I Spent My Childhood Under Russia’s Bombs. The Wounds Last Forever.

It was a sunny Saturday afternoon in New York City, and people were outdoors walking their dogs, playing with their kids in Central Park, meeting friends for brunch. I was walking south, alone. I didn’t call anyone because I knew where most of my friends would be—protesting against Vladimir Putin’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine. Wandering the crowd in Times Square, I saw my friends Dasha and Sasha, whose families were still in Ukraine. We hugged. The crowd was chanting slogans while we silently cried. Then Dasha looked at me and said something that I wasn’t expecting to hear: “Sorry that… Read Full Article