memory: 2 posts

Read this article in Ukrainian: Аромат і пам’ять: Відкриваючи Одесу заново крізь запахи

Writing about Odesa today reminded me how memory itself can feel like fragrance—vivid, intangible, essential. I sit at my work table in Brussels, in the dining room, surrounded by familiar comforts. A bouquet of white freesias, casually picked up at the supermarket, fills the air with its violet sweetness. On my right, I’ve arranged a haft seen—a small altar celebrating the Persian New Year, a symbol of rebirth and renewal. Outside, even though I cannot see it from here, I know the tall magnolia tree in the garden is bursting into bloom, its petals opening softly, without hesitation.

Here in Brussels, there are no air raid sirens piercing the night, no unsettling hum of Shahed drones slicing through the quiet. In these moments, I feel deeply conflicted and yet comforted. Part of me wishes desperately to be there—in Ukraine, experiencing the intensity, the solidarity, and the rawness of life in Odesa. Another part feels profound relief to be here, safe yet yearning. I am suspended between two places, two emotional landscapes.

Memory offers a bridge. It lets me travel effortlessly, invisibly. In memory, I revisit streets filled with laughter and chaos, sea air tinged with salt and flowering acacias, the comforting dusty vanilla of old paper in vintage bookstores. I remember the way Odesa’s salty breeze tangled softly in my hair, how at night my skin carried traces of the city—sea spray, blossoms, sunlight—and how these scents whispered of moments lived fully, intensely.

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Not long ago I posted a photo of mulberries to my Facebook page and by the end of the day I had scores of comments and emails filled with the mulberry-related reminiscences. I was surprised how many people had a mulberry tree as part of their childhood. Reading the comments, I too tasted the mulberries of Esfahan and Israel, climbed the tall trees in Romania and Texas and made jam in California. In sharing stories, we made our own Silk Road spanning the mulberry memories and the globe. It also turned out be quite a cosmopolitan tree with the Eastern roots. It’s called tuta in Aramaic, tut in Persian, Arabic, Turkish, and Hebrew, duda in Romanian. In Ukrainian, it’s either called tut or shelkovytsa, the silk tree berry.

In my part of Ukraine mulberry trees are ubiquitous. They’re a reminder of the old history: of the manor estates of the Poltavan gentry and of the silk farms established as part of the Five Year plans by the Soviet government. Both the gentry and the five year plans are long gone. The mulberries remain. The berries cover the sidewalks in indelible ink stains and scent of fermented, overripe fruit hangs in the summer haze.

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