Illya Lyashenko
Today, like every other day, I opened my bookshop in Kiev, Ukraine, just as the morning light crept into the city. The air was crisp, and the sound of early traffic filled the silence left by the night. As I unlocked the door and turned the sign to "open," I noticed a small crowd already waiting outside—eager customers, perhaps longing for a new story to transport them, if only for a little while.
The shop is modest but full of life. I fill the shelves with children's books, cookbooks, non-fiction, and novels. On display, I have a copy of “Moscoviada” by Yuri Andrukhovich, a novel that's become almost a symbol in these times. Thirty years ago, it spoke of the fall of the Soviet Union and our longing for independence. Today, it serves as a stark reminder that history never stays buried for long.
I'm 48, old enough to remember those early days of freedom and young enough to fight for it, if only I could. My duty lies elsewhere. My parents are aging and frail; they need me, and so I stay. It was hard to explain to my friends when they went off to fight. Some understood, others didn’t. And then there are those who never returned, whose absence weighs heavily on all of us. I can't forget them, even if I wanted to. They are there in every quiet moment, every siren that blares across the sky, every flicker of light when the power returns.
Even amid this deceptive normality, life presses on. People stroll down the boulevard, laughing, chatting, pretending that everything is alright. They come into my shop, searching for an escape. I watch them pick up a book, leaf through its pages, and smile. It gives me hope, this small act of defiance against the fear that lingers in every shadow.
Some days, the tension is almost unbearable. We all feel it—the anxiety that at any moment, the city could erupt in chaos. Yet, here we are. I sell books to strangers, knowing that each story, each word, is a tiny beacon of light in the darkness. I am grateful for that, for this place, for the brief moments of peace my shop can offer. It’s not much, but it’s something. And in times like these, something is everything.