Our last half year in Ukraine sank into darkness and uncertainty. The electricity went out every day. Or rather, the electricity sometimes came on. And with electricity came water, heat, internet, mobile service. It reminded me of my childhood, when water ran for an hour in the morning and an hour in the evening. Back then we filled the bathtub so we could manage. I bathed after my brother, because he was younger, and so it was probably assumed he ought to be cleaner. There was a line for the bath: my brother, me, my father, my mother, my grandfather and my grandmother. Baba Ahafiia went last.
In 2022, when the war began, with the power outages, there was no line for the bath anymore — only my wife and me. But there were sirens, and bombs that struck off victims of blind chance each day. Modern sirens require electricity, so when there was no power — which was most of the time — old Soviet-era trucks with mechanical sirens drove through the streets. A man stood in the back of the truck, turning a huge crank, and the siren howled with its mechanical wail. It felt as if great whales of war were swimming through the empty dark streets, scraping their bellies against cobblestones and dirty snow.
At the time we were living in Lviv, in western Ukraine. Even there the war brought daily power outages and constant uncertainty. I knew that even if we failed to cross the border and escape from there, I would have to get rid of everything I owned — my collection of vintage cars, my guitars and all my studio equipment, all my jackets and ties, my entire library. All those things slowly melted away and disappeared from my house as the spring of 2023 approached. What remained were a few boxes, my paintings, some personal memories, notebooks, family photographs, dried leaves from Spain pressed between the pages of little poetry books. Those I could not part with, so I left them in the attic of a friend.
We were traveling to the border by train; civilian planes do not fly over Ukraine now because of the war. A burly soldier, stern and slow like a thundercloud, silently took my documents and disappeared toward the end of the train. He took my passport and everything that could confirm who I was, and vanished without a word. Perhaps we’re not going anywhere after all, I thought.
When he finally returned a quarter of an hour later, he simply handed everything back to me in silence and moved on. He stepped off the train at the next stop, just before we crossed that invisible curtain between Ukraine and the world.
From empty to inviting
Half a year earlier, at the suggestion of my publisher in New York, I had applied for a residency at City of Asylum Pittsburgh. When they accepted me, we decided to leave Ukraine, even though we still did not know whether we would receive U.S. visas. There was no way to apply for them inside Ukraine anymore, so we crossed the border into the unknown. For a time, Poland became a kind of Catholic limbo for us, and after a week or two we finally arrived in Pittsburgh.
It was the beginning of a new life. It was the beginning of spring. Compared to bustling Lviv, the streets were empty, the buses empty, the stores empty. We felt as if no one lived in this city, as if it had been abandoned. Ducks glided solemnly across the surface of the pond. George Washington sat silent and motionless on his horse in the middle of a walkway through the Allegheny Commons Park on the city’s North Side. A basketball court sat empty except for a ball left there perhaps since last autumn. A huge pink neon sign with the word “Garden” buzzed in our faces, insisting that your limbo, boy and girl, is already behind you — and that this garden may yet be paradise.
Only a wild spring wind tossed our hair, as if shouting at us: What are you doing here?
Our native city, Lviv, has roughly the same area as Pittsburgh, but even during peace time it had about 750,000 residents. Then, when the war began, refugees from the eastern regions filled the city until it seemed ready to burst. So here, in Pittsburgh, at first we could hardly notice any signs of everyday life.
Historically, this city began as a stop for the night, a transfer point for travelers moving from New York to Chicago. For some, the city never really intended to keep you. It tried not to become attached to you. But slowly we began to realize that the city had changed in our minds. We arrived here expecting only a short stop in a safe harbor. Instead we fell in love with these yellow bridges, these flowing rivers and the sharp spires of churches. And we did not want to leave.
Space to breathe and create
Then we learned that Pittsburgh is home to one of the largest Ukrainian diasporas, and many residents of this city have Ukrainian roots dating back 150 years. Most came from what is now western Ukraine, from Halychyna or Galicia. They arrived by ship from Europe through Ellis Island with their suitcases and bundles, their trunks and icons. They moved inland across the continent, and night would find them in Pittsburgh. Ukrainians built this city. They filled its sky with thick factory smoke. They laid brick upon brick and raised children with the hope of putting down roots in a foreign land.
Yes, they tried to assimilate in every possible way. Just last week we met a woman at the checkout in Costco who told us her grandmother had come from Galicia. I asked if she knew from which town exactly. She said her grandmother had never told them. The woman does not know the Ukrainian language. Her grandmother made great efforts so that her children and grandchildren would not feel like strangers far from their homeland.
We have now lived in Pittsburgh for three years. Our son George, 2 ½, was born here. At home we speak only Ukrainian. We are not teaching him English, because he will learn English later anyway. Of course he feels confused when people on the street speak to him, or when guests come to our home and talk to him in English. But if we stop speaking Ukrainian with him, he will never know our language — and therefore our culture, our roots. It is hard to exist if you come from nowhere.
This is what Ukrainian emigrants after the Second World War often did. Back then people were fleeing not only the aftermath of the war, but also the return of Soviet rule — the so-called “liberators.” Among them were many members of the intelligentsia: professors, lawyers, scholars, and of course poets. Many forbade their children from befriending other children who spoke different languages — even from speaking with them. A friend of mine who grew up in such a family once told me that when he arrived in the first grade of an ordinary English-language school, he did not understand a single word around him. Those first six months were torture for him. But now his own children speak Ukrainian fluently. Or rather Galician — because in western Ukraine there used to be a slightly different language, similar to Ukrainian. Now it has almost entirely been erased from memory, but it lives on in at least a few of the children of Pittsburgh.
Soon after we arrived here, Pittsburgh slowly began to trust us. The city began to let us inside. We started meeting wonderful and kind people. Life here moves slowly, and people pay more attention to you than in larger cities; they look you in the eye and ask how you are doing. The city invited us to become part of its family.
Then we discovered how powerful the underground culture here is — theaters, music initiatives, art galleries. At a time when other large American cities are making the artistic life impossible because of ever-rising costs, Pittsburgh receives refugees from capitalism and gives them space to breathe and create. Sometimes I even feel like saying: Don’t tell anyone about Pittsburgh because they will come here, too. They will come with their developers, with their business hubs, with their armies of obedient functionaries.
People have forgotten how important culture is — how important it is to give artists the possibility to create, the possibility to make mistakes, the possibility to think. Artists create culture, and culture turns animals into human beings. That is the recipe for our lives.
That is why Pittsburgh is an incredible jewel of this vast country. A place that once served as a refuge for travelers has become a refuge for culture. This city has a great heart, and everyone should listen to its beating.
Just don’t tell anyone about it.
Oleksandr Frazé-Frazénko is a Ukrainian writer, filmmaker and musician whose books, films and musical projects have been presented internationally. He lives in Pittsburgh as a writer in residence at City of Asylum. Readers can contact him at www.frazefrazenko.com.
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