ы

Some things, like the russian letter ы, are only themselves 

when they are being torn across the middle. 

ы is the pitch of a soccer ball flying and hitting a little boy 

right in the abdomen. ы is the crumpling of his freckles as 

he squints, doubled over, head to his knees. 

(that was 1990, in the warm dvor, full of laughter and friends

alive with waving curtains and grandmas in windows,

calling that it’s time to go eat – there was always tomorrow) 

ы is the dense gray smoke, stain, saint, staining the snow

the graze of callused hand against callused concrete

the glaze of light blue cigarette eyes squinting at the sun

(that was 1993, on the last days of winter, waiting for the garden ring bus 

where it smells like spring and dedushka’s favorite coat, he leaned down

to pick up his fallen cigar but always ended up lifting you instead) 

ы is the daldykan river which, one day in 2016, turned blood-red

for no apparent reason at all.

(...)

ы is the old stray cat and the hand that feeds it,

the raw wet earth and the warm brown apartments,

the biting snow and the sun glittering off it, 

ы is both me and the things i am not

the thing being torn down the middle.

Authors note:

Although my family was lucky to be safe and sound when Russia invaded Ukraine on February 24th, 2022, the shock, pain, and humiliation of the conflict tore apart our life as we knew it. My mom and her family were born in Ukraine, but both her and my dad grew up in Russia, and that background has always been an important part of my life and identity. We were all horrified to watch the war unfold from afar – I still remember the silence that hung over our home after the news first dropped – but being of Russian-Ukrainian descent, I also felt it unraveling something inside of me. It felt as if my very roots had been upended, destroying something that had been foundational to who I was for as long as I could remember. As the conflict progressed, so did my doubts about what my heritage meant to me; I couldn’t embrace it quite the same way anymore, but I could never turn away either. This piece is about that internal struggle and divide, with the two-piece Russian letter “ы” symbolizing that internal divide. It represents my struggle to reconcile the cherished memories and love that my family has for our roots with the suffering and pain we feel now, and to understand how, if at all, to keep identifying with something that will never feel quite whole again.

edited & published by Gayatri Noor Choudhury