my ukraine: 18 posts

One summer evening in Kharkiv, I was writing a perfume review when the air raid sirens began. The sound was now part of the city’s fabric, as ordinary and as terrible as the smell of bread from the bakery on the corner. I paused, listened for the thud that might follow, and then turned back to my draft. A question pressed against me: What am I doing, writing about perfume as the world burns?

It’s a question I’ve asked myself many times over the past years. Perfume can seem like a frivolity, a luxury for calmer days. But the more I’ve lived through, the more convinced I am that it is not just a product. Perfume is a cultural layer, a record of our rituals, desires, migrations, and exchanges. It carries the memory of places and the touch of history on the skin. Every bottle is both a work of art and a fragment of anthropology.
Continue reading →

We rarely think of scent as part of archives and historical records. The past is treated as visual, textual, factual — something we read or look at. But our lives are full of smells: the minty tang of toothpaste, burnt toast, the brine of sweat on public transportation, the coolness of a florist shop we pass on the way to work. These are not incidental. They are the scaffolding of memory. What we forget with our minds, the nose remembers.

I think often about this partial amnesia. What has been lost because it couldn’t be catalogued? How many women’s lives, marked by the scent of boiled milk, starch, soap, lily of the valley, have slipped away without trace? How many communities vanished, taking with them their voices, customs, foods — and scents. In Ukraine, I witnessed towns being flattened, homes scorched, and with them the quiet archives of everyday life. And elsewhere too, in places like Gaza, Sudan, Yemen, Syria, wars and displacements continue to erase not only histories but atmospheres, the very breath of places.

Continue reading →

Since 2024, I’ve spent about six months in Ukraine, much of it traveling along the eastern and southern border. Sometimes, when I share photos of markets, sunlit streets, or old facades still standing proud, I get the question: Where’s the war?

We’re used to the stock images: bombed-out buildings, women crying before rubble, soldiers caked in mud. But war doesn’t always look like that.

War is the grinding exhaustion of nights spent listening for air raid sirens. It’s planning your day around the threat of missiles. It’s the constant worry for your family’s safety. It’s losing your home and scrambling to pay rent somewhere else.

And sometimes, war is a photograph of a talented teenager who will never get to grow up.

Veronika Kozhushko—Nika—was only 18 when a Russian missile struck Kharkiv in August 2024. She was already recognized as a gifted young artist—writing poetry, painting, exploring graphic design. Friends called her fiercely intelligent, endlessly curious, deeply woven into the city’s literary and art scene. She had plans. She had promise. She had so much life ahead of her.

Continue reading →

Saltivka smells of linden and roses. If you’ve heard of Saltivka, you might think this sentence is absurd. Saltivka—a sprawling housing estate  on the edge of Kharkiv—was once home to half a million people. That was before February 2022, before war made it one of the first places to burn. Northern Saltivka, just kilometers from the Russian border, became synonymous with devastation. I remember sobbing in those early days, watching images of bombed buildings and bloodied playgrounds loop across every screen.

But today, in June 2025, Saltivka smells of linden and roses.

I have stopped crying at ruins. After three years of traveling across Ukraine, my senses have dulled to destruction. But when I arrived in Saltivka and inhaled the scent of linden blossoms, something shifted. The air was thick with molten sweetness. I met Natalia Mykhalchenko, a writer from Donetsk who now calls this neighborhood home. She led me through the streets: shattered schools, boarded-up buildings, rocket-scored walls. And amid this, the unmistakable scent of roses.

Continue reading →

In the fall of 2024, I traveled east to the frontlines. As the city faded behind me and the bombed-out villages receded, all that remained were the bare fields of sunflowers. The headless stems stood tilted in different directions, reminiscent of a vast cemetery. And yet, this desolate landscape was illuminated by the occasional blooming flower that sprouted after the reaper had taken its harvest.

I keep thinking about flowers on the battlefields as I think about Ukraine. Ukraine has forged its identity through centuries of attempts by larger powers to erase it. And yet, it has always regenerated itself in one form or another. Borderland places have deep roots, nourished by multiple histories, strengthening their sense of self and enriching their culture.

My Ukraine Fundraiser

Still, it’s hard to avoid feeling despair and anger given the current situation. I’m channeling my energy into preparing for my trip to Ukraine and my fundraiser for Kyiv’s Children Art School. The school works with children traumatized by war and provides them with free art classes and a safe space. The money donated is converted into art supplies that children can use right away to learn new skills and heal.

If you’re interested in helping, your donation will be much appreciated. To Donate in USD. To Donate in EUR. If you’re interested to participate in my seminar on Ukrainian perfumery broadcast from Ukraine on March 14th, via Zoom, 12pm EST, the proceeds will go to the art school. To Join Seminar.

You can follow updates about my Ukrainian trip and fundraiser via my Instagram: @boisdejasmin

In the meantime, there are other ways in which you can help Ukraine.

Continue reading →