When I think ofMariupol, I don’t picture ruins. Not ashes, not shattered windows, not thefrightening silence. In my mind’s eye,I see is a city that was alive. My city. The school withthe yellow façade where I studied for eleven years. The yard where we used tokick the ball around until nightfall. The beach where myparents 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.
Mariupolis not just a point on the map. It is a part of me. It is where I experiencedall my firsts: my first love, my first heartbreak, my first ‘I am all grown up’.
And though I amfar away now, it is always with me. Its language echoes in me, its sun shineswithin me, its hope lives in me — that one day… we will return. And I will see thesea again. I will walk the same road to school. I will be home again. Because Mariupolis home. Forever.
