As a child I sometimes fell,
Hard enough for it to hurt;
Though my heart with pain would swell,
Yet I rose without a word
They asked me: “Did you hurt yourself?”
“I’m all right I would reply —
My pride would then asset itself:
I laughed in order not to cry!But now the drama soon will end;
For me, a bitter cup to sip,
And a clever epigram
Is on the brink of tongue and lip.
But laughter can be merciless:
I fear the blade of open chaff.
And surrendering my pride,
I cry in order not to laugh.
– Lesya Ukrainka, February 1897
Translation by Gladys Evans
In this photograph, I am teaching a lesson and telling children about Lesya Ukrainka’s poem “As a child ”, written when she was 27 years old. She was already a mature, fully formed person. Each time I return to this text, I discover it more deeply for myself.
Very often, the lines from this poem are quoted:
“My pride would then asset itself:
I laughed in order not to cry!”
They are presented as a formula of strength — a call not to focus on pain, to stay positive, smiling, holding on and moving forward. I even have socks with this quote. They are the ones I am holding in the photograph. The quote has become a motivational slogan.
But these words are often taken out of context.
Because the whole poem is not about forbidding tears.
In childhood, pride was Larysa Kosach’s shield. Laughter was a mask. It was a strategy — to hide physical pain, not to show vulnerability.
As an adult, Lesya speaks differently:
“And surrendering my pride,
I cry in order not to laugh.”
The key word here is pride. She renounces it as a protective tool. She no longer wants to hide behind laughter.
Because laughter can turn into mockery. Into satire. Into an epigram. Into something that wounds and humiliates. Into something that turns life into a bitter ironic inscription.
The poet chooses a different strategy: to live through pain. To cry honestly. Better real tears than cynical laughter.
It amazes me that these words were written by a 27-year-old woman. Behind them is experience crystallized through suffering. She speaks like someone who knows something about unprocessed pain.
This poem is studied in the fifth grade. I have observed that eleven-year-olds find it easier to remain on the first level — “don’t cry, be strong.” Their psyche is not yet ready for the more mature conclusion: that it is important to allow yourself to cry.
Looking at the world around us, I see that we, too, are afraid of tears. On social media, we are smiling. It is easier to post a photo of a missile strike somewhere nearby than to show pictures of our parents’ house with shattered windows. It is easier to write something general about the war than to share photos from four years ago — of a courtyard with paving stones torn up by an enemy tank. It is easier to speak abstractly than to post pictures of bullet-pierced walls and ceilings from our children’s bedroom.
Because alongside compassion there is always the risk of hate. The risk of malicious “epigrammatic” cruelty. The risk of bitter mockery — the very thing the poet avoided.
I am not sure I am ready to show those photographs. If the world has not heard by now, perhaps it never will.
It takes great courage not to be proud, not to hide behind a smile.
Perhaps maturity is precisely this:
to forget former pride
and allow yourself to weep
so as not to laugh.
“He mocks proud mockers but shows favor to the humble.”
Proverbs 3:34