This is My Country, This is My Home

by Kathleen Blehl (United States of America)

A leap into the unknown Ukraine

“Are you sure it’s safe to go there?” These heavy words rang in my ears as I boarded my first Ukrainian train, heading 12 hours to the East of Ukraine. I was told this part of the country was different, that it seemed like a far-off land that wasn’t part of the same country I had been living in for three months. The wheels of the train began rolling. I took a deep breath as the nerves began to settle in my stomach. In less than a few hours, I would be arriving in a previously occupied city called Kramatorsk, a city that sits less than 70 kilometers from the front line of the war between Russia and Ukraine. As the train continued eastward, I felt a strong sense of uneasiness. There was an unspoken heaviness in the air. Recognizable tourists had exited the train long before. As I looked around, I noticed those who remained. I studied the deep creases in the older people, wrinkles that aged them faster than what time allowed. I looked at the single fathers who carried bags of children’s clothes and toys. I looked at the mothers whose eyes held the depths of loss and pain. I looked at the young people and wondered what it would be like if their reality was mine. I remained unsettled, but I knew that this city and these people had a story to teach me. We soon arrived at the train station, and my uneasiness was slowly replaced with curiosity. I began to wander around the city as I had done in numerous other places. I visited the main square, parks, cafes, and sites. It looked like any other city, but I knew there was something more. Four months later, I found myself sitting in the same seat, in the same carriage, heading 12 hours to the East of Ukraine. I would arrive in Kramatorsk, having an all-too-familiar feeling of déjà vu. I never imagined visiting this city again, but a part of me was called to continue a narrative that was left unfinished. On my previous visit to Kramatorsk, I learned that everyone in the city had a story to tell. The barista at the café, the teacher at the university, the student in the dorm, the waiter in the restaurant – they all endured the reality of what happens to everyday people in wartime. Their lives were uprooted, their families were split, their friends were lost in battle, and their view of the world was never quite the same. The idea of war wasn’t something intangible; it was something happening right in front of their eyes. I never experienced what the Ukrainian people I encountered lived through. As an American, I have never seen war in my home country. Yet, these people’s lives were an everyday reality of that. In that very moment, I knew I needed to return to listen to their stories, to learn more, and to let the impact of the war touch me if only for a few days. And so, I journeyed to five previously occupied cities in the East: Kramatorsk, Sloviansk, Bakhmut, Kostiantynivka, and Mariupol. For most people, these cities are just a dot on a map, as they were for me just months ago. For others, they are cities of devastation, and they are cities of hope. They are cities scattered with shelled out buildings, displaced citizens, military checkpoints, and soldiers from young to old. Yet at the same time, they are cities filled with cafes, pizza parlors, schoolchildren playing, and two people falling in love. They are filled with a people just like you and me: people who love, people who hurt, and people who want a better future. They are a people that want to be heard. They are a people with a reality most will never live. They are a people with a narrative that only the whispers of war can reveal; a narrative that, if you are willing to listen to, shouts beyond the subtle whispers. It shouts and it screams, “This is my country, this is my home, and this is a fight no one can ever take away from me”.