“BUT WHYYYY?!?”, I wailed, clawing at my father’s jacket like a sticky, snotty gremlin. Tears of confusion and rage were pouring down my face as my mother tried her best to contain my furious little body in her arms. Of course, I wasn’t thinking about her last opportunity to say goodbye. My father and brother were standing by the front door, suitcases in hand, about to leave with no promise of ever returning, and my tiny, 4-year old world was falling apart.
This is the first memory that comes to mind when I think about leaving Belarus, although when I think back, I know it wasn’t the first clue I had that something strange was about to happen.
Rural Home
We had recently sold our farmhouse, where I had spent countless happy afternoons running around with my best friend and personal bodyguard, a St. Bernard mix called “Boy”. He would take on the role of babysitter while my parents worked from sunrise to sunset, milking cows, sowing crops, harvesting, tending, feeding, buying, selling. We had moved to the countryside to escape the political, financial and social instability that followed the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991. Before that, my parents had been ordinary, unremarkable professionals; an accountant and a police detective.
But even this rural hideout was no match for the economic misery of the post-Soviet 90s, and by 1997 my parents had made the decision to leave for Ireland. Many other possible destinations had been scouted out beforehand, including the most easterly tip of the vast expanse of Russia; the Kamchatka Peninsula. Luckily for us, that plan fell through at the last minute. It seemed to them that Ireland would be the best option for their children, 4 and 13, who they hoped would grow up in a society of stability, tolerance and equal opportunity. And so the farmhouse that my father had built himself, along with its loyal guard dog, Boy, was sold.
Planning to Leave
Living back in the city, the atmosphere at home was wrought with tension. Unbeknownst to me, furious planning was taking place, numbers were being crunched, and hushed arguments were playing out behind closed doors. My parents were scared, and as much as they tried to hide it, the stress affected us all. I remember one discussion breaking out into a loud argument in our living room, causing me to waddle over in outrage and sit firmly on my father’s foot, banging my plastic telephone repeatedly against his shin. “Boys shouldn’t yell at girls”, I told him. He acknowledged that I was right.
The next few months flew by in a blur, interrupted only by the unexpected death of my beloved grandmother, at which point arguments had to be pushed aside and the concept of “death” had to be explained repeatedly to a child whose go-to word at the time was “why?”. Excluding Boy, she was the first person to ever leave me without an explanation, and before I knew it, it was happening all over again.
My father and brother shifted uncomfortably in the hallway, trying to keep the situation as calm and casual as possible, despite the fizzy goblin threatening to bring the entire building down with her screams. Somebody in the group had made the unforgivable mistake of confirming that they were not, in fact, coming back, and I’m pretty sure they instantly regretted it. “WELL I WANT TO COME TOO”, was my next demand. The utter betrayal of my brother being the one my father was bringing with him would take a long time to heal. But I think given the opportunity, my brother would have gladly traded places.
The door closed and tears fell. I ran to the window in disbelief while my mother said nothing. There wasn’t anything left to say. The wheels of emigration had been set in motion, and all we could do was wait. Wait, wait, wait for news from the other side. Thankfully, it wasn’t long before it came.
Saying Goodbye
Outrage again, as unfamiliar faces turned up at our apartment, looked around, and left with whatever piece of furniture they fancied. I tugged indignantly on my mother’s dress and reminded her not to let anyone touch the living room cupboard, which is where I had hidden my fortune. She sighed and reassured me, for the thousandth time, that my “fortune” was safe and that nobody was in the least bit interested in stealing 200 Belorussian rubles (less than €1), especially not in singles. I disagreed and guarded the area rabidly for the rest of the day.
All the furniture that was not taken that day was left outside by the curb, should any neighbours need it. Bags were packed; a suitcase for my mother, and a small, cloth teddy bear backpack for me, containing nothing but underpants, socks and vests. Tragically, and in spite of my obsession with keeping it safe, the “fortune” was forgotten and left behind.
The first snow of the year had already fallen, turning the walk from the train station to my uncle’s apartment into a waist-deep, freezing cold obstacle course. I think my mother, only her torso visible above the sparkling, fluffy waves as she swung the suitcase forward like an Olympic shot-putter, took it as a sign of struggles to come. Meanwhile, I blissfully wrestled my way through the snowy hills, excited by the challenge.
Thankfully, this adventurous attitude would stay with me for the remainder of the journey, and it helped me to remain completely oblivious to the gravity of the situation. I didn’t really understand why my cousin was crying, and the glum atmosphere at my uncle’s place was a complete mystery. There is a actually a photograph of us all that day, everyone’s mouths turned downwards in an almost exaggerated frown as I sat front and center with a big smile on my face, the teddy bear backpack still on my back. I don’t think I took it off all day.
The Journey through Uncharted Territory
The bus journey from Belarus to Germany took what felt like years. Save for a few drop-off stops, it rumbled uncontested towards its destination for days and days. Some people were looking forward to a holiday, some were visiting relatives, some were returning home. I didn’t really know what we were doing, but one look at my mother’s face told me not to ask. Speaking to her about it now, she says she’s never been more grateful for anything as she was for my silence during that journey. Had I decided to complain, fidget, or ask any more questions, she probably would have fallen apart.
Crossing over to Britain posed the first real risk, and we spent considerable time preparing ourselves both mentally and physically. Cash was counted, divided, and hidden deep within the folds of my winter coat. Explicit instructions not to wander away, speak to strangers, or allow anyone to remove any items of my clothing were repeated over and over again until I became slightly paranoid. It felt good to finally take a tiny bit of responsibility away from my mother, and I vowed to protect that coat with my life, as if keeping it safe would make everything OK again.
London
As soon as we arrived in London, I felt my first real pang of disappointment. Before I left kindergarten for the last time, I had excitedly told everyone about how I was leaving to go to London, and about the red double-decker buses, and about the lovely queen who, surely, was very proud of her buses and spent her days riding round and round the city on top of one.
I think I expected to step out onto the street and be greeted by a royal wave from the top deck of a red bus as it glided past us majestically, like a flying, mechanical unicorn. Instead, there was nothing but rain and noise. When you don’t understand the language, everything is noise. And not the reassuring white noise kind of noise, but rather an inescapable cloud of chatter that seems to follow you around no matter where you go.
My mother’s basic grasp of English was not enough to navigate the bustling, metropolitan landscape of inner city London, and every task began to look like an insurmountable challenge. A phone card had to be bought in order to call my father in Ireland to let him know we were OK. A shop had to be found, questions had to be asked, money paid, instructions read and understood. Simple things like that can take hours, and the building anxiety takes its toll.
After hours of thirst and being too worried about pushing my mother over the edge to mention it, I asked for apple juice and we queued up at a nearby cafe. Having reached the counter and greeted the cashier, she became more and more agitated before bursting into tears. We left with the juice, but, looking at her face, I was horrified. The day had been a difficult one, and the challenge of trying to be understood at a busy cafe in a foreign language was the straw that broke the camel’s back. A phone card is one thing, but when you struggle to even feed your own child it just tears you down completely. I felt entirely helpless at that moment, and looking around at the faceless, foreign crowd just confirmed the fact that there was no one to turn to for help. We were on our own.
Good Samaritans
Evening was falling and we were drained, lonely and upset. The kind of feeling that makes you want to just go home and curl up on the couch, except we were thousands of kilometers away from anywhere that could possibly be called “home” and this was no time for self-pity.
My mother still had tears running down her face as she walked down the street, suitcase in one hand, small mitten in the other. The teddy bear backpack was soaked through at this point, but nothing could be done about that. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had given up.
Suddenly, a shadow appeared in our path. A group of young men, mid-twenties, had approached and one said something indiscernible that sounded like a question. My mother waved him away tiredly, not knowing what to say, not caring either. But he pressed on, speaking slowly and gesturing towards the taxi rank. My mother blinked at him several times before handing him a piece of paper with an address that she had gotten God-only-knows-where. He said something to his friends, picked up her suitcase and motioned for us to follow him to a cab. Speaking to the driver, he showed him the paper and placed the suitcase in the boot of the car before addressing my mother again. I don’t know what he said, but it didn’t matter. We understood. The taxi took us to a house, the fare had already been paid.
A woman answered the door, looked us up and down, and invited us in. She wasn’t overly friendly but neither were we. It was a cautious interaction, made all the more uncomfortable by the fact that we were in her home. I asked my mother where we were. She said the woman was letting us stay the night and we should be very thankful. I asked her who she was. She said she didn’t know.
I guess at some point I was asked if I was hungry and, not understanding the question, I probably agreed. A hot, round, flat object was placed in front of me at the kitchen table and I resisted the urge to run back to the bedroom and hide. It was a pizza, but I had never seen one before. It smelled terrible and burned my fingers, so I waited until it was cold and then it tasted even worse. The woman sat opposite me as I ate, not wanting to leave me alone in the kitchen. I was torn between taking another bite and risking getting sick from a combination of nerves and flavour, and politely trying to explain that I was actually no longer hungry and it had all been one big misunderstanding.
Ever the optimist, I chose the latter. Not really understanding the concept of different languages, I decided that people in England were just very bad at Russian. So, to remedy this, I patiently and painstakingly explained the situation verrrrryyyy slooowwwwllyyy and very simply, assisted by crude hand gestures. I think she got the idea, and I felt guilty as I slunk off back to our room. My mother was not impressed, but I insisted that I technically could not have eaten it, as it was not food.
Ferries, Storms and Christmas Day
Our spirits rejuvenated by the sudden, unexpected kindness of complete strangers, we set off on the last leg of our journey. At this point, it felt like we had been on the road for months, and I was reminded that I was now 5, since my birthday had somehow still occurred in spite of all the chaos. I didn’t know when that had happened, but I was proud to be 5. When I saw my dad again, I would let him know.
We took a ferry from England to Belfast. Our voyage coincided with a massive storm that rocked the ship and everything inside it. It was my first time on a boat and I was absolutely ecstatic. Completely oblivious, once again, to any possible downsides to the situation, I giggled as passengers (and their belongings) slid around the room like chess pieces. We were closer than ever to our destination and the excitement was starting to show. Even my mother managed to crack a smile.
We arrived in Belfast safely enough and found a hotel. More phone calls were made, and promises exchanged. It was fun being able to finally breathe enough to get excited, and to allow ourselves to make plans. Daddy lives by the ocean, I was told. It had been months since we’d seen each other. I’d never seen the ocean.
We slept that night in one of the most comfortable beds I had ever lain in, and it was the first time in a long time that no one cried. When we awoke the next morning, there was some confusion about a tray of breakfast that was sitting outside our door.
We hadn’t paid for any, my mother said.
“It’s Christmas morning!”, came the reply. “Welcome to Ireland.”
(Read Part Two here.)
