I was coming out of winter depression. I am 40 and I have spent 15 of those years living away from Russia, in Hungary. My children speak both languages, but we speak more Hungarian at home. Every year, we travel to Moscow, where my large Russian family lives: my parents, brother, three sisters with their children, husbands and pets. We especially love to visit in the winter—to wander through the deep snow, go skiing in the city park, and for me, to hug my old friends until the next time.
On the morning of February 24, I opened my Facebook feed.The first post I saw was a "nooo...!" from my friend. In my personal life as in the lives of my friends in Russia I got used to atrocities being a backdrop to life. Life went on however. But this was something that made hair stand on end: Russia had struck the territory of another state, civilians had died. I had a feeling of crossing a line from which there was no turning back. Ukraine was assaulted by those who claim authority, so to say on my name as well.
I felt personally betrayed.
I remember the nausea when I looked at that face. It didn’t turn away in shame but continued to stare with glassy eyes, the mouth spewing the usual lies. Not noticing me, us, the blood of the dead, anyone around.
The next day, I wrote "Russians against war" in large letters and went to a demonstration near the Russian embassy in Budapest. It was surrounded by three rows of fences. Ukrainian flags fluttered, and the Hungarian slogan „Ruszkik haza!” („Russians go home!”, an anti-Soviet slogan from the 1956 revolution), resounded. These chants didn’t resonate with me. I had no home to go to; I was home in Hungary.
The next day, I received a call from Greenpeace. They were organizing a peaceful demonstration in Budapest’s main square and were looking for a Russian to say a few words on it. Suddenly, I wanted them to find someone. I didn’t want to be voiceless again. I said I would ask my friends, and if they all refused, then I would do it.
It felt like it wasn't me. It's hard for me to write, but I wrote my speech in 20 minutes. I fear public speaking, but my voice didn't tremble. All those years away from Moscow, I suffered from not knowing where I truly belonged. But this Russian/Hungarian duality became important here and now: I was part of a large country that broke the taboo on war. And I was home in Hungary, where I had learned this difficult language and profoundly understood this small nation. I could tell Hungarians about Russians who were against the war.
With the start of the invasion, my Moscow family began their own wandering. Two of my sisters left for Georgia, and my brother went to Israel. Half of my friends abandoned their homes, schools, jobs and fled Russia. No bombs fell on them, no one shot at them, but silence was impossible, and speaking was too dangerous. My close ones went into exile.
Enormous numbers of Ukrainians were arriving at Budapest Central Station. They were heading west, but the trains were full, and exhausted and scared crowds filled the waiting rooms. I was going there, translating, showing people where they could get warm and get some food. Three times I brought Ukrainian families from the station to my home.
The first were an elderly couple. They were standing in the middle of the platform - a cat in a straw basket, leash with a little dog, and an enormous suitcase with a broken zipper. They were running from Kharkiv to dachia to wait out the shelling. When it became clear that returning was impossible, they headed toward the border. The cat's name was Semen, and the dog was Sonya. The names of Russian cartoon characters from my childhood.
Oksana was bringing Olga, a girl of 14 from Odessa to Germany, to the girl's father. The teenage girl had no mother, and her father had been working in Europe for a long time. The girl hardly made eye contact with anyone, absorbed in her phone, following her aunt obediently. She was about to reunite with her father, whom she had never lived with. What would that meeting be like ?…
Then there was Vika's family : Vika, her adult daughter Alena, and grandson Sasha. Alena’s husband was fighting against Russians. Vika’s house was in Sumy, she had domestic birds, and a large garden that she didn't have time to water. Vika turned 47 at my place, a young grandmother. We made a birthday cake, brought flowers. Her family had no one to go to. We were looking at the map of Europe, deciding where to buy tickets to: where social benefits were better, where less people had arrived…
These were some of the most important meetings in my life. In them, war was not an abstract horror anymore. It became physical, which appeared on the faces and bodies of my guests, and could appear through the words and through the silences in my kitchen. I brought in my family, prepared dinner, made beds, and accompanied these people on trains to go further. It was a healing ritual of touching the wounds.
I work as a project manager in private education. But how can one work when what is happening is happening? My entire Russian circle in Budapest joined in to help those fleeing, so did I. I started volunteering in Budapest middle school, which set up a playroom for Ukrainian children. When I saw a group, there were 10-15 kids from Ukraine and a couple of volunteers who didn’t speak the same language. I thought I could bring new forces here—teachers, volunteers, and gather donations. I could continue my project management in this environment.
I got involved. With my friends, I created a Facebook group, “Piarista /Budapest Against War”, and started telling about this playroom through it. The games with the children took the form of classes, and a schedule appeared. Teachers were sought from among the incoming people through social networks. We organized crowdfunding and raised the necessary amount in one day. Most of the donors were from Russia. By May, we were already teaching English and Hungarian to children and parents, sports, and even private violin lessons for Ukrainian children in the school building. In the summer 2022, we held a camp for 150 children from Ukraine with the support of UNICEF.
We are located at Piarista Gymnasium, a Catholic boys school with a long list of famous alumni. On graduation day the students dressed in strict suits carry the school flag through all the classes and sing the school hymn. In May 2022, their path passed through the room with Ukrainian kids. Kids watched in awe as solemn teenagers passed by. Gymnasium students saw those about whom some propaganda shouts "stop migration". These were children, just like them. One wants to believe that this meeting made the world a little more complex through their eyes.
I didn’t think much about what I was doing, why, and how long it would continue. I supported the work of the class, which became a point of stability for Ukrainian families in a situation of complete uncertainty. Many people, stories, and others' pain were passing through us. I wove a connecting fabric between Ukrainians, Hungarians, the Russian-speaking community in Budapest, and international NGOs that began to support us. I rolled up my sleeves and kept doing it.
I remember how difficult it was for me back in 2009 to get used to Hungary. I had to accept the destructive thought: this will be my new home. And to build a new home, you have to engrave the old one. I mourned for tall trees, Moscow grey weather, and the noise of the metro. It hurts. The tool I held onto to avoid despair was learning the language.
In our small team, there are Russians, Kazakhs, and Ukrainians. We speak Russian, but we are all learning how to live away from what we thought we were. We are a step ahead of our charges. We lead those who have decided that here, in Hungary, there will be a new home.
Natasha Pavlovski is a filmmaker from Russia living in Budapest, Hungary. She creates feature-length documentaries as a cinematographer and works in private education. Since March 2022, Natasha has been leading the project budapestagainstwar.com, which helps Ukrainian families who fled the war adapt to life in Hungary. The project helps parents learn Hungarian and supports children in joining the Hungarian school system.
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