Learning curve

Valeria, 16, Kharkiv, Ukraine — Budva, Montenegro

I was 13 when the war began and should have been going to school. My mother woke me up as usual on 24 February. She said we needed to pack. A friend had called her in tears and told her to take her husband, me, and the cats and go. But we couldn’t leave immediately as we didn’t have a car. My grandmother only managed to take me away from Kharkiv earlier this year. My parents stayed behind with the cats. My dad can’t leave, because men aren’t allowed to, and mum works for a bank and can’t work abroad.

It’s safe here, of course, but in the last two and a half years, my psyche has been shaped by the war, and every loud noise terrifies me. There are tourists here in the summer with fireworks and firecrackers going off every evening. I was on edge the whole time. We lived in the town of Herceg Novi at first, with planes flying overhead non-stop. To start with, I was just as scared there as I had been in Kharkiv.

I seem to have calmed down now. We moved to Budva, where my grandmother works in a hotel. We were given staff accommodation.

I was terrified at the thought of leaving my family and friends. I realised that this was a different society, with a different language, and that they may not understand me. I really miss my family. 

I’m scared to go to the local school because I don’t speak the language. New people, a new environment, and I can’t communicate. How will I understand what the teachers are saying in class? What will people think of me? I’m really scared of negativity. We know that teenagers can be cruel and I’m scared.

I don’t know if I’ll go back to Ukraine. I don’t know what will happen after the war. I sometimes think that’ll be a scary time too. The devastated economy, traumatised people returning home, and crime will probably be on the increase. But Kharkiv is still home.

Roman, 17, Minsk, Belarus — Wrocław, Poland

I left my bike at school. I’ll never forget what my father said on the phone: “I’m coming to get you now.” He knew that I cycled to and from school so if he was calling to say: “I’m coming to get you,” that meant the game was up. I knew perfectly well that the day would come when I’d have to leave Belarus. But I didn’t know when.

My last day in Minsk is one of the most vivid memories of my life. It was the last day of May 2021, the last day of school. I’d finished eighth grade. Classes had finished, we’d had assembly, and we were just sitting around — pupils from different years — talking, having fun. There was the whole summer to look forward to, spending time with friends. But when my dad called, I realised straight away.

That call changed a lot — both as far as my plans were concerned and in my head in general. For the worse. That day I’d been planning to tell a girl in my class that I liked her. But I never did. We had to flee. I left my bike at school.

That summer, between the eighth and ninth grades, we travelled through several countries, sometimes changing route while we were on the road. We had originally planned to be in Portugal, but then our plans changed. 

We needed protection. We’re not émigrés, we’re refugees. My dad faced arrest and it’s a miracle we managed to escape. We ended up deciding to go to Poland. The whole family was stressed, but we tried to support each other.

The worst thing for me was losing touch with my friends and realising I needed to meet new people. I had a problem with that at the time.

It was difficult for me to find my feet in a new place, but after a while I did find wonderful people who supported me. Talking to them and getting used to things made me realise it wasn’t all so bad, though at one point I even thought about moving back to Belarus when I came of age and living there on my own. Now I can see that’s not the best idea. But I’ll never forget that unsettled feeling when we were on the move.

Alexander, 17, Sochi, Russia — Budva, Montenegro

There were many conversations in our family about us maybe having to leave, but they felt rather hypothetical. However, when mobilisation was announced in September 2022, we all stood up and listened. We hoped we wouldn’t be moving for long, but the nightmare has dragged on.

I was in the ninth grade when we moved to Montenegro. That first year I studied remotely, went home to sit exams for the ninth grade and then went to a new school.

My school in Sochi was one of the biggest and best in the city. We even had some self-government within the school and elected a “president”. A friend of mine stood in one of the elections and asked me to help him. The election was horribly corrupt. One candidate openly bribed voters. Everyone knew and there was uproar, but in the end, the deputy head, who controlled everything, decided to leave the candidate in the running.

But my friends and I tried to change things as we didn’t want to accept such a travesty. We spent a long time trying to bring in changes and wrote a constitution, which was adopted.

Our school held two free and transparent elections — parliamentary and presidential. We managed to carry them off without ballot-stuffing. I couldn’t stand, though, as they were scheduled for the very day I left Russia. But my friend, one who stayed and agreed to carry on our work without me, won. At the end of his presidency, there were parliamentary elections, but the deputy heads dissolved the parliament a week later. They said it served no purpose.

That was all from late 2021 to 2023, just as there was complete tyranny in the country. Oddly, that gave me some hope. I looked at what was happening around me and realised that I could do something in the fight against evil in my own small way. It was difficult to just give up on everything.

