Ukrainian and living out of a suitcase

On a flight from Udaipur to Bengaluru last month, I found myself seated next to a Ukrainian woman. Middle-aged, with striking hazel eyes, she was from the historic port city of Odesa. Life back home is rough, she spoke of the devastation left by the Russian armed forces.

. Russia launched a full-scale invasion of Ukraine in 2022, pounding its neighbour with missiles, drone attacks, and tanks. The war has killed over 12,300 Ukrainians to date. The conflict goes back to 2014, when Russia annexed Crimea, an action deemed illegal by the UN General Assembly. I had many questions for the woman, but the seatbelt sign lit up and we had to switch our phones to airplane mode. We had been chatting through Google Translate!

. My unfinished conversation got a second chance in the last week of March. Three Ukrainian artistes were passing through Bengaluru. They have been living outside their country since the war escalated. Short on time, Maria Halenina, her husband Ilya Buhrimov, and their friend Flora Trehubova joined me over a Zoom call. They leaned on each other’s English, or Google Translate, and smiled through Internet disruptions during the interview. Their optimism stood out. “We are safe. What’s there to complain about?” Maria said.

. I learned that their families insist they stay abroad — “it’s safer”. They are from Ukraine’s hardest-hit eastern region, which “looks bleak and scarred by bombings — like the moon”. And Russian President Vladimir Putin is still dragging his feet on a ceasefire.

.In Ukraine, war takes poisonous toll on soil, air and water. They travel where opportunities to perform music and learn dance take them, and where friends and strangers lend a hand, including Russians who oppose the war. In Bengaluru, performance artiste Archana Kumar hosted them at her parents’ home after seeing Maria’s post seeking accommodation. Next, in Puducherry, Maria’s Bharatanatyam teacher, Vithya Arasu, offered them her unfurnished dance studio to stay in, and they happily crashed on the floor. Right now they are in Thiruvananthapuram.

. How they escaped

. Maria was the first to be displaced. In 2014, the conflict broke out in Svitlodarsk, her hometown, and Luhansk, where she was studying contemporary choreography. To continue her education, she moved north to Kharkiv, the second-largest city in Ukraine. She remembers the bombings rattling the air when she visited home. “It was terrifying. Thank God I had already left. Very few people live there now, mostly the elderly, who don’t want to start a new life. My family has moved out,” the 27-year-old recalled.

. She took a deep breath, before speaking again about her town, which she said is now under Russian occupation. “It was so green. There were lakes. It was lovely to walk around. I used to watch my grandmother teach music at the local school. I try not to look at pictures of what it has become now. I hold on to the good memories.” Smiling faintly, she added, “If not for the war, I wouldn’t have met Ilya.”

. Ilya is from Kharkiv, a city full of parks, universities, pubs, art galleries, and museums. “It was like Cambridge in the UK. We had students from India, Pakistan, China, Africa, Europe, even Russia. There was so much religious freedom. I’ve attended rath yatras and Holi celebrations there,” he reminisced. Despite earning a diploma in art education, he chose a career in music. His home was always filled with jazz, folk, and rock, especially The Beatles, Linkin Park, Green Day, and Nirvana. “I was 15 or 16 when I saw a Russian rock band play in a pub basement. It blew my mind. I dyed my hair, wore cool merch, and when no one was home, I would sing, jump, and headbang as if I were on stage.”

. Today, Kharkiv is but a shadow of its former self. Located just 30 km south of the Russian border, it was an early target of the unprovoked offensive that began on February 24, 2022. “They damaged our parliament, churches, the airport, high-rises, even my pre-university school. They attacked our landmarks to erase our identity. The government has made some repairs, rebuilt a few walkways, but I am told it is not the same,” he said, absently stroking his beard.

. Ilya didn’t experience the war directly. By the end of 2021, he and Maria had relocated to Turkey, south of the Black Sea, to record an album. “February 23 is Defender of the Fatherland Day in Russia, a day to honour its armed forces. I always thought that if Russia were going to attack, it would be on that day. So, when February 23 passed quietly, I went to bed early, feeling relaxed. But at dawn, my friend called to say Russia had invaded our city from all sides. My city folk began sharing videos of the bombings in our main square. The next thing, power and communication lines went down.”

. Ilya’s father, “a cab driver with a hippie soul”, was conscripted into the Ukrainian army and died in action. After the call, Ilya sent photos of his father smiling in military gear and of a bravery award he had received, but apologised for “oversharing”. “Before he died, he asked me to bring peace through music. That’s my mission now,” said Ilya. He and Maria have a band of folk-rock and mystical songs, called All the Same.

. His mother still lives in Kharkiv, caring for her own mother. “Long before the war, my mother dreamed of repairing our house. She saved for years to make it happen. ‘No one can stop me, not even Putin’, she told me when I suggested she leave,” the 32-year-old said.

. Unlike Ilya, Flora witnessed the winter sky over Kharkiv shake with explosions and darken with smoke on February 24. Hours before the airstrike, she dreamt she was a soldier, hiding from someone. “‘The war has started. Let’s go to the ATM!’ My mother’s scream woke me up. By the time we got there, there were long lines outside the kiosks,” the 21-year-old recalled, her face weary from a headache.

.Chinese fighting in Ukraine-Russia war? Zelenskyy says 2 captured. As bombs landed closer to home, her family would drop to the floor and cover their heads or rush to the corridor to hide behind its thick walls. The blasts shattered windows and damaged the heating system, leaving their home colder. “After a week, we shifted to the basement of a hotel. We survived on military rations or sneaked into stores for food,” she said, then looked away from the screen to wipe a tear.

. A month later, as the sun set, Flora fled Ukraine with her grandmother. They were overwhelmed by the psychological toll. They took trains, crossed the border into Slovakia on foot, and then flew to Turkey to stay with Ilya and Maria, who Flora knew as a friend. It was Flora’s first time abroad, but, over the two-week escape, friends and supporters of Ukraine pitched in with shelter, food, and SIM cards. Her parents and sister did not join them. “Stores are half-empty, and the quality of produce has gone down. But my mother is too tired to fear what could happen next,” said the folk dancer.

Flora’s mother is a preschool teacher. Her classes have moved online to protect children and staff—some of her students now join from abroad, having fled the violence. At times, she holds lessons in the city’s underground subway, where makeshift classrooms have been set up to ensure education is not disrupted by the spectre of war. Maria’s mother works at a sewing factory, one of many trying to stay open despite the constant disruptions. Her father, a professor of combustion chemistry, relocated to central Ukraine after his university was evacuated. There, he trains students to become rescuers. Ilya’s mother is a real estate agent. Her work has been deeply affected — daily shelling has dismantled the city’s housing and commercial spaces.

. Refugee crisis

. Before 2022, Ukrainian nationals could easily secure residence in Turkey, the group told me. A residence visa allows foreign nationals to stay for extended periods, while a tourist visa permits short, leisure visits. But as the influx of Ukrainians, Russians, and people from neighbouring Belarus fleeing the war grew, Turkey tightened its visa regulations, they said.

. The shifting geopolitics drove them to leave Turkey by December 2022. They applied for the UK’s ‘Homes for Ukraine’ scheme, which allowed individuals, charities, and businesses to offer housing to refugees, while enabling them to work or study. In the UK, Flora resumed her university course in folk dance, which the war had interrupted — albeit online. “With the time difference, I had to wake up at 6.30 am or earlier for my classes,” she said. She also enrolled in an English-speaking course. Meanwhile, Maria taught yoga to her existing students from Ukraine, “more to support them mentally than for income”.

. The refugee crisis caught up again. With “too many migrants and too few normal jobs”, Ilya struggled. He landed cleaning jobs but quit soon — one was too far, the other had poor working conditions. Keen not to remain idle, he decided to leave the UK in a year. It was a “risk”, but Maria and Flora, “who’s now family”, didn’t mind. “What’s life without challenges?” Maria said.

. While the trio returned to Turkey, Flora’s grandmother stayed back, having found a loving host who treats her like her mother.

. Visa limitations

. Since then, they have lived in 10 countries on tourist visas, spanning Europe, India and Nepal. Visa timelines, career opportunities, and the kindness of strangers who open their doors are why they pack up and move every few months. “It’s not always easy. The last time I left Bengaluru, I almost cried. I was leaving its beautiful trees and people behind,” Ilya said. But each stopover has brought unexpected joys. They have surfed the famous waves of Portugal, experienced the traditional Nepali welcome with tilak and scarf, tried their hand at drawing kolam in Puducherry, and discovered the “savoury-sweet” chow chow bath and vada pav, “the Indian burger”, in Bengaluru.

. Their lives now fit into a few bags. Flora fled Kharkiv, packing her educational certificates, vaccination records, prescription medications, laptop, yoga mat, and a few clothes into her 70-litre hiking backpack. Some things have slipped away since. “At the Delhi airport, they took the hooks I use for making my dreadlocks. Baggage checks make me nervous,” she said.

. Ilya’s trolley bag holds more music gear than clothes: a speaker, microphones, a guitar, cables, and a laptop. “Maria’s got the big bags! She has to carry her Bharatanatyam costume, accessories, and rehearsal dresses,” her husband said, laughing.

. If not for the visa limitations, they would happily settle in south India. “Maria wants to perform her Bharatanatyam arangetram. Flora has just found a Mohiniyattam teacher in Kerala. We want to try and come back on a student visa,” Ilya said.

. Maria’s love for Bharatanatyam began at 12, after watching a live recital in Crimea, and later discovering a performance by Bengaluru’s Rukmini Vijayakumar online. She learnt mudras, bhavas, and adavus (basic dance moves) for 10 years through YouTube, before travelling to India to find a guru. It was Maria who introduced Flora to the classical dance of Kerala, Mohiniyattam. “I had thought India was only about Bollywood,” the latter admitted.

. Kinder world

. They don’t make much money, but they manage. “Maria earns steadily by teaching yoga, and Bharatanatyam (to beginners) online. Flora makes a little by teaching yoga, and I take up freelance work in video editing and sound mixing — all online. We earn through our concerts, and seasonally, from yoga retreats and music festivals. Supporters of our music also donate on platforms like Patreon,” explained Ilya.

. They seek out budget hostels and homes, but often the universe provides in the form of friendly barters and unconditional help. In exchange for lodging and food, they have performed concerts, conducted sound healing sessions, or cared for their hosts’ properties. They have got a standing invite to crash at a friend’s futuristic ‘bubble house’ in Belgium. When Ukraine’s banking system was disrupted by the war, a hotel owner in Turkey offered Ilya and Maria an apartment for a month at no cost. Russian guests at his hotel stepped up too, providing food, music equipment, and money. Later, in Portugal, with no concerts lined up and Ilya struggling with panic attacks, a kind family took them in and cared for them like parents.

. They have experienced solidarity from all quarters. In the UK, refugees from Afghanistan and Palestine would cast long glances at them, quietly acknowledging their shared struggle. In Belgium, a Syrian man paused on the street to hug Ilya, moved by him singing a song about a future free from war.

. Instances of hostility have been minimal, mostly involving “drunk Russians” mocking the Ukrainian language at hotels where the group performed. On one occasion, a Russian woman played their national anthem at a New Year’s party they were attending. It left Ilya so shaken that he locked himself in a bathroom. “How could I party to a Russian hymn? It would be like betraying my father, who died fighting for our country,” he said.

. Missing home

. In 10 days, the trio will fly to Turkey to do concerts and meet some of their family, and then return to Bengaluru for three months. Where they go next, who they meet, what awaits them, they don’t know.

. Some days, the harsh reality of being far from home catches up to them. On a previous trip to Bengaluru, Maria and Ilya were hospitalised for dengue. In those moments, they yearn for home-cooked food — from borscht (beet soup) to mlyntsi (thin pancakes), the guitars they left behind, the familiar scents of spring and autumn.

. Above all, they miss the freedom they enjoyed. “In your country, you have so many rights. You don’t have to pay a hefty fee to visit a botanical garden. You know how things work and get done. Currently, my freedom is tied to my passport. I carry it everywhere, even to the toilet,” Flora said.

Ukrainian and living out of a suitcase

Follow us on :

Follow Us