Paris, March 21, 2024

Dear readers,

My life has changed since my last letter: a child, a move, running between feeds, diapers and sleepless nights. It's been a month since I became the mother of a little French-Kabyle Ukrainian boy. I speak to him all the time in Ukrainian, and I wonder how long it will be before he can answer me in our language. Since his arrival, I often think about my own childhood.

I was born in 1987, in the Soviet Union. Baptism in a church, when a child was born, was a very common rite in Ukraine, among believers as well as non-believers. It was a way of fighting the system. The USSR was atheist, and any religious manifestation was forbidden. My parents had me secretly baptized in a small church in Podilia, the region my paternal family came from. Nowadays, we're free to do what we want, but this tradition has remained an important part of Ukrainian identity.

I don't know if I'll have my son baptized, but I'll pass on his roots to him, his "Ukraine-ness." It's very important that he knows my country and is aware of his origins. We live in such an uncertain world that the only things we can be sure of are our family and our roots. The little one will also have Ukrainian nationality: We'll be going to the consulate soon.

After the birth, my mother spent three weeks with us. She went back to Kyiv. I found her so tired from the war. I know Sasha feels exhausted too. My heart sinks when I think of the long, exhausting journeys back and forth. All I want is to be with my family. I feel so alone.

I met a Ukrainian friend who'd been living in London for years. She told me about a friend of hers from Mariupol. He still lives there. It struck me: living in Mariupol, the city martyred and occupied by the rachists [a contraction of "russians" and "fascists"]? I contacted this man. Of course, he can't give his name and doesn't want to be recognized, but here's what he told me: At the start of the Great War, he hid in his apartment with a neighbor. In March 2022, when a small group of them were gathered outside around a fire to prepare a meal – the town had no electricity at the time – there was an air raid and he was seriously wounded. The other five survived. They were lucky. During these attacks, many Mariupol residents died and were hastily buried near their homes or in their yards.

Every day, he crosses the devastated city on his way to work, cursing, and I quote, "those bastards who came to our land." The russian [Olga and Sasha have chosen not to capitalize "Putin," "Russian" and "Russia"] authorities are rebuilding the buildings they bombed. It is said that some bodies are still under the ruins and others have been dumped in a rubbish dump. He recounts how the stench of decomposing bodies lingered for a long time in certain parts of the city. The company he works for was quickly re-registered as russian [Olga and Sasha have chosen not to capitalize "russian" and "russia"]. "We've regressed 30 years," he said. All business is centralized and there's no free competition, as there was during the Soviet Union.

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