How important it is, to see the light outside. Even during blackouts, car headlights pass swiftly by, and power generators work… I’d go over to my eighth floor kitchen window, press my knees against the heater, feel its warmth, and watch the world outside. Even without electricity, I’d see the landscape of Life. I know what a truly blacked-out city looks like because Mariupol was that way when I left it in March 2022. 

And this happened to me in those winter days of 2023 when Kyiv was going through electricity, heating, and water outages. We’d shuffle through our homes with flashlights and knit warm socks and clothes for those who felt far more exhausted and cold. We believed in Ukraine. Could anyone defeat such a country? 

That was the moment of epiphany. I thought, who do they think they are, these enemies of ours, to bully me into abandoning my favourite craft? So I bought some fancy cardboard and collected the necessary specimens for my herbarium… However, my new bookmarks were unusual this time, each marking a memory. As if I were a book, and they marked the pages of my life, bitter and happy alike; the pages I wanted to share.

All along Prospekt Peremohy (Victory Avenue) in Mariupol, apple trees used to blossom a fantastic reddish-pink each spring. How beautiful their blossoms looked after resting in a flower press! I searched in vain for similar trees in Zaporizhzhia and Kyiv, so I had to comfort myself with cherry and sakura blossom which is quite a good substitute for apple.    

“And the chestnut trees are in blossom again…” Like dancers gathered in a circle at a wake for Ukraine’s, each carrying a candle.

 And here’s my favourite sweet clover – like the one in the meadow by the sea where I loved to stroll. It’s so unassuming that no one seems to notice its delicate coumarin scent, calming and healing. I embroider the bookmark and sense it. This one is for the books left at home forever – the ones we used to take from the shelves frequently to re-read. The books that smell of sweet clover and the peace of reading.

Home. A brief word, a tiny spark. Do you feel it? When whispered, it feels cozy and warm. Or one could also moan or draw it out in pain “Hooooome.”

On the old wall clock, time has stopped. The weights hang too heavy; they need a push to restart the fight.

When leaving their home, a person takes their keys. And so many people from my city are still carrying the keys to their homes with them. I desperately want those keys to become magical: to have the power to lock our homes against the enemy, and return us to our old happy lives.

Just like this one, my childhood teddy bear sported just one ear, blue trousers, and a striped shirt. Mybear, who is the same age as me, was left behind at home. My destroyed home. But I’m sure my bear is alright and I can’t wait to see it. We will once again share a room with sun-bright orange curtains.  

So many instruments were silenced by the war. They were shot up, burned, left behind by their owners fleeing death. And still, these instruments are remembered and missed, and their owners believe that one day they will sing a new melody together. Like this poplar leaf, my guitar was blown through by the Azov sea wind. In my memory, everything merges together.

Household pets have endured so much: the terror of explosions, evacuation and displacement… For us, those animals are more important now; they’re vital. Before, I wondered how people could love dogs or cats more than people. But now, after seeing what humans are capable of, I understand.

This is the siskin, my favourite bird. The siskin featured in the happiest pages of my life. I released it where the pines grew near the Philarmonic Hall, pine cones being its favourite food. With all my heart I hope my siskin is alive and well. Yet, siskins are so small and rockets and shell debris are so huge.

And this is Honda, a heroic goat that still gives milk after all the bombs and suffering. She only gives milk to good people, though. She decides who’s worthy and who isn’t. Honda will get a medal of honour when the city is liberated.

This is a real piece of Mariupol. Leaves from the shore of the Azov Sea – washed by its water, pierced by its wind, and weathered to this lacy condition. It was a miracle that Yana Sasina saved these leaves after our walk, and they turned up during her move to Kyiv. It’s as if I’m looking through them at my city – the memories are vivid, painful, and imprinted with embroidery. Through and through, forever.

Perhaps this is how one cherishes love as an eternal anchor in the heart.

When you love, when you grieve, even the jellyfish of the Azov Sea become a beautiful, warm, transparent memory.

In that last happy pre-war summer, Mariupol was literally overrun by hordes of ladybugs. Everywhere –  on the seashore, in the city, on pavements, in front gardens. It was probably a warning, which no one believed.

Behind my house in Mariupol, they laid an asphalt path, very convenient for walking. After the rain, lots of snails would crawl out on it, also to take a walk. My task was to save them. I carefully returned them to the grass.

There are so many troubles in my country, so many people have been killed, so many houses destroyed… And also the gardens of our lives. That is, the favourite things that we created, that we grew. We were able to take our pets with us. But how could we bring the gardens of our creativity along, to save them? 

In July, my beloved city is all about apricots. Endless orange suns on the branches and cheerful blobs on the sidewalks.

You just take a bowl and pick apricots behind your apartment building to make a fragrant, delicious compote.

I’d been told that in Mariupol, starlings mimic the sounds of shelling. I did not believe it. Then, in Zaporizhzhia, I heard it myself. It’s spring again. And starlings are spreading these eerie songs all over our beloved Ukraine. But we will definitely sing the song of victory, which will be picked up by starlings too.

Fly, our birds, playing with the native colours of clear sky and bright sun! Bring news of our beloved yellow-and-blue country.

My first experience creating bookmarks was with children at the boarding school where I worked. It seems like a long time ago… We put on an exhibition in the library. Of course, I never imagined that creating bookmarks would become my cure, my inspiration, my pain and joy. My memory and hope. My weapon.

Both the library and the building itself are gone. Worst of all, Vika, Nastia, Romka are no longer alive… These are children, graduates of the boarding school, whose fate I know. They were so accomplished and talented. 

These bookmarks are also from the bitterest pages of the book of my life. The eternal memory of those who perished in my city, my country.