+380/+7/+44
Update: I finished writing this at 1.30 am on 24/02. A couple of hours later Putin launched an invasion into Ukraine.
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(24) Twenty-four years ago, my parents quietly shut the door to their tiny one bed-room apartment in the outskirts of Moscow, as they brought me, a sleepy, toothless newcomer to this world, home from the hospital.
Moscow was home for the first ten years of my life. My childhood there is a collection of happy vignettes. I remember going to the river with my grandfather and throwing white bread at the ducks. It’s funny, because it was not actually a river, but a tiny stream; I was just so small that it seemed huge in comparison. My memories of the walk home are similarly skewed; getting back was a battle, a long march riddled with obstacles, when, in reality, an adult’s legs could carry them to the doorstep in less than five minutes.
I loved the VDNH park, especially in the summer, when I could go on the rides. I loved the Kosmos cinema where my parents and I watched the Pirates of the Caribbean in 3D for the first time ever. I loved the blue carriages and the brown leather seats of the metro. I loved how the St. Basil’s cathedral looked so surreal, like a gingerbread house out of candy-land. I loved my ski school where I would go every Tuesday and Thursday. I loved Russian cartoons like Nu Pogodi. I loved Russian New Year that we would spent with our closest friends – the only time of the year when were allowed to drink sugary non-alcoholic sparkling wine from real, adult flutes. When I got a bit older, I loved Ranetki and was desperate for a VKontakte page to fit in.
I’ve loved it all, despite the ugly parts. We’ve learnt to make palatable the things we hated, like the outrageous, almost debilitating traffic. Dad and I turned it into a game; we had four routes that we could take to get to school, and every morning was a deduction exercise to hypothesize which route would be the quickest based on the weather, the time of departure, or any other random variables. The routes were carefully labelled, so we always knew how to refer to each. “They are opening a new bus station on route 3”, dad would say, “so I suggest we stay clear for the next couple of days”, and I would nod enthusiastically, in awe of how smart my dad was, how he accounted for every little detail.
My family was home. Moscow was home. I loved my home.
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(19) Nineteen years ago, I began spending summers in my grandmother’s hometown of Yevpatoria (Crimea). In many ways, those were the happiest months of my life. My tiny world was simple, tinted in gentle hues of childhood naiveite. Where others saw scarcity, I saw delicacy. Where others saw shabbiness, I saw character.
It was just me and grandma and I loved our routine. We spent the mornings at the beach. She preferred the ones you did not have to pay to enter; either the wild beach half an hour away concealed from the tourists or what we called “the slabs” on the central promenade, which were essentially wide concrete stairs leading to the sea, each level increasingly slippery with seaweed. I preferred the wild beach because it had sand for my plastic bucket and shovel and because I wasn’t allowed to swim without my grandmother at the slabs for the danger of falling and hurting myself.
We returned home for lunch and an afternoon nap. Delirious from the heat and the brightness, I’d spread myself on the cold sheets like a starfish. Far away from my face, I could smell the melted ice-cream and hot corn on my hands. Through the open window, I heard the doves curating the interlude of the sun’s imminent retreat with their low and unchanging coos, the lullaby of the summer, to which the entire peninsula helplessly surrendered. Sometimes I would quietly gurgle their song back to them until overwhelming sense of stillness would glue my eyelids shut and I would fall into deep, bottomless sleep.
In September, I would return home rounder, brimming; my cheeks filled out from grandma’s pirozhkis and indigo sugary plums we’d pick off a tree across the house, stubborn sea-salt stains prominent against my browned skin, sunrays braided into my hair. I carried the Crimean summer in my bones through Russia’s brutal autumn, like a flickering candle persisting under the raid of shriveled leaves and wet snow.