I continued fighting for democracy at my school from Montenegro. All my friends stayed behind, and I worked with them, like Lenin, from exile.

I can’t say I’ve had any major problems since moving but there was a general sense of loss, of course. I missed real, face-to-face communication. For that first year, I only spoke to my parents and with staff in cafés.

When I went back to Sochi to take my exams, it was like a breath of fresh air. But while I breathed in that fresh air from talking to friends, all around me there was darkness. There were Z flags, and concrete blocks with flags on them had been placed on a really beautiful stone bridge … There was a sense that the city had been desecrated.

But I’d very much like to be part of the Russian revival. I see myself as a parliamentarian. Parliament is my thing. I’d advise anyone leaving now to seek out people with similar views who dream of changing their country and the world.

Anna, 19, Kharkiv, Ukraine — St. Petersburg, Russia — Podgorica, Montenegro

I was born in the Luhansk region but we later moved to Kharkiv. Then after my mother married a Russian man in 2015, we moved to Russia. I graduated from high school in St. Petersburg in 2021 and went to university to study medicine.

I’d only been there six months when the full-scale invasion of Ukraine began. I finished the first year and I was a month into the second year when we started preparing to leave.

When I met new people before the invasion and said I was Ukrainian, everything was amazing, and people were receptive. But after February, I was sometimes afraid to say that I was Ukrainian at all. I still don’t tell everyone. My friends were supportive and asked how my relatives in Ukraine were doing. But I had to break off contact with some of them.

It’s scary to live in a world where every passerby could be an enemy. I think most of society is anti-war, but perhaps I just live in my bubble.

I was very sorry to have to drop out of a course I’d made great efforts to attend for years, as I was sure I’d made the right choice. I didn’t know if I’d be able to go to medical school abroad. But the longer things went on, the more obvious it was that my prospects in Russia were getting worse. And it was really depressing to be surrounded by people who supported the war, as is the fact that my family was suffering in Ukraine while I was in Russia. My grandparents are in a part of the Luhansk region that was occupied in 2022.

Even before February, my parents loved lying on the couch in the evening and watching videos about Montenegro. We were thinking about going, at some point in the distant future. And that’s where we ended up.

I studied Montenegrin hard, because I realised that without it I wouldn’t be able to study medicine there. Then I bought Montenegrin chemistry and biology school textbooks to learn the terminology before sitting the entrance exams. I didn’t really think I’d pass, but I was able to enrol last year. And now I’m in my second year at the Faculty of Medicine in Podgorica.

I find it a lot harder making myself understood in Montenegrin, of course. And the course is harder for me than for my course mates. There’s a lot to get through, a lot to learn, but at least they’re doing it in their own language, whereas I still have to translate. But they’ve turned out to be amazing people. And the lecturers are always ready to help, repeat, and explain things to me.

I miss being outside on a starlit night, talking to people in my own language. I went to a concert given by a Russian artist in Montenegro recently, and there were Russian-speaking people everywhere and it was such a strange feeling to think I could just go up to anyone and talk to them.

Antonina, 16, Minsk — Warsaw

We’re a large family: mum, dad and seven children. Dad was sent to prison in March for 13 days. But they didn’t let him out and immediately placed him back under administrative arrest. We didn’t know what was going on, but mum said they might put dad in prison for a long time, in which case we’d have to leave the country, as if she were imprisoned too, we’d be sent to a children’s home.

Our home was searched by the police and my mother was called in for questioning and threatened with prison. They took her phone from her and never gave it back. By the time dad had finished his second term, we were getting ready to go. We realised we had to leave.

We left quietly. We didn’t tell anyone, we didn’t say goodbye to anyone, we didn’t get any documentation from our schools. I was most distressed about leaving my grandmother and the dog behind.

In Belarus I was at college training to be a vet. Now I don’t even know where I’ll study. It’s a very difficult choice to make. I’m currently looking for a part-time job in Warsaw. I’ve already worked as a nanny, then for a cleaning company, and now I’m working as a nanny.

The feeling of being homeless is very hard, especially for a large family. We have to squeeze into temporary housing, and there’s a complete lack of personal space. That’s what weighs down on me the most for now. There’s also the worry that people won’t like us because we’re not from here. But there is a sense of security: at least nobody’s going to arrest us.

Our priority right now is to find a long-term apartment, which isn’t easy for such a large family. So maybe Warsaw won’t be our final destination. Maybe we’ll go to another Polish city. I’d like to go back to Belarus, of course. But if things don’t change, we’ll have to live elsewhere.