Yulia arrived at our house with an enormous box of the finest Ukrainian chocolates. Biting into one I realized this was next level, like comparing the tiny striped burgers in a can of chunky soup to a filet from Ruth’s Chris. This Ukranian exchange student would always be welcome in our home.
I’ve been thinking a lot about Yulia, who lived with us a few weeks in 2013 as I watch Putin’s deadly attacks on her homeland. Where was she? How was she? It had been a very long time since we’d talked.
The heartbreaking answer was as close as a text. My daughter, home for the weekend, used old contact information and reached out to Yulia, now also 24. She responded in less than a minute.
“We are in a bomb shelter at the moment,” she wrote. There was a crying face emoji and a photo of Yulia and her new husband cradling their cute dog.
“Russia is attacking us. We don’t have anywhere to go. We are sitting in a shelter since 3 a.m. We are very afraid. Russian planes are above us.”
It turned out Yulia was in Kyiv, not her native Chernihiv. The air sirens were so loud. Her panic rising, she fretted most about her parents, hiding in a friend’s basement in another city.
There was more back and forth before she signed off. “We have issues with the internet right now. We are trying to keep calm. We can’t leave the city because there are attacks on the route and we aren’t allowed to cross the border, especially males. We are under siege…”
Seeing Yulia’s face after so many years made my heart sink. She looked exhausted and resigned and scared all at the same time.
Yulia was a bubbly, tall blonde who delighted in all things American, especially the mall and every kind of fast food. Arriving in March, she wanted to see the beach immediately and dipped her toes in the frigid waves without even flinching.
She was polite, funny and insisted on doing her own laundry. Early on she asked where we kept our ironing board and I made a lame joke that didn’t translate: “I don’t know. Maybe 1997?”
Yulia talked to her doting parents often via Skype. Occasionally, I’d make sure to stick my head in and try to look responsible. They had entrusted their only daughter to us, a responsibility I didn’t take lightly. Later, I hoped she didn’t tell them that some “other” parents took the whole group to Hooter’s for a quintessentially American experience.
Yulia hated grits but I like to think all was forgiven once I introduced her to Wildberry-flavored Pop Tarts. “Mmmmm,” she said. “Sank you.” I said “de nada.” We were both smiling big realizing Pop Tarts with made up flavors are the universal love language.
Yulia spent every hour out of school and homework time soaking in as much teen culture we could offer. She filled two huge suitcases with gifts for her friends and family back home. They wanted the American brands so there were many trips to Gap, Forever 21 and Target. My daughter remembered how they wore silly masks and walked downtown along the river. They laughed and took a million pictures. Just two giggling 14-year-old girls having an effortless good time despite language hiccups. Smart and poised, Yulia didn’t hesitate when asked to speak to a Russian studies class at the local university.
Today, Yulia writes, she stood in a line of 500 to get food and potable water. There’s no electricity, no heat. The walls of her bunker are shaking from nearby explosions. There are rumors of churches and a maternity home being burned.
Like thousands of others, Yulia is a refugee in her own country. Please do everything in your power to help them.
NOTE: For a complete list of fully-vetted charities serving Ukraine right now, go to Give.org.