Melitopol’s famous cherries

The WhatsApp chat Destination: Solihull was created by our host family and became the welcoming door to this British town I had never heard of before.

When we arrived, I found Solihull unexpectedly familiar, like an echo of my hometown Melitopol: small, green and quietly industrious. But what truly surprised me were the people. They were kind. Supportive. Polite. Masters of good manners. Champions of small talk.

And now, wherever I might go next, Solihull will always travel with me, carried in my heart and stitched into my senses. With its greenness and quiet charm. With the smell of freshly cut grass in its parks. With its mornings wrapped in birdsong. With its rain all year round. With its slightly strange food but its close-knit community of kind, supportive, and polite residents.

Oleksandr’s Ukraine Football scarf & Volodymyr’s headphones

My sons mean more to me than anything else. They are the people I think about first in the morning and last at night. They are my anchor and my wings. Wherever life takes me, they remain my constant. My love. My hope. My rock.

Oleksandr is 20 and studies Computer Science at Birmingham City University. But, due to the uncertainty surrounding our refugee status, there remains a big ‘?’ over whether he will be able to complete his studies. He has a passion for sports, especially football, snooker and Formula 1, and enjoys commenting on snooker matches on YouTube.

Volodymyr is 17 and he goes to sixth form. He is shy but beautifully alive with an open heart and a curious mind. He looks forward to the future with that spark of youthful idealism that I find so captivating. He dreams big and wants to make a difference.

Tetiana’s teaching materials

I teach ESOL [English for Speakers of Other Languages] to learners of different backgrounds. My students come from Europe, Asia, the Middle East and South America with very different life perspectives and experiences, ways of thinking and expressing themselves.

In the classroom, when we encounter these differences, English becomes the bridge between students’ as it is their common language. It connects past experiences, and their ambitions for beyond. Amongst their diverse cultures and identities... the English language connects.

Through these differences and comparisons, I broaden my horizons and learn, just as much as my students do, to understand myself and others better. We learn how different we are, yet at the same time we learn to value and celebrate our individuality.

Greeting cards written in different languages

I have been teaching English for almost all of my professional life, even when I was in Ukraine.

To me, a good teacher is the one who is able to make the difficult to seem simple, turning confusion into understanding. And the most rewarding thing is the delight of making that magic happen.

Being an ESOL teacher means working with learners of diverse backgrounds, each carrying their own experience.

It is like being on a continuous journey of discovery. No two days are the same. Every story is unique.

Every question they ask, every idea they share, teaches me as much as I teach them.

An image of The Gilmores at the Opening of The Museum of Tetiana Shuhrova

When it became clear that the war would not end quickly, many governments developed programmes and schemes to welcome and support Ukrainian refugees. We chose the UK, because my children and I spoke English and it was the nearest English-speaking country to Ukraine. We wanted to stay close to Ukraine.

We met our host family, the Gilmores on Facebook. It took courage to move into a stranger's house and I suspect they shared the same feeling in opening it to us.

We arrived in the UK, after a long journey, carrying nothing but a hope for safety and two backpacks on our backs. They welcomed us not just into their home but also into their hearts, doing everything possible to ease our adjustment. Meeting the Gilmores, and the people of Solihull, I realised that there are more good people in this world than bad. People we didn’t know at all reached out to us and, without being asked, did everything they could to help. Thank you to the Gilmores, and to you, Solihull.

Shuhurova family blanket carried with them from Ukraine

You never truly understand how much happiness something brings you until the moment it is taken away.

It is one of life’s saddest lessons that I learned: we often need to lose something before we realise how valuable or essential it was. Things we take for granted: peace, our dearest and nearest, the feeling of safety, our home’s warmth, the quiet comfort of your hometown - they suddenly become treasures that we can no longer feel.

I still picture every corner of my old life. I still feel the embrace of my parents, it is all as real as if it were yesterday.

So, dear visitor, please appreciate every moment, even the ordinary ones, because no-one knows what tomorrow might bring. What might feel like a boring routine today may tomorrow be the life you long for. Hold on to the present and let yourself enjoy it fully.

Routine, disrupted

We lived an ordinary, relaxed life, unaware of how fragile it was. Before the war, our life moved to familiar typical rhythms: school mornings, workdays, weekends and summer holidays.

There were talks and rumours, whispers that something dark was approaching, but we didn't believe it. Wars, I thought, were always announced somewhere else, to someone else, something that you watch on the evening news. But then it happened in my life without being told the exact day my world would collapse. It became real.

At first, I hoped it would all be over in a couple of days. It is very human to hope for better, to believe that everything will resolve quickly and carry you back to your normal life. I was clinging on to the hope even when reality told me the opposite.

And at that very moment, I realised how fragile our world is.

Calendar

It was a Thursday and we woke up to the sound of explosions. In our town there was a military base, which became the first target. Melitopol was occupied within two days.

By Friday, panic was spreading faster than the sound of the air-raid sirens. My mind switched to survival mode, driven by the maternal basic instinct to protect my children. My thoughts narrowed to the essentials: water, food, shelter.

Saturday came and we were lost and frightened, plunged into darkness, isolated from the world, desperately trying to piece together what was happening. In a vacuum we were searching for meaning in fragments, knowing only that something terrible had begun.

By Sunday, the place we called home no longer felt like ours.

Tetiana’s Bible, brought from Ukraine

My first instinct was raw and ancient: fight or flight.

I chose flight out of a fierce need to protect my children; I had to find anywhere they could be safe.

I have always been a very cautious person, someone who weighs decisions carefully, slowly. In that moment that version of me had to vanish. I had to think fast and make life-changing decisions even faster. I surprised myself with how quick and intuitive I could be when it really mattered. I didn’t know I had that decisiveness or strength in me.

I learnt that I am capable of much more than I could have imagined. I am stronger, braver, bolder than I ever thought I could be. I really hope though, that ‘fight or flight’ is never tested for that unknown version of you.

Tools for repotting

Step by very small step, our new life began to take shape in Solihull.

I was fortunate to start teaching ESOL at a local college.

My elder son found his place at Birmingham City University, and my younger son at sixth form here in Solihull.

My heart has learned to live in two places at the same time.

One part of my heart beats with my children, in this new country that gave us sanctuary, that offered safety and support.

It beats in Solihull.

Family photograph, brought from Ukraine

The other part of my heart remains in Ukraine.

It bleeds for the soldiers killed, injured, or taken prisoner, for the civilians who have been suffering for four horrendous years ... and counting.

It hurts for those still enduring life inside the country.

It aches for my husband Petro.

It aches for our hometown, where family members stayed behind to wait, to endure, and to hope.

And it mourns those who never lived to see us again.

Rest in peace, Mommy.