The Home That Is Always With Me

Polina Shapoval

8-B Grade Student

My name is Polina. I am an ordinary girl who loves spending time with family, hanging out with friends, studying, pursuing hobbies, and dreaming about the future... Yet, there is one thing that sets my childhood apart from that of most of my peers around the world: war.

The morning of February 24, 2022, was unlike any other. I woke up unexpectedly, sometime between 5 and 6 a.m. It wasn't because of an alarm clock or my mom telling me it was time to get ready for school, but because the adults were agitated and bustling about the apartment. I didn't immediately grasp what was happening, but when I went to my mom, she said, "The war has started." A whirlwind of thoughts raced through my mind. War? Is that even possible? At that moment, I didn't fully comprehend the magnitude of what we were going through, but I understood completely what it meant to worry about each of my loved ones.

My parents were already separated at the time, and my dad lived elsewhere. That same morning, Mom called him immediately, asking him to come over so we could be together. He had gone out to get water, and while they were talking, a deafening explosion rang out in the street. The blast wave was so powerful that it blew open the balcony doors, even though they had been shut. I was terrified that something might have happened to my dad. That was likely the first time I experienced a panic attack. I was so scared, and on top of that, I didn’t know how to change the situation!

For the next few days, we slept in basements. Instead of a warm bed and toys, there were wooden pallets on a cold floor and damp pipes running along the walls. One night, as my family and I ran toward a shelter while under fire, I could feel my heart pounding wildly. Once we were inside the basement, the explosions became so intense that the walls shook; it felt as though the house wouldn't hold and that we might be buried under the rubble.

Staying home had become too dangerous, so my parents decided we should leave the city. First, my mother, grandmother, sister, and I moved from Kharkiv to Poltava, where we stayed with friends. It was certainly calmer there, but from that moment on, a deep longing for home never left me.

About a month later, we moved to Truskavets, in the Lviv region, where we lived for the next nine months. The adults found work, and I made new friends. We went out for walks more often, and even took trips to the mountains.

It seemed like things were gradually getting better. But then, something happened that I was completely unprepared for: my father passed away. It was the most painful moment of my life. He was the person closest to me, and I still miss him terribly.

After that, my mother decided we needed to go abroad—to Slovakia, where my other grandmother lived. At first, we settled just outside the city. We didn’t know anyone there, and the journey to my grandmother’s place was long and difficult. Eventually, with the help of the Red Cross, we managed to move to Košice. That’s where I started school, and I soon realized just how hard it is to be an outsider among others.

Schooling in this new environment didn’t come easily to me. Some of my classmates treated Ukrainians poorly, claiming that Ukraine was bad and that Russia was better. It was deeply hurtful to hear such things directed at me. I simply wanted to study in peace, make friends, and not feel inferior just because I am Ukrainian. I couldn’t fathom how someone could harbor baseless hatred toward the country where my family and friends live—the place where my home remains, and where people endure horrors every single day.

We lived abroad for about six months, after which I began asking my mother if we could go home. Yes, it was safer there, but I still longed to return. Finally, we made it back home—to our native Kharkiv! Throughout that time spent living out of a suitcase, I realized that "home" is more than just a place where you live; it is a sense of belonging and the people who are your own.

Now, in my city, air raid sirens sound daily, and one can hear explosions as well as the interception of missiles and drones. At first, these loud noises would send me into a panic, but over time, I’ve grown accustomed to them. Is this really normal for a child? I don’t think so. No one knows when the war will end, but I truly wish for a day when Ukrainian children no longer hear explosions, when people can live in their own homes, when families are not forced apart, and when each of us has the opportunity to grow—so that, in the future, we can rebuild Ukraine and make it even better than it was before the war.

The war has changed my life, but I do not want it to define my future! Many happy moments and joyful days lie ahead of me. I want to live, dream, make friends, learn, and find joy in everyday things. And most importantly—I want to do all of this at home, in my Ukraine!

*This piece was translated from its original Ukrainian script for English readers