her the blue and brown trainers.

“What size?” she asked.

“45 (a U.S. 10.5).”

She laughed. “Big like my father’s,” she said.

Robin Mubarik, a student from Pakistan, wears the colors of the Ukrainian flag on Feb. 24 to support Ukrainian students. Photo by Michael Ray Smith.

Robin Mubarik from Pakistan, known at LCC for his student leadership, sought out his former Ukrainian roommate today in a university lobby.

“He asked me how I was doing but before I could answer, he said, ‘My sister is in Ukraine with my grandmother, and my grandmother doesn’t know what to do.’” The roommate had planned to visit the family in early March and tried to fly out today, but all the commercial flights from Lithuania to Ukraine were canceled, Mubarik said. Mubarik was wearing a shirt representing the colors of the Ukrainian flag.

The big-screen TV in the campus lobby played updates all day, with a gaggle of students, professors and staff listening to the broadcasts. No one talked.

Ukrainian students and Russian students weren’t talking much. Kris, a Russian student who wore a baseball cap, isn’t embarrassed about the invasion, he said today. He’s just worried about his family, who is within 60 kilometers (37 miles) of the Ukrainian border.

Maryna, another student from Ukraine dressed all in black, began her day in tears over the fear of what will be. She said the reports of war made her cry and wondered how many of her countrymen will die.

A few Ukrainians wanted to head home to check on family, and at least one of my students left campus to join the army.

Professor Shane Crombie, a Roman Catholic from Ireland, prayed over a class today. He prayed for students worried about the human toll and used the famous words of St. Francis of Assisi: “Lord, make me an instrument of your peace: Where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy.”

A Russian colleague at LCC, a writer, walked with me to a restaurant and said she thinks Ukraine should belong to Russia and the United States is an imperial busybody.

“Americans don’t understand Russia,” she said. “No offense to you, but Americans barely understand the rest of the world.”

When I visit a Giant Food grocery store or drop by the Waynesboro, Pennsylvania, YMCA, I rarely think of the men and women and their families who sacrifice to earn a bachelor’s degree in Eastern Europe. LCC is a novel, faith-based university that brings Russians, Ukrainians and many others together to learn and interact. It may be the best crucible for learning another person’s heartbeat in the entire world, and I am honored to be part of it.

Walking down a hall at our university is a testament to the languages heard daily in the United Nations. The difference: Faculty, students and staff seek unity without seeking uniformity.

Outside, crows dart back and forth to the nearby Baltic port. The weather remains relentless. The wind howls as if we were in the Arctic and life lumbers on.

Michael Ray Smith is a professor of communication at LCC International University. He regularly contributes to Religion Unplugged. His “7 Days to a Byline that Pays” book is used by some universities in their journalism programs.