“I hear your anger, your dreams, and your hope”: a letter to a peer under occupation from a 10th grader from the Kherson region

Between June 11th and September 1st, 2024, the Almendra Civic Education Center, backed by the Ministry of Education and Science, hosted the nationwide “I Hear You: a Letter to a Peer in Occupation” contest, attracting 241 young participants across Ukraine.

ZMINA publishes this letter from a competition participant, a 10th-grade student of Kherson Physical and Technical Lyceum, who took third place.

Hello, my friend!

You know, I cannot help the feeling that I am listening for something. As if I was trying to hear you through distance and time. And it seems that sometimes I really hear you.

I hear you sigh when you wake up in the morning and forget for a moment where you are and what is happening around you. And then reality hits you, and you take a deep breath getting ready for a new day. 

I hear your footsteps – careful and balanced. I imagine how you walk down the streets of our city, so familiar and at the same time so foreign now. Maybe you walk past our old school or our favorite coffee shop. I wonder if they are still standing.

Sometimes I think that I hear your laugh. Remember how we used to laugh to tears at stupid jokes? That infectious laugh of yours that was irresistible. I cherish these memories as my greatest treasure.

I hear your silence. That tense silence when you hold back words and swallow your emotions. I know how hard it is to remain silent when you want to scream. But I hear even the things that you do not say.

Sometimes it seems that I hear your voice in the crowd. I turn around, but of course, that is not you. However, for a moment, my heart freezes with hope.

I hear how you are trying to stay strong. How you force yourself to wake up every morning, to go forward, not to give up. Your fortitude is something incredible.

Sometimes I hear your anger – hollow, suppressed, but so righteous. This anger is like a bridge between us, it unites us despite everything.

I also hear your dreams. The ones we talked about at night, sitting on the roof and looking at the stars. They did not disappear anywhere, my friend. They are waiting for their time to come.

I hear your questions – the ones to which there are no answers. Why did this happen to us? When will it all end? What will happen next? I also ask myself these questions every day.

Sometimes I hear your sadness. It comes in waves, I know. And I want you to know – I am sad together with you. Sad about our past, the lost time, and everything that could happen.

I hear your hope. Quiet, careful, but alive. It is like a delicate flower that breaks through the asphalt. Cherish it, my friend.
You know, sometimes I even hear your night dreams. I imagine how you dream of the sea, or the forest, or just the free sky above your head. I hope these dreams give you strength.

I hear how your heart beats – strongly, confidently, against all odds. It reminds me that you are alive, that you are fighting, that you have not given up.

And I want you to hear me, too. Hear how much I believe in you. How proud I am of your courage. How I look forward to meeting you.

Because I heard, unwittingly. I heard you during warm June evenings, when I was in Kherson under the occupation. I heard the footsteps of patrols on the streets, I heard the rumble of machinery at night, I heard fear in neighbors’ voices. But you know what was the loudest thing I heard? I heard support. I heard how people from the free Ukraine send hope to us through radio waves, through messages, through songs. I heard their faith in us, and that gave me strength to hold on. I am free now, but a part of me is still there with you. Now it is my turn to become the voice of hope that once supported me.

One day we will hear each other again in reality. But meanwhile, I hear you with my heart. And I know that you can hear me, too.

Hang in there, my friend. I always hear you.