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(10) Ten years ago, my cousin got married. Their wedding took place in Kiev, where they currently live. I visited shortly before. My aunt’s house is in the woods, and I remember walking her dog through the snow-covered roads, pinecones crunching below my feet. Strangely, my next memory is of the cobble stones of the Khreschatyk Street, our feet sensing the irregularities as we strolled through the city, cherishing each other’s company because it was so rare for us to be all together.
They have two kids now. I still haven’t met the younger one.
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(8) Eight years ago, I moved to the UK and made London my home. I don’t ever want to leave. The Southbank alone fills with my being with so much joy; I can’t help but notice how much lighter my step is when I am close to the river. My friends are here. My life is here. London is home.
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(8) Eight years ago, my grandmother had to flee Crimea, losing (but eventually, and miraculously recovering) her entire lives’ savings. Eight years ago, someone I knew was badly hurt at Maidan.
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(?) Yesterday a colleague cautiously asked me what I make of this entire situation. I started at him blankly, perhaps with more vehemence than either of us had anticipated and changed the topic. I wondered if he could tell I’d been crying.
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I usually don’t begin writing until I develop what I call the “custard” of writing; until I know how and in what proportions I am going to mix the ingredients to make the filling that will bind the essay together, I do not touch my laptop. Somehow, I know this approach is futile with this essay. I have been trying to gather my thoughts for days now and nothing seems good enough, meaningful enough, genuine enough. But I feel a sense of urgency to write this; maybe I am trying to press pause before my thoughts turn fully incoherent, before any hope for a better tomorrow dims.
I thought long and hard about what I want this piece to be. I thought about doing a critique of certain articles I have seen in the media, both Russian and Western. I thought about producing a rather caustic piece of my hatred for Instagram infographics and performative activism. I thought about looking back at historical catalysts for this situation.
But I don’t want to write about politics, because when stability of your family is threatened, all ideologies except love ring hollows. The rest are empty, useless, false caricature of themselves. I don’t want to talk about what’s right, or democratic, or necessary, or a violation, or a provocation, or a hypocrisy; the men at the top seem to be doing just fine masticating these terms into fine powder. I want to bring attention to families who will have to go through loss, through fear, through instability because of forces beyond their control, because of decisions made at the top supposedly for their own sake. I want to remind that every decision made on the international stage will bring consequences to human beings on all sides; these decisions will steal dreams and opportunities, will separate loved ones, will instill hatred that will echo into the future.
This is about people’s humanity, and I have no idea how to guarantee it’s at the forefront, which is why I’ve been crying at night at my own powerlessness before it all. I feel so small, like when I was a kid feeding the ducks at the river, except this time, it is indeed a river, its current powerful and uncontrollable. I don’t know how to navigate this.
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I am so heartbroken. I am so angry. I am so scared. I am so ashamed, at myself, for feeling indifference towards past conflicts that didn’t concern me directly, for looking the other way when people fled from their countries, for treating tragedies that devasted people, small people, like intellectual curiosities to be discussed through an ideological lens. I have forgotten to put humanity first before, too. I feel ugly for it.
Perhaps sensationalism is the bread and butter of journalism and provocative public statements of politics, but I pray compassion for the small people becomes that of our individual worldview.
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I call (+380) my aunt (I am not the greatest niece; I don’t call her enough). I ask how she is. She is her usual self, theatrical and unapologetically loud. I am good she says. Scary what’s happening. I ask how others are reacting. You can feel it’s tense, people are on edge, it’s written on their faces, she responds. I tell her I am worried for her. She pauses. It will be okay. I love you. I hope we see each other soon.
I call (+7) my mom (I definitely call her too much). I ask how she is. She is her usual self, soft-spoken and comforting. I am good she says. Scary what’s happening. I ask how others are reacting You can feel it’s tense, people are on edge, it’s written on their faces, she responds. I tell her I am worried for her. She pauses. It will be okay. I love you. I hope we see each other soon.
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So, here we are. My mom and dad are in Moscow. My aunt and cousin are in Kiev. My grandmother is Israel, longing for her home in Crimea.
What do you think I make of this entire situation?