My name is Podrig Otuma and over years of working with people who have been in situations of high conflict or people who've survived wars.

One of the things that's become clear is the ways within which there's a deep discernment about what's important that happens among people who are in a war.

And particularly in this, I mean people who are powerless to stop the war that's being imposed

upon them. There is a clarity of the simplicity of life, of what is deeply necessary, of what

is frivolous that can be put away, and what it is that is powerfully sustaining.

And this occurs to people right in the moments, it seems, or perhaps it just deepens or heightens

right in the moment when you're facing the possibility that somebody arbitrary to you might take it away.

Arguments for Peace by Oksana Maximchuk.

How could there be a war in this city with cobblestone streets, glowing stars in the windows, festive dogs in felt deer antlers? In a central park children sled down the hills, making sharp, joyful noises, and the clusters of snow that fall cover up their

tracks, landing gently on hands and faces. Perfectly formed cakes in the lit display cases are yet

more proof of the goodness of the universe. In the glowing interiors, we dip noses in whipping cream on purpose

and pretend not to notice when somebody's phone lights up with a face of a foreign leader warning of invasion.

What's a missile to do with a concert hall full of children?

What's an air raid to do with a holiday celebration?

With glasses of sparkling wine, we gather around lit trees.

We say it couldn't be.

War wouldn't dare come seeing how happy we are,

how good our lives and all that we've got to lose.

We love our children too much.

We love our homes too much.

And so we argue time and again, there'll be no war.

There'll be no war.

...