I know Ukraine. I’ve been to Ukraine. Ukraine is not perfect — neither is the United States. But in many ways, Ukraine is the United States I long for.
Not because of its suffering. Not because of its war. But because of its clarity. Because of the unshakable belief that liberty is not a passive inheritance but something worth fighting for, sacrificing for, and, if necessary, dying for.
In Ukraine, there is no confusion about what is at stake — no illusions that democracy is self-sustaining, no comfort in the false security of past victories.
The people there understand that freedom without responsibility is not freedom at all.
I wish I could say the same about my own country.
Ukraine is a nation that knows what it stands for. When I walked the streets of Kyiv and spoke with Ukrainians who had lost family members, homes, and livelihoods, I didn’t hear bitterness or self-pity. I heard resolve. I saw people who understood that history does not move on its own — it is shaped by those willing to fight for it.
Ukraine’s war is not just about territory. It is about the right to exist, to govern oneself, to choose one’s future. The people do not take that for granted.
Contrast that with the United States, where democracy is too often treated as a birthright rather than a responsibility. Where the work of preserving freedom has been replaced by the assumption that it will always be there. Where politics is not about safeguarding the republic but about personal power, spectacle, and winning at all costs.
The stakes are high, yet too many treat it as a game.
There is a difference between liberty and freedom. Americans love to talk about freedom. We wear it like a badge, wave it on bumper stickers, invoke it when it suits our personal preferences. But freedom, untethered from responsibility, leads to chaos. Liberty, on the other hand, requires discipline. It demands a collective commitment to something greater than oneself.
Ukraine understands the difference. The United States once did, too.
In 1941, when the U.S. entered World War II, Americans understood that freedom required action. Ordinary citizens rationed goods, industries retooled overnight, young men volunteered in droves — not because they were forced, but because they believed in something bigger than themselves.
In 1961, when John F. Kennedy told Americans to "ask not what your country can do for you — ask what you can do for your country," people took it to heart.
There was a time when civic duty was a shared responsibility, not an inconvenience.
But today, too many Americans see liberty as an entitlement rather than an obligation. We demand rights but reject the responsibilities that come with them.
We celebrate our past fights for freedom while ignoring the slow erosion of the very institutions that made those fights possible.
America’s comfort is our weakness.
The Kyiv Independent
Ukraine is not free because it declares itself free. Ukraine is free because its people fight for it. Every day. Every hour. Every moment.
That kind of clarity does not exist in the United States anymore. Instead, we have settled into the belief that our democracy, our standing in the world, our very way of life is unshakable. But nothing about democracy is permanent.
The Roman Republic believed its institutions were indestructible — until corruption and complacency eroded them. The Weimar Republic assumed democracy would protect itself — until it collapsed into dictatorship. History does not give second chances to nations that fail to recognize when they are in decline.
There are lessons the U.S. can relearn from Ukraine.
Ukraine does not have the luxury of apathy. It does not have the privilege of debating whether its government is worth fighting for. It knows what happens when liberty is threatened, when people hesitate, when a country believes it is immune to collapse. The United States once knew this, too.
So, what will it take for us to remember?
Do we need war on our own soil? Do we need to lose our democracy entirely before we realize that it is not self-sustaining? Will we only recognize the value of what we have once it is gone? Or can we wake up now?
Can we recognize that the fight for democracy is not just happening in Ukraine, but here — inside our borders, inside our institutions, inside our hearts?
If Ukraine is the United States I long for, then perhaps the better question is: Can America become the country it once was? The country that did not take democracy for granted. The country that understood that liberty is not something we receive — it is something we must fight for every single day.
The answer to that question will determine our future.
To those who say, "If you like Ukraine so much, then why don’t you move there?"
Because I believe in the American ideal.
Because this country — despite all its flaws, its complacency, its political dysfunction — still has the potential to be what it once was: a nation that understands liberty is earned, not given. But most of all, because America is my country — my home.
Patriotism is not blind allegiance. It is not a refusal to criticize or challenge. It is the willingness to demand that one’s country live up to its highest ideals, even when it falls short. Especially when it falls short.
Ukraine reminds me of the America that fought for independence against a greater power. The America that sacrificed for the sake of liberty. The America that, in its best moments, has understood that freedom is not an individual privilege but a shared responsibility.
I do not admire Ukraine because it is perfect. I admire it because it has clarity. Because it has purpose. Because it refuses to take liberty for granted.
And I do not want to move to Ukraine because I want my own country to remember what that feels like.
So no, I won’t move to Ukraine, but I will stand up for Ukraine — travel to Ukraine — and support its fight against tyranny and for liberty.
But I will stay in America to fight, in whatever way I can, to make sure that America does not forget what makes it truly free. What makes it America the Beautiful.
Graden Keller
