2. Breaking ties

The morning light crept through the blinds, casting long shadows that seemed to mirror the confusion and darkness growing within me. It was as if the world had shifted overnight, and I found myself trapped in a whirlwind of emotions that I couldn’t escape. The reality of the war had shattered my assumptions, and with it, the foundations of my identity.

I will always be seen as Russian, even after years of living in Berlin. The city had embraced me, the people had accepted me, but my roots were irrevocably tied to the land where I had been raised. The language, the traditions, the memories of my childhood – they were all part of me. And now, those very roots felt tainted, stained by the actions of a government I couldn’t comprehend. The disarray within me extended beyond the realm of politics. It reached into the depths of my soul, churning up emotions I had never before grappled with. Shame, guilt, and a sense of betrayal filled my heart.

The first call I made that day was to my grandmother, a woman whose warmth had been a constant presence in my life. The moment she answered, a sense of unease settled over me. When I mentioned the war, her response was chillingly jubilant. “They deserve this. We should have done it earlier,” she said, her voice carrying an unsettling mix of vindication and glee. The words hung in the air like a toxic cloud, poisoning the bond that had once connected us.

Dread clung to me as I dialled my grandfather’s number. His voice, usually a source of comfort, projected an unsettling confidence. “I promise you, tThis will be over in three days,” he declared matter-of-factly. “Ukraine doesn’t have a chance.”

I sought solace in the familiar connection I had with my cousin, hoping for a glimmer of understanding. But her words cut through me like a blade. “These sanctions are empty threats. Russia is the biggest and richest country in the world, and we have China on our side. Ukraine was planning to attack us and we had to defend ourselves,” she asserted. Her unwavering resonse shattered my hopes, leaving me adrift in a sea of conflicting loyalties.

I reached out to my extended family, desperate to find some semblance of sanity amidst the chaos. Yet, their responses only deepened the chasm that had formed within me. Another voice justified the war, claiming it was a necessary defence against an impending attack. “We had to do it,” she said, her voice filled with a conviction that felt like a cruel betrayal of logic and empathy. The weight of those conversations bore down on me, a crushing realisation that the family I had once held dear was now shattered into million pieces.

By the end of the day, I was emotionally drained, my tears a testament to the irreparable damage that had been wrought. The people I had loved, had become unrecognisable. Their words, their beliefs – they were unforgivable, unforgettable. And as I stared into the abyss of my shattered connections, I grappled with the most haunting question of all: What do I do when the pillars of my world have crumbled into ashes?