When I think of Mariupol, I don’t picture ruins. Not ashes, not shattered windows, not the frightening silence. In my mind’s eye, I see is a city that was alive. My city. The school with the yellow façade where I studied for eleven years. The yard where we used to kick the ball around until nightfall. The beach where my parents and I roasted corn and laughed until our bellies hurt. The sunsets — bright, flaming, as if the sky wanted to tell us something important. Friends with whom we ate pizza right in the car, blasted music, and played video games all night long.
Mariupol is not just a point on the map. It is a part of me. It is where I experienced all my firsts: my first love, my first heartbreak, my first ‘I am all grown up’.
And though I am far away now, it is always with me. Its language echoes in me, its sun shines within me, its hope lives in me — that one day… we will return. And I will see the sea again. I will walk the same road to school. I will be home again. Because Mariupol is home. Forever.
