On this grey day, I’m sitting in a regional train from Berlin to Nuremberg to meet up with friends. We used to meet several times a week back in Ukraine, but here we only see each other every six month. Today I overslept and didn’t even manage to get myself a coffee before embarking. That is why today feels rather muted, despite my destination. The blue seating is the only thing that give this day some colour. The light from the window shines in my face, pale and unexpectedly bright.
I close my eyes and immerse myself in my thoughts. These are so tenacious that it feels like I could pull them along the whole railway line from Berlin to Ukraine, all the way to my city. I fall into memories like potholes in the familiar neighbourhoods of my hometown of Zaporizhzhia. Eight-storey tower blocks with walls pale yellow and weathered. A wide intersection with lots of traffic lights. You can see a long avenue crossing the road. My stomach growls and immediately I think the supermarket chain ATB’s logo on one of the façades. Right now, I would buy my favourite chocolate bar with crunchy biscuit at the centre. At the checkout, I would be greeted in Ukrainian and I would smile because it is unbelievably satisfying to hear a language you understand from the very first second. I would immediately tear open the packaging while leaving the shop and bite into the bar. Two men would walk past me. While one would say to the other in Russian, ‘Well, anyway… you know that these are such uncertain times…’ I think to myself, ‘I understand’ and remember that I understand Russian even better than Ukrainian.
At this moment, my entire attention is focused on this realisation. I open a folder with the title ‘Language. A conflict?’. I pull out a stack of papers and read the headlines: ‘Language - the DNA of the nation?’, ‘My love language is now hated’, ‘Thoughts – spoken and interior’, ‘Can I speak the same language as my enemies? Is it the language of my enemies?’, ‘Law, constitution, discrimination, minorities’, ‘Am I a minority?’, ‘Can I love both one language and the other?’, ‘Why has it become so important?’, ‘Is this being forced on me or is it from a place of love?’
An invisible blue scarf tightens around my neck. I can hardly breathe. A tear trickles down my cheek. That very moment, I feel a warm hand touch my knee in reassurance.
‘Excuse me, are you all right?’ I hear this being said by a woman who I only see blurrily. I wipe the tears from my eyes and look at her again. She is sitting directly opposite me, next to the window. A beautiful woman, perhaps 35 years old, her chestnut brown hair up in an elegant hairstyle; she is wearing a dark blue silk dress with long sleeves and hem. With a smile, she looks me in the eye with an expression of care. ‘Yes, sorry, everything's fine,’ I answer her after taking a deep breath. ‘You know, it seems to me that people should talk more to each other, especially in times like these. I'd be very happy to listen if you want to tell me what made you so sad. By the way, what’s your name?’ ‘Anastasiia,’ I reply. “Pleased to meet you. So, Anastasiia, what’s so upsetting?’ she asks me, looking attentively. ‘Language upsets me,’ I say. ‘Language? How can language upset you?’ she asks. ‘Well, not language, but rather my relationship to it, you know? I spoke Russian as a child and I didn’t learn Ukrainian until I was seven or eight. After that, I wrote and spoke as fitting. Ukrainian at school, Russian at home,’ I try to explain. ‘And what bothers you about that?’ the woman enquires. ‘That I always made my declarations of love in Russian. That all my poems are in Russian. That all my thoughts were in Russian and now I have to think and speak in another language, otherwise I’m not a real Ukrainian. Although I have no idea how my nationality can be in conflict with my language. Why can’t I just be who I am?’ ‘That’s a good question,’ she remarks, ‘but I have another one for you.’ ‘What?’ I ask eagerly. ‘Do you love the Ukrainian language?’ she asks. ‘I think so,’ I reply. ‘Do you love the Russian language?’ she asks again. ‘I think so, too’. ‘So you prefer to use both languages?’ she asks, eyebrows raised. ‘Yes. But I’m forced to just speak one of them. That’s what bothers me.’ ‘My dear, there will always be someone who wants to tell you what to do. But I believe the most important thing in life is relying on your own thoughts and ideas. Or what is your takeaway from this conversation?’ ‘Maybe that I love both languages and don’t have to choose one. But what if I’m judged for my Russian?’ I ask anxiously. ‘My dear, no matter how much you are judged, it’s even worse to judge yourself. Can you be at peace if you give up the language you spoke as a child? Can you do without the language you used to write essays in at school?’ These are the next questions she asks me with a slight smile. I silently shake my head. ‘Well then. Just think about what you consider important. Your life has top priority. Live as you see fit. The battles are never ending. In historical terms, it is hardly possible to win them, but the personal battles can be won. And dear, it’s even better not to fight with yourself in the first place, there will still be plenty of challenges for you in this world. Be on your side.’ And with these words, she stands up and walks away towards the exit, as if dissolving into the blue of the seats, while I follow her with my gaze. Later, all that will remain of her is the sentence ‘Be on your side.’ It will echo in my head for a long time.
