Ukrainian student, Danyil Nychka’s, speech at Fellowship after a term at IPC

Hello everyone,

My name is Daniel, and just a week ago I said goodbye to a very special chapter in my life — one that took place right here, at International People’s College. I was a student here during Spring term, and for 6 months I was surrounded by young people from every corner of the world. We lived, learned, laughed, and at the very end cried together in this beautiful little bubble.

Now most of my classmates have returned home. Some to big cities, some to quiet towns. Some to peaceful countries. But some were not able to come back, because it’s simply not safe here. Same applied to my classmates who became my best friends, Vitovt and Maria, who are from Ukraine. Same applied to me.

In the last few years, “normal life” meant something very different for us, Ukrainians, than it might for others. Normal has meant air raid sirens, calls to check if loved ones are still alive, learning to fall asleep to the sound of explosions — and waking up, grateful that your home is still standing.

Before I came to Denmark, peace was not part of my daily reality. And to be honest with you — I forgot what it felt like.

But something changed when I arrived at IPC.

For the first time in years, I could walk without looking over my shoulder. I could sit in a classroom and hear ideas instead of air raid sirens. I could drink my morning coffee and think about tomorrow — not whether tomorrow would come.

You see, IPC is just a small folk school in Denmark. But to me, it was a reminder of the life I thought I’d lost forever.

And when graduation came — when my friends were packing their bags and taking trains to airports — something inside me broke a little. Because I knew I wasn’t just saying goodbye to a place. I was saying goodbye to peace.

It’s a strange thing, peace. When you have it, it can feel almost invisible. Ordinary. You wake up, make breakfast, go about your day, maybe grumble a little about the weather or the traffic — and you don’t even notice it’s there.

But when peace is taken away, everything changes. Time slows down. The things that seemed small become enormous. A quiet morning. A cup of tea. A hug. A full night of sleep. These become luxuries.

So today, I don’t just want to talk about my time at school. I want to talk about something much bigger — something we all share, and all risk forgetting: the gift of a peaceful life.

Because I’ve learned that peace is not just the absence of war. It’s the presence of safety. Of trust. Of routines that seem unimportant — until they’re gone.

Every ordinary day you have — is extraordinary to someone else.

Someone in a shelter right now dreams of walking freely in their neighborhood. Someone under occupation dreams of going to school, sitting in a café, hearing silence instead of gunfire. Someone who lost their home dreams of sleeping in their own bed, even just once more.

We should never take this life for granted.

We shouldn’t wait for tragedy to teach us how lucky we actually are. Don’t let the comfort of peace turn into complacency. Appreciate the little things — not just in special moments, but in everyday ones.

Appreciate your boring days. Your routine conversations. The neighbor who always talks too long. The slow mail. The quiet streets. The safety of knowing that tomorrow will come — and that you can plan for it.

Because peace is not guaranteed. Not for everyone. Not forever.

And when we begin to treat peace like a permanent gift, we risk forgetting how fragile it really is.

My time at IPC showed me something powerful: that despite all the differences in language, age, culture, or background — we all long for the same things. A place to feel safe. People to love. A future to look forward to.

That’s not too much to ask for. But it’s more than many have.

So today, as someone who’s known both peace and its absence, I learned the most important lesson in my life:

We should hold our life gently. And hold it with gratitude. Don’t take peace for granted. And don’t take democracy for granted as well.

We should use our voice to protect the peace we enjoy. Vote for it. Speak for it. Stand up when others are being silenced. Welcome those who flee war as if they were your own. And teach the next generation that peace must be guarded, not assumed.

Because someone, somewhere, is dreaming of the life you already have.

And for me — no matter where I go next, or what waits for me back home — I will carry this time in Denmark like a treasure. Not because everything was perfect, but because it reminded me of the kind of world we can build when peace is possible.

Thank you for listening.