Olesya Khromeychuk

My favourite place in the flat where I grew up was on a windowsill. It was also the favourite place of my cat. Together, we made ourselves warm and cosy there and watched the world go by. Our view was slightly restricted by the bars my dad had put on the window (ground floor flats being the primary targets for burglars). In spite of the bars, the view from our window in Lazneva Street, located in the heart of L’viv, was still pretty good: it opened onto a large square with a fountain that ‘danced’ to music and changing ‘disco’ lights. Across the road, also clearly visible from the window, was the Soviet hotel ‘L’viv’, built in the 1960s.

During my childhood, which coincided with the ‘childhood’ of my newly independent country, Ukraine, I could literally see history pass by our window: in the 1980s, I watched Victory Day parades moving past the hotel ‘L’viv’ on their way towards the famous fin-de-siècle Opera Theatre. My parents were not members of the Communist Party, so we didn’t have to attend those parades, although I sometimes envied the kids with colourful balloons who were walking alongside adults holding portraits of Soviet leaders and red flags. Even though it wasn't, it seemed like fun. In the 1990s, I got to join the marches, but they were of a different kind: the people who were passing the same hotel ‘L’viv’ on the way to the Opera Theatre were now waving blue-and-yellow flags. 

Years later, when I chose historical research as a profession and started to write, I suspected that seeing history pass by our window might have had something to do with my choice. Yet more influential, perhaps, was the desire to find out those bits of the past that I couldn’t see because they were no longer there and few wished to uncover them. My professional research examines some of the most contentious topics of East European history, including World War II collaboration and the gendered nature of militarisation and political violence. My theatre work focuses on the stories close to my heart: immigration, displacement, war. In my writing, I dig as deep as I can, exploring the impact of violent death, grief, and loss. I grew up in a building, city and region filled with untold stories. My desire to tell them fuels my search for the sort of storytelling that changes the writer and the reader one story at a time.  (Image: Jan Michalski © Wiktoria Bosc)