I learned this world in English, and even when I speak my native language, I use English or have to think very hard to remember it in Russian. This shift occurred when I started a relationship with my American husband and finally trusted someone enough to allow myself to be vulnerable. Throughout my life, I had to conceal this natural human side
to avoid appearing weak and easy to hurt. In the oppressive system of Belarus, being vulnerable, honest, and open wasn't
an option for survival. Not being yourself and constantly being prepared to fight put me in a position where I lived with endless anxiety. The ability to be vulnerable without facing punishment
is a privilege.

Immigration takes away this privilege and makes you even more vulnerable at the same time.

All my life, I was trying to distance myself from the Soviet Union. This might seem too dramatic since it collapsed and died over 30 years ago, but for those from Belarus, it feels very much alive.
I was fortunate to grow up in the '90s, a brief moment of freedom before it regressed to the "good old times." I was lucky not to be influenced by the ideologies of the Soviet Union and Lukashenko's regime, deeply entrenched in the inherited totalitarian system. This is why I struggle to comprehend how anyone could support unfreedom, oppression, and injustice.
My rebellious teenage brain was spared from the patriotic ideas that influenced the elder generation, which appears more tolerant of state regulation in every aspect of someone's life.

Belarus is a living museum of the Soviet Union, characterized by a distinct visual presence: soulless concrete architecture that evokes a sense of misery, designed with the primary goal of enforcing obedience. Moving to Berlin retraumatized me. While some might assume that Berlin's architecture would evoke feelings of connection to home or nostalgia, I experienced the fear of being trapped in the Soviet Union again. It may seem superficial that the inhuman blocks and brutalistic buildings serve as reminders of not being free, but for someone with deep trauma, the pain persists.

The word "Ausländer" sounds like something from another planet, and it feels that way as well. I don't believe it is possible to explain what it is to be an "Ausländer" to those who have never experienced immigration in their life. The closest metaphor I can think of is "The Castle" by Franz Kafka.

The woman at the Ausländerbehörde refused to accept my papers. She seemed determined to find any possible reason to reject them and make me go away. She didn't care that there was no place for me to return to. I was fortunate to have a lawyer who recited paragraphs from the immigration law, through which my case should proceed. However, even his presence and knowledge didn't shield me from denial, humiliation, and an unbearable amount of stress. Those three hours in "The Castle" triggered all my fears dealing with the system in Belarus. I am no one, I deserve nothing, I am not a human being, and I don't have rights. In the end, he convinced her superior to make her take my case, and I obtained my residency permission. I also got a relapse of depression, with no will to live for the next six months.

Being homesick is my little secret. I don't allow myself to share this feeling, talk about it, or even think about it; it is forbidden. Memories of my home are bittersweet fragments. It's never a complete story with a clear beginning and end; instead, it's
a collection of random flashes that unexpectedly come to mind – like the light filtering through lace curtains in my grandparents' house, the smell of wet concrete, and thoughts of my mom.

Neuroscientists have discovered that traumatic memories, which can lead to PTSD, are stored differently in our brains than other memories. They lack a clear beginning and end, presenting themselves as fragments. I feel like my sweetest memories of home, family, and childhood – those beautiful, pure moments – are revived in my mind as a kind of trauma. I can't go back. I hide from them, burying my little secret deep inside. But sometimes, when I am alone, I allow myself to experience it, going through the sweetest pain and shedding tears because I am homesick.