A Suitcase of Anxiety

You are leaving tomorrow; the time of deliberation has passed. Yesterday in the early morning hours, a house in the neighborhood was bombed, and the smoke is still rising. An unknown, disturbing stench overwhelms you as soon as open a window.

Now you are sitting in your darkened living room, with electricity long gone, looking at the suitcase gaping open on the floor. In Ukraine you call it tryvozhna valizka, an alarm suitcase, a suitcase of anxiety - a kind of suitcase of fear.

While digging a shallow grave in the flower bed, you became certain that you wanted to leave all this behind.

Slightly panicked, you throw in a warm pullover; you might need it, a neighbor told you - just to take it out and replace it with your favorite dress. Why would a refugee need a fancy dress? You then ask yourself and throw it out. What to take with you? People tell you to take this and not forget that, suddenly they all are experts on what it means to flee. But even if you could put in all you needed, from books and warm clothes to food and medicine, how would you carry such a heavy burden? Put on a solid pair of walking shoes; your grandma, your beloved babusia would say, you will surely walk a lot. My dear, moya lyuba, she would tell you, leave that bulky valizka here; there is nothing in it that can protect you from the war.

If only she would have been with you now. But her bones are at the cemetery, and it has not been hit yet. The Russian soldiers are targeting live Ukrainians for now, but soon the turn will come for the dead, too. Because the dead represent the memory of the living, they too have to be annihilated. Don't ask what kind of people could kill the elderly, small children, and their mothers - people kill people, we are doing it to each other. Now Russians kill us but believe me; we'll be killing them too. You know that her view of human nature was dark. But you also know that you cannot command the dead to shut up; they command you how to remember them. If you would angrily retort: this is not the time to compare; we are defending ourselves, Babusia would simply wave her hand as if to say: I've seen it all; I know what the people are capable of.  

Did you set it up for the return? I did that out of habit, you would explain to her, and she would understand; she was the one who taught you to clean after yourself. In the living room, she would notice something that no one else would. The absence of photos, one of herself and your mother, the other of the entire family, usually proudly exposed on the dresser, under the clock. You took the pictures out of frames so that they will keep you company along the way. You apologetically say, in a weak voice; some of the pictures I have hidden in a safe place until I return. Yes, I know every refugee believes that leaving home is only temporary; otherwise, how would they bear to leave?

You had not intended to leave, even when shelling was getting closer, not when all the other neighbors from the apartment building had already left, as if you believed the war would not touch you.

How to desert the place where you and your parents worked hard to earn for every single thing, from the big flat screen television set to the fine new carpet. Pretty presents you got for your birthday, old inherited teacups, that fine coat you saved for, the small things that made you happy. Leaving home to save your life was unimaginable, for what is life without everything that makes it home?

You had not intended to leave, even when shelling was getting closer, not when all the other neighbors from the apartment building had already left, as if you believed the war would not touch you.

You can almost feel babusia reading your mind as you touch the cushions on the bed, the reading lamp, and a new, unread book waiting for you to open it. Try to take away the moments with you. Remember how you fell from a bicycle the first time you rode and hurt your knee but stubbornly climbed on again? Or buying a pair of fancy shoes for a dinner after your baccalaureat. 

Other moments you won't be able to forget, even if you wish you could: the one when you spotted the first human corpse. It was only yesterday, you remember in amazement. As you walked into your street, someone was lying on the pavement in front of the number 5. As you approached, as you had to pass by, you saw the old school janitor, who never let you into the school even if you were only a minute late. Lying there in his pajamas, he looked as if he was asleep. But who would choose to sleep on the pavement on a chilly spring morning? Even from where you stood, you could see that his eyes were open, and there was a small pool of blood under his head. You suddenly felt trapped. You stopped and screamed into the space, not hoping for an answer: why? Why? But the answer came in a familiar voice: Don't go around asking why; you are not a child anymore!

Life is not things; it is the memory of those things, the only way to keep them with you. Now you understand why your mental tryvozhna valizka so much more important than the one on the floor. The one that you would uselessly drag, pull, or carry around, hugging it and never letting go - until you get so tired that you'd want to abandon it, throwing it into the first water that would be deep enough to swallow it.

Hatred is something one easily LEARNS in such a situation. It is the most terrible lesson in survival.

The other valizka, on the other hand, is the one that will always remain, the one you take back home or wherever you go when the war ends, and it will; every war does. That one is heavy in a different way. What else is inside, apart from the fear, images from the past, and your memories of the precious moments? Everything that you learned since the war started: the sound of the air raid siren, the word shelter, the damp smell of the cellars, the scent of fresh blood. Also, lessons that you will yet have to learn: you'll discover that your home is not yours because the others have the power to take it from you; you'll realize that for the same reason, your life is not your own; you'll learn to be afraid, and that fear is good; you'll learn to choose sides as well as to be pushed to the side you did not choose; you might even need to learn how to hate. Hatred is something one easily LEARNS in such a situation. It is the most terrible lesson in survival; you will most certainly learn the word survival and its meaning. Survive one can everywhere; you will learn while walking in a long line towards some border or a safe place. That word, besides many other previous unknowns, will be the main word in your valizka. A safe place is another important notion; it seems only yesterday you believed any place you felt good was safe. And the word luck will get a new definition: while you sit on the wet soil somewhere in the woods, covered by a tarp under fat drops of cold rainfall, you'll suddenly realize your luck.

You will experience the birth of a whole new dictionary born out of the war. You should carefully take those newly born words and keep them in your valizka, which is becoming   more and more precious the further you go.

Such a photo, not a house key, became an essential identity document, just like an ID card. You are that kind of a refugee now, do you understand?

It is a new word as well, but after a week, you will realize that this single word sums up what you are to others. It will take time to see yourself as a refugee because the picture it evokes is usually quite different. A big mass of people, women with head scarfs, young men, children, walking or waiting, sitting on the ground or crouching under the open sky somewhere at the Hungarian border, expecting a transport to Germany, their skin darker than yours. Surely you remember the picture of a dead Syrian refugee boy lying on his belly on a beach in Turkey; it sent a shudder down your spine. Soon you will learn that your Ukrainian nationality and the pale skin color will decide your destiny - as his nationality and skin color did his.

Once you are safe and taken care of in a new country, you will experience a strange feeling, a confusing mixture of gratitude to your benefactors and a kind of a shame at the same time. That is because it is not easy to receive charity. You are in need, and to be needy is humiliating. Charity is perhaps the heaviest of burdens.

Once you are safe and taken care of in a new country, you will experience a strange feeling, a confusing mixture of gratitude to your benefactors and a kind of a shame at the same time.

Trust me; you are not alone. My bones will stay here, but I will live on in your valizka. But here is one last thing I must warn you about before letting you go. You might see a few dead people along the way and start to think you know death because you will feel the cold sweat of fear. That is not what I mean. You need to do better, recognize the mortal danger, its icy breath just behind you, without seeing its face. This skill, not things you took from home, will save your life. Learn it fast, moya lyuba...Babusja's voice is fading.

Now you can see the pale light of dawn breaking. The sign for you to leave. Leave the heavy suitcase of fear, leave it there, open on the floor. Don't cry. Smile as you close the door, you are no longer burdened by fears but strengthened by what you carry inside, and nobody can take from you. You are as set as a refugee could ever be.