My name is Dimitri. I am thirteen years old, and I used to live in Kiev, Ukraine, above a small shoe shop with my father, Vladimir. He was all I had. My mother died the day I was born. I never knew her, but I saw her in the way my father smiled—only sometimes—and in the way he fought so hard to raise me right.
Papa was everything to me. A single father, a quiet man with wise eyes and a heart full of stories. He spoke six languages—English, Spanish, German, French, Russian, and of course, Ukrainian. He expected me to learn them too. He had this rule: he’d only speak to me in one of those languages each day. If I didn’t answer correctly, he wouldn’t respond. I used to think that was cruel. I used to get so angry.
Now, I understand.
Papa said the world was bigger than our little shop, bigger than our city, bigger than war or struggle. He wanted me to be ready for it. He wanted me to rise above what he called “the weight of our survival.”
He worked hard in his little shoe store. Some days, I could see the worry in his eyes, even if he tried to hide it. He didn’t want me to live the same life of scraping by. He wanted better for me. And that’s why school was everything. I studied, I worked hard. I didn’t want to disappoint him.
Then came the day that changed everything—February 24, 2024, at noon. I remember the sky was pale and the air smelled like cold bread and dust. I had gone to the market to buy some milk and bread for Papa. It should’ve taken twenty minutes, but I stopped to chat with the old woman who sold honey. She always gave me a smile and a tiny spoonful to taste.
Then the sirens screamed.
People started running. Explosions cracked through the air like thunder with no sky. I dropped the bag and ran.
I didn’t know what was happening—not really. All I knew was I had to get home.
Smoke. Screams. Fires. Children crying, people falling, others shouting names into the chaos. The streets were not the city I knew anymore.
And then I saw what was left of our home.
Or what used to be it.
Rubble. Fire. Rubble where I lived. Rubble where my father was.
I screamed his name until my voice broke. No one answered.
I was lonely, and my heart could not stop crying from the hurt that no one would ever understand. The world was moving, burning, breaking—but inside me, everything had stopped. I ran to a secret spot I’d always escaped to when I needed quiet. A little place near the edge of town, surrounded by birch trees and old stone. I hid there for days. I lost track of time. The world stood still.
When I finally stepped out, I saw her—the honey lady. She was trying to speak to a soldier. A young man in camouflage, with a blue and yellow patch on his arm. A French soldier, fighting alongside NATO to help defend our land. But they couldn’t understand each other. She spoke Ukrainian. He spoke French.
But I—I spoke French. All my life, I had spoken it, thanks to my father.
I ran to them and translated. I told the soldier what she needed. I told her what he said. Her eyes filled with tears, and he nodded with a grateful smile.
That moment changed everything.
A thirteen-year-old boy became a translator. Not just for her, but for more soldiers, more families, more stories. I helped NATO communicate. I helped my people be heard.
And every time I spoke, I heard my father’s voice in my head. His rules. His love. His belief in me.
Papa… Vladimir… I am your son.
They will remember you through me. Your strength. Your wisdom. Your gift.
Your legacy lives in me—forever.