my ukraine: 16 posts

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.

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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.

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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.

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Uncle Vladimir, diadia Volodya, passed away in his sleep in his home in Israel. He was in his 80s. He fell ill with polio when he was a child during WWII. The first doctor he ever saw, a German surgeon in another occupied village, told my grandmother that her son was as good as dead. “Just leave him here.” My grandmother was exhausted after a long journey and her own illness and at first she did. She put her child on a bench and started walking away. Volodya remembers seeing her leave. He didn’t cry. He didn’t call out to his mother. He just held his breath. My grandmother had already lost one son to a fatal disease. Her sister was shot in front of her by the Nazi troops. She remembered feeling nothing but numbness and complete depletion. She walked and walked and then she turned around and ran back to the bench. She picked up her son and returned to the village.

Volodya didn’t die. He survived polio with almost all of his muscles atrophied and his spine twisted. He spent his childhood and teenage years in a wheelchair. Then a friend gave him a bootleg copy of a yoga manual and my uncle studied it until the book fell apart and he stood up on his own. He never learned to walk straight and he never regained control of his right arm, but he enrolled into the university, learned engineering on his own and built his own sound-recording devices. He married and fathered a daughter, my cousin Marina, who eventually moved him to Israel.

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Day 22 in Ukraine.

Sunlight’s soft ballet
through lace of old curtains—
glimpses of empty streets.

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Dusk descends quietly
Sirens wail through the stillness,
Stars fade from the sky.

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Awoken at night
Flashes tear through the darkness,
Dawn feels far away.

Another day arrives. Why is time flying so fast? A week ago, I had a dream about waking up in the middle of an explosion (it was only a drone shot down in the fields nearby). In my dream, my house was in ruins, my dress was torn and I didn’t know where to go. I ran inside a large building and up a staircase. At the top of it stood a man holding my passport. “I found you,” he said. “Let’s go to Japan and open a porcelain studio.” (I had no idea that this was my subliminal desire, but fine, I’ll take it.)

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