Igor Skolow

In my 62 years of life, there's a memory that weighs heavily on my heart, a story that reminds me of the complexities of life as a Russian writer living abroad.

It was a crisp autumn afternoon in my new city, and I found myself sitting alone in a quiet café, sipping on a cup of tea as I watched the world pass by outside. Despite the gentle hum of conversation around me, I felt a profound sense of loneliness, a longing for the familiarity of my homeland.

As I sat lost in my thoughts, a young couple caught my eye. They were sitting at a nearby table, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight as they laughed and joked with one another. They seemed so carefree, so full of life, and yet beneath their smiles, I sensed a deeper sadness lurking.

Curiosity piqued, I couldn't help but eavesdrop on their conversation. It didn't take long for me to realize that they were fellow Russian expatriates, struggling to make ends meet in a foreign land that offered little solace or support.

Their words painted a picture of hardship and despair, of dreams deferred and opportunities lost. They spoke of the longing they felt for their homeland, the sense of displacement that weighed heavily on their hearts.

As I listened, my own sense of longing intensified, a deep ache for the country I had been forced to leave behind. For me, returning home was not an option, the political climate too volatile, the risks too great.

And so, I sat in silence, a silent witness to the struggles of my fellow expatriates, my heart heavy with the weight of their collective sorrow. In that moment, I realized that no matter where life may take me, Russia would always hold a piece of my soul, a part of me that longed to return to the land that shaped me into the writer I am today.