It will be three years in a week since I’ve been living in London.
Three years of speaking English more than my native language.
And sometimes I feel a strong sadness that I can’t show and explain to my English-speaking friends, to my loved one, the full depth of my native language.
The full depth of the songs I grew up with.
The ones that played from my grandfather’s garage on a small radio where you always had to adjust the antenna to catch a good signal.
The ones that played from the second floor of my uncle’s house while he was building something in the yard in the summer, and my mum and grandmother were planting something in the garden.
And I, little, was running barefoot, humming those songs, having no idea back then how much they would come to mean to me, eating gooseberries and raspberries straight from the bush.
I so strongly wish, even just for a second, to have the chance to share those moments and show how much those songs are about me, about us, about my culture, about my identity, about what shaped me.
I truly love every stone in London and consider it my home, but I will always be Sasha Borzykh from Uzlovaya Street, from the city of Donetsk, who even in the English language manages to speak with a Donetsk accent ⚒️
such a good day surrounded by insanely talented, kind, open people who genuinely love what they do
feeling very grateful for new connections and this creative energy
👾
