Many of my close friends know that I am not a native German. However, very few know the story behind it. Even for me, who was there myself, it seems a little unreal. From faded childhood memories, I try to create a picture of my time in Ukraine. Of how my parents, Boris and Irina, gave up their livelihoods and left the country with me by their side.
It was a huge step, the full extent of which I only recently realized. If my parents had n't dared to take this step, I might have fallen victim to a senseless war as a soldier. Of course, no one could have predicted this, but that doesn't diminish my gratitude in the slightest.
I have vague memories of boring-looking VHS tapes. Labeled "немецкий язык" - German language. Difficult language, as I discovered. It wasn't of interest to me at the time, especially since I had enough problems with Russian. It wasn't until I suddenly found myself in a kindergarten and realized that I couldn't understand anyone that things got serious. But luckily I don't have enough memories of that for it to bother me today. I seem to have learned it somehow...
It is a strange feeling to grow up in a country whose culture you do not feel like you belong to. A strangeness that permeates school, work and leisure time. That gives you a reason to withdraw and stay among "your own kind". Hard to imagine for anyone who grew up where they were born and whose parents speak the same language as the teachers at school.