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Emigration (refugee-hood) during war is a painful experience that presents individuals with new challenges and questions that once seemed distant and irrelevant. It affects not only the loss of physical space but also shatters the connections that defined our identity. The war forced me to leave my home, my country, and my familiar life. However, the greatest loss was the sense of internal stability – it felt as though the ground beneath me had been swept away, compelling me to confront what I thought was long buried in familial memory.
When I left Ukraine, my thoughts and feelings were contradictory. On the one hand, I chose to leave for safety’s sake. On the other hand, every step toward the border felt like a betrayal – a betrayal of the land that raised me, the people who stayed behind, and even the part of myself that still clung to the familiarity of home despite its dangers.
The loss of home made me question: What exactly do I call home? Is it a physical space? The relationships that shaped me as a person? Or is it merely the illusion of stability that was always fragile? Each day seemed to heighten these questions and the loss I felt. The most painful part was seeing how it affected my adult daughter. Her world, like mine, was destroyed. Yet, in her eyes, I saw not just despair but also hope – hope for the future, for rebuilding, and for the possibility of creating something new.
At that moment, I realized that my duty as a mother was not only to protect her physically but also to help her preserve faith in herself and in the possibility of rebuilding, even from fragments.
Fleeing my country also became a journey into the depths of my family history. I realized that this experience was not new. My family had endured similar trials, as each generation had been forced to leave their homes due to wars, revolutions, or other disasters. I felt the same fears and sensations that likely accompanied my ancestors. Like them, I wanted to protect my child but felt the weig