My Dear Vira
When my childhood friend Vira emigrated to the United States, it felt as if part of me had left with her. We grew up in post-Soviet Ukraine, shaped by instability and a longing for a better future. While I stayed, drifting between unstable jobs and relationships, Vira built a new life — marriage, citizenship, divorce, and eventually service in the U.S. Army.
Years later, Russia’s full-scale invasion forced me to flee Ukraine. I lost my home and sense of safety, wandering across Europe, unable to return yet unable to settle elsewhere. In crisis, I turn to Vira, hoping to understand how she lives so far from our homeland.
After buying her first American house, she invites me to visit. In North Carolina, near a military base where aircraft roar day and night, I observe her disciplined life and the quiet compromises it requires. I visit her office, the park where she married, the ocean I see for the first time, and even the White House, barely visible behind construction fences.
Vira carries guilt for not fighting in Ukraine; I carry guilt for leaving. In different ways, we are both displaced. Through our reunion, my childhood belief in the “American dream” dissolves. I realize there is no perfect place — only the difficult work of making peace within. We part knowing that, despite distance, our bond endures, and one day we hope to meet again at home, in Ukraine.
Years later, Russia’s full-scale invasion forced me to flee Ukraine. I lost my home and sense of safety, wandering across Europe, unable to return yet unable to settle elsewhere. In crisis, I turn to Vira, hoping to understand how she lives so far from our homeland.
After buying her first American house, she invites me to visit. In North Carolina, near a military base where aircraft roar day and night, I observe her disciplined life and the quiet compromises it requires. I visit her office, the park where she married, the ocean I see for the first time, and even the White House, barely visible behind construction fences.
Vira carries guilt for not fighting in Ukraine; I carry guilt for leaving. In different ways, we are both displaced. Through our reunion, my childhood belief in the “American dream” dissolves. I realize there is no perfect place — only the difficult work of making peace within. We part knowing that, despite distance, our bond endures, and one day we hope to meet again at home, in Ukraine.