"I miss the thought that I am home, and my grandmothers. But not the country." Monologue of a 17-year-old girl

Photo: lookby.media

Nastia's family first moved to Ukraine, then was forced to relocate to Poland. In these five years, spent in rented apartments, they had 10 moves. Nastia's mother said that the first few months were the hardest for the girl – she studied online then and spent the first six months simply sitting in her room. Adaptation in Poland was already easier, although Nastia again withdrew for a while.

The girls' mother is an IT specialist who never found work in her field while in emigration.

Devby.io is grateful to Nastia for deciding to share her experience after some thought and with her mother's consent. We hope that her story will help someone better understand their children and pay attention to their feelings.

"Russian-speaking friends didn't come to lectures - a disaster."

— We left Belarus in the autumn of 2020 due to the political situation in the country. We lived in the center of Minsk. I remember that paddy wagons stood on the roadside just on the way to school. During protests, people hid in our building's entrance. The situation was unpleasant, and my parents decided to leave with the words "just for a couple of months." A couple of months stretched into five years.

For three years now, I have been studying at a Polish technical school. In the Polish education system, this is something like a high school, after which one must pass a state exam [egzamin maturalny, an analogue of the Belarusian high school graduation exam, necessary for obtaining a secondary school certificate].

It so happened that I went to a Polish school after the summer holidays.

The first few days there plunged me into a kind of frustration. The feelings were very contrasting. On the one hand, there were many Ukrainians in my class with whom I could speak without feeling uncomfortable due to the language barrier. On the other hand, when I wanted to ask a girl from my class for directions or ask to be added to a general chat group, I was met with total incomprehension and an awkward smile. I felt strange and uneasy: how could it be, I had studied Polish for three summer months, and I still couldn't talk to someone about such simple things!

In the class, an unspoken division into small subgroups immediately appeared. And my group, mainly consisting of Ukrainians, isolated itself. We do all assignments together, work collaboratively on all collective projects, ignoring people from outside. Russian-speaking friends didn't come to lectures - a disaster, we'll have to work alone. Because almost all learning is built on communication with others: discussions, question debates, joint presentations.

"My Polish wasn't good enough then to understand all the gossip behind my back."

I can't say that Polish classmates and teachers treated me badly. If there was any negativity at first, it was very passive. My Polish at that time wasn't good enough to understand all the gossip behind my back. However, such situations happened, and quite often. I'll tell you about one, the most "instructive."

There was a Polish language test - the most difficult subject for me. An important remark here: in high school, Polish language classes focus on Polish and foreign literature, no grammar. And this subject is taught by the strictest teacher in our technical school.

The test begins, and my classmate from Ukraine says that she cannot translate her thoughts into Polish. And the teacher unexpectedly allows all students for whom Polish is not their native language to use their phones for translation.

I used my phone to translate something, but I didn't copy words from it. So that no one would think I was cheating, I deliberately placed the phone on the desk: that way it was visible that I wasn't using it when I was writing. The test ends, I hand in a half-empty sheet, because I wrote almost nothing.

And then suddenly, talks begin about someone cheating, and how it's terribly unfair. I heard the word "cheat" (спісваць) in Polish for the first time then, initially not even understanding what they were talking about.

Fully confident that this discussion didn't concern me, I went out into the hallway and learned from my friend that they were talking about me.

On this test, I got a one [in the Polish school system, a six-point scale is used, where one is the lowest grade]. So it was quite offensive. Maybe I should have cheated after all.

The most unpleasant thing is that in any other subject, if someone cheats, everyone covers for that person; "snitching" is considered bad taste. Putting myself in the place of other children, I understand that it would also be unpleasant for me if the teacher gave someone an advantage, while I would be forced to rely solely on my own knowledge. But after this situation, my relationship with my Polish classmates noticeably deteriorated.

"With Ukrainian children, we couldn't refuse each other due to a common language - but there's an abyss between us."

In my technical school, there are children from Ukraine, and there are Russians. There's even one boy from Belarus who left only six months ago.

Finding myself in an environment where most people didn't understand me, I started to interact closely with people with whom such problems didn't arise. First of all, I got acquainted with the Russian-speaking community from other classes. Thanks to this, my school circle of contacts increased from three people to ten.

It seemed like progress: you speak Russian, I speak Russian, we can understand each other, a reason to get acquainted. The problem is that apart from a common language, nothing else might connect me with this person.

When creating social connections, people rely on their personal choice: I interact with this person, I don't interact with that one. But is there an element of conscious choice in communicating with a person whose "arrow" turns towards you only because they can be understood without effort? I doubt it.

The children from Ukraine, who by coincidence ended up in the same class as me, were not bad people. But a huge abyss of completely different values, life experiences, hobbies, and views created strong tension between us. And we couldn't reject each other because we had to work together on academic projects. And communicate during breaks, because there was simply no one else to talk to. I don't know how, but we managed to maintain a very fragile peace until the end of the first year.

I'll add that my Ukrainian classmates studied haphazardly. The Polish system for transferring a failing student from one class to another is quite tricky, but the essence is this: if a student receives a failing grade at the end of the year, they do not pass the subject and must repeat it entirely the following year.

All my academic ties with classmates from Ukraine were severed when they failed their exams. Some decided to get an online Ukrainian education, while others went to repeat their first year at a different technical school.

And I was left alone.

"We are all adults, we are traumatized, experienced. And Poles behave like children."

There were acquaintances from other classes with whom I could talk during breaks. A mix of everyday life and some "about nothing" topics, which didn't really satisfy me. But it is what it is. Fortunately, at that time, I already had good Ukrainian friends outside of school, which helped to at least partially fill the lack of contacts in the technical school. After the first year, 15 out of 32 people remained in my class. Everyone had already "sorted themselves" into their small, closed cliques.

The most unpleasant thing is that in any other subject, if someone cheats, everyone covers for that person; "snitching" is considered bad taste. Putting myself in the place of other children, I understand that it would also be unpleasant for me if the teacher gave someone an advantage, while I would be forced to rely solely on my own knowledge. But after this situation, my relationship with my Polish classmates noticeably deteriorated.

When I looked at some Polish classmates or heard their conversations, I realized that they were quite cool. Some enthusiastically pursue something outside of the technical school, are deeply knowledgeable in science, or are passionate about their profession. I believe that the environment strongly influences a person. I wanted to become part of a company of erudite people, even if I had very different life experiences from them. But I had hidden so deeply in my shell...

Among Russian-speaking acquaintances from older grades, there were conversations like: a Pole will never understand an emigrant. We are all adults, we are traumatized, so we have more experience. And they behave like children. I willingly agreed with this, convincing myself that I saw it myself. But now I understand that I just wanted to assert myself. To explain my own cowardice, the fear of speaking to them.

"The most important thing turned out to be taking a step forward - and the Polish class accepted me."

The first two months of the second year passed in such an oppressive atmosphere. And then a new Ukrainian girl from Kharkiv transferred to my class. I befriended her within the first 15 minutes. It also turned out that she spoke Polish very well: she had Polish friends in her previous technical school. Instead of isolating herself from everyone, for some reason, she started actively interacting with everyone.

This surprised me. But the idea of "fitting in" with our class had been swirling in my head for a long time, and I thought I could be interesting to someone else. You have to start somewhere, right? For a long time, this girl and I existed on the sidelines, but now, approaching someone and talking to them in Polish had become a regular side quest for me.

The day came when my Ukrainian friend fell ill. I spent that day interacting with people only in Polish. And I felt a true release. At the end of classes, I told my classmates that they had seemed very cool to me from afar for a long time. And now I felt an emotional uplift because I was talking to them. They responded in kind.

The tower in which I sat crumbled every time I approached someone and said something: a compliment or some minor comment about the lessons. My class accepted me. I found those who truly shared my interests, and it was very, very pleasant. The most important thing turned out to be taking the first step forward.

"The school curriculum in Poland is quite competently structured."

In my opinion, the Polish language is a peculiar trap for other Slavs: words are similar, but the meaning is often opposite. Sometimes you hear a word a hundred times, and it seems to you that you definitely know its meaning. But if someone asks, I won't be able to translate it.

For a long time, I thought I understood everything, but in reality, that wasn't the case. I had to start speaking Polish almost immediately, otherwise, you wouldn't survive here. But much of what I said, people didn't understand or perceived somewhat distortedly. I only started speaking more or less fluently after long hours of continuous dialogue with my Polish friends.

Even now, I can't say that my Polish is perfect. I use a lot of calques, which reveal me as a foreigner. There were many awkward situations. For example, recently I was told that my favorite word "skhoze" (similar to Belarusian "схоже" meaning "similar" or "it seems") doesn't exist in Polish. I thought it meant something like "it seems," and I used it daily — and no one ever told me anything. Another funny thing I can recall is the word "чашка" (chashka), which in Polish means "skull." I think when I said I would drink something from a "skull," it sounded quite maniacal.

I like many of the quirks of the Polish language, but I constantly feel that I speak simply and don't use the language to its full extent. I also want to note that when speaking Polish, I become a different person; my conversational style changes radically. It's a strange side effect.

It's still easier to formulate thoughts in my native language. In Polish, I choose from a limited set of words, trying to speak simply about complex things. It comes out awkwardly; some nuances are almost always lost. Sometimes it's impossible to convey full information: some elusive, subtle part of the meaning disappears. But all of this doesn't stop me from trying again.

When I switch to one language or another, my thoughts already switch automatically. So, when I ponder topics related to school, my thoughts automatically jump to Polish.

Besides Polish, I also study English and German at school. However, this doesn't hinder learning Polish. German and English are difficult for Slavs on their own, but in Polish, there are still many words similar to Belarusian and Ukrainian. And Polish grammatical constructions seem more logical from our point of view.

In my opinion, the school curriculum in Poland is quite competently structured. Related topics across different subjects run in parallel, at least in the humanities. Figuratively speaking, if we study the history of literature in Polish language class, we will also cover events of the same era in history class, immediately gaining the necessary historical context.

I can also recall many interesting things like first aid or learning about business structures. I don't know if such things exist in Belarusian schools.

A slight dissonance arose for me because in the first year we studied the Middle Ages. Reading some texts in Old Polish, frankly, I didn't understand a single word. And I also had to memorize it. It's quite difficult to learn something that makes no sense to you.

"A boy shouted 'Sperdalaj na Ukrainie' (Go to Ukraine) - he was called to the principal, he doesn't do that anymore."

Do I feel a difference between myself and my Polish classmates?

They don't care about what's happening in Belarus, but I do.

We have very different cultural codes; we grew up with different cartoons; we had different childhoods. In this sense, our experiences are very different. But I met many cool local people in my technical school whom I like. And our differences do not hinder us at all from having good relationships and experiencing new joint learning experiences together.

Perhaps this will contrast with my previous answer, but there was one boy who shouted "Sperdalaj na Ukrainie" (Go to Ukraine) when I entered the classroom. We are in different classes, but sometimes we have joint lessons. The teaching staff found out about it. I and several other people were called to the principal, where we discussed the situation. Since then, he hasn't done it again. Except maybe behind my back.

Overall, there are such characters, but many adult Poles are ready to help in similar situations. I don't think my experience is unique in any way.

"It's clear that I won't return to the Belarus I remember. Because it no longer exists."

I feel Belarusian and nothing else. For me, being Belarusian is important.

In emigration, Belarusian culture has become something sacred to me. It's a peculiar cult: because there's so little Belarusian culture, and it's almost inaccessible, every person who speaks Belarusian and is part of our Belarusian community becomes valuable. My life is filled with Belarusian language, music, literature, traditions, and holidays.

Do I miss Belarus? I miss the thought "I'm home," the feeling that everyone here is my own. I miss the very idea of "I was born here." But I don't miss the country itself. I'm glad I'm not there. I want my country to be normal and civilized, with legal institutions that protect citizens. Emigration teaches you to love Belarus without being in it.

I don't follow the news from Belarus. I held onto contacts with Belarusian friends for a long time, but we lost touch. And I can't say I regret it.

I miss my grandmothers very much. I haven't seen one of them for five years. She is very ill and cannot come to us.

The Belarusian part of my life is always with me. In emigration, I learned more about Belarusian culture than ever before.

I had to go through many unpleasant things until I realized that I wouldn't return to the Belarus I remember. Because it no longer exists. I remember dreaming in Ukraine that I would definitely return by graduation. The Belarusian class I was in finished last year.

I think that all Belarusians in emigration are people with a complex and painful history. But all Belarusians I've met are something much more than our immigrant trauma. We can go through this, reflect on everything well, and move forward.

"No, I wouldn't want to return. But I very much want to visit my grandmothers for a day."

Now I perceive Poland not as a temporary place, but also not as home. It's something in between, a unique stage of life. But it's definitely not an endless waiting for return home. Just some alien atmosphere that doesn't allow one to fully relax.

At the same time, it seems to me that if I move somewhere else, I will have to face a feeling of emptiness. Because I have invested so much effort into learning the Polish language, it would simply be a shame to put this skill away in a long box, never to use it again.

Would I want to return to Belarus if the situation there changes and the country becomes safe for my family? No, I wouldn't want to. Safety is not the main value for me. I'm trying to come to terms with the idea that my happiness is not in the name of the piece of land I'm on.

But I would really like to visit my grandmothers. Even if just for a day.

To other Belarusian teenagers in emigration, I would advise not to close themselves off in their "shell." Stepping out of your comfort zone is very difficult, I know. But closing yourself off from everything foreign and new is not the way out.

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