I WAS BORN IN CHECHNYA. Russia invaded a couple months later, bombing the city of Grozny, my hometown.
I remember that in those years, everyone used to believe Russia was a democracy.
I remember the Sci-Fi movies about the weirdos who believed the alien invasion was near, ignored by everyone.
Because my father would watch those movies with me. And because he was one of the few then who believed that one day, Russia was going to attack Ukraine.
I remember the first day when my family came back to Ukraine. It was ‘coming back home’ for them, and ‘moving to a new land’ for me.
In our village, I was the only Ukrainian boy who was born in Chechnya.
I remember the big Cathedral in Lviv, the first Cathedral I’ve ever seen. The adults thought it beautiful but to me, it was just boring. I remember the smell of oranges and spruce. It was Christmas time.
I remember the toy Dalek, and my first day in kindergarten.
No one knew who daleks were, but my teacher thought these kinds of toys were bad for my mental health.
I remember crying when she took the Dalek away.
I remember the porridge with lumps.
I remember when I refused to eat it. And how my Dad told me about Holodomor, that deliberate hunger that Stalin launched against the Ukrainians, and how my father’s father escaped from Ukraine to Chechnya with a bunch of other teens, trying to find some food. And how a Chechen family gave them a safe haven.
I remember how, many years later, little Dokka said that my grandpa was like a Littlefoot in the ‘Land before time’.
I remember that the Chechen family, who had accepted my grandpa as their own son, all died in a cattle train, when Stalin deported Chechens from their homeland.
I remember that my father thought that he owed them. The Chechen people.
I remember spending hours and hours asking Dad about how my grandpa was fighting alongside Shukhevych against the Soviet army.
I remember how journalists called my father Nazi on TV simply because my father hated the USSR and didn’t trust Russia.
I remember when Russian attacked Chechens again, and my father decided to come back to Chechnya to fight alongside this small Muslim nation.
Dad tossed my hair when he told me he was going back to Chechnya.
Dad’s car was stinking with gasoline.
I remember the joy of flapping my hands and walking on freeze without stepping on the ground. I’ve known this joy since I was tiny.
Dad was the