I was born in a small town where nothing much ever happened — only silence, old poplar trees lining the roads, the scent of apricot blossoms in spring, the fresh smell of just-cut grass near the school stadium, and sunsets in the riverside park as the town slowly fell asleep, the air soft and sweet like a promise of something good.
That’s where my childhood took place. That’s where I fell in love for the first time. Even when I thought I hated that place — for its provincial limits and predictability — deep down, I already missed it. I loved it, painfully so.
Dreaming of More
Dreaming of the big city wasn’t just a fascination — it was an escape. I studied, worked, studied again, and clung to every opportunity to break free. And finally, by thirty, with my wife and our five-year-old son Ivan, we made it happen — we moved to Lviv.
It was our takeoff, our dream come true, our new life.
We bought our first apartment. With every saved coin, we made it our cozy nest. We worked two jobs each and did the renovation ourselves — pouring our hearts into every corner. Lviv became our home — not by blood, but by soul. We made friends. Our son started attending a school for the free and brave, a place that nurtured creativity and courage. Neighbors brought homemade pies for Christmas, we grilled in the courtyard, shared beer and honey liquor and homemade sausage until late into the night. We organized clean-up days and celebrated afterward with picnics on the playground.
The air smelled of the future.
February 2022 — And the Endless Winter Began
We left just before the full-scale invasion to protect our family. It wasn’t a desperate escape — it was a planned one. We believed we’d be gone for just a few weeks. Maybe a couple of months.
No one thought it would be forever.
The Mosaic of Foreign Cities
A year passed. Then two. Then three.
We kept telling ourselves, “Just a bit longer — and we’ll return.” But with time, that phrase started sounding less like a plan and more like a memory.
We tried to live in Poland, Germany, the UK, Portugal, Croatia… a little in Belgium, the Netherlands, and France. Every city melted into a single dreamlike blur: different languages, rules, schools, walls, people.
We weren’t chasing luxury.
We were searching for a sense of home.
But we never found the scent of blooming linden in June.
We never heard the chatter of Lviv’s winding streets.
No playground on Pogylyanka, no Stryiskyi Park.
No one saying “shanovnyi” in a tram when you stepped on their foot.
New Life in Spain
Eventually, we found ourselves in Spain.
And we said — this is it. We will rebuild. A new school. A new language. New rules.
Our son started Spanish school. We work. We plan.
We have everything — except the most important thing: connection.
My parents are not here.
They stayed behind — in a place where danger is always present.
The family home still stands. But it feels… museum-like. Untouchable.
Not because the door is locked — but because something deeper is broken.
The streets of my childhood seem covered in fog, blurring faces and shapes.
I fear returning.
Fear not recognizing anything.
Fear the pain that will awaken again.
A Hollow Inside
I’m alive. But inside, there’s a void.
I’ve been uprooted — like a tree torn from the soil.
And I don’t know if I’ll grow again.
My son is slowly forgetting Ukrainian.
New languages come easy to him. He’s from the new generation.
One that grows up without grandma’s pastries,
without neighbors who greet you by name,
without grandpa’s bookshelf or family stories over tea in the kitchen,
without greasy hands from dad’s garage, or potatoes fried on a makeshift stove with bacon.
We Are a Lost Generation
We were meant to pass on our heritage — but have nowhere to keep it.
We had our homeland stolen.
We can’t walk our child to the same school we attended.
We can’t place flowers on our ancestors’ graves.
We are broken roots.
No tree will grow from us unless it’s transplanted into other soil.
And that soil feels foreign.
We build homes on sand.
We smile for our children, but inside we worry:
What language will they dream in?
Will they fall in love in Ukrainian?
Will they understand why tears fill our eyes when we hear the national anthem?
We Are Scattered — But Not Lost
We didn’t just lose our homeland physically — we lost it in time.
Ukraine is us. But we are scattered.
What still binds us is our language.
Our memories.
Our traditions.
Our literature.
That is why we created a way to access Ukrainian books abroad.
Because books are more than an escape — they are a return.
They are the thread that ties us to the past and maybe — just maybe — to the future.
Books as a Refuge
Books are:
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a way out of pain,
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a source of wisdom and experience,
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a path to identity,
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and a foundation for growth.
They carry dreams, ideas, and endless inspiration — for us and our children.
And we must pass them on.
Because as long as we read, remember, and share — we continue to exist as a people.
Even in exile.
This Is Not a Story — This Is Testimony
This is not a novella in the classic sense.
This is a testimony.
A personal chronicle of a generation stuck between loss and what might still be saved.
It’s an attempt to stitch memory back together,
to preserve something real —
for myself,
for my son,
for anyone trying to find themselves far from home.
Because If I Forget…
If I forget —
my son will never know.
And if he never knows —
who will remember our town?
Lviv?
The kind neighbors?
The smell of coffee in our tiny kitchen?
The way we lived, the way we hoped?
Maybe We Won’t Find Home — But We Can Preserve Memory
And we can pass it on.
Not as monuments of stone —
but as words, gestures, songs, language.
In a child’s lullaby that rings out on foreign streets.
Because that may be the only thing that connects us to the past —
and gives us a bridge to the future.
As long as we remember — we are alive.
And we are from Ukraine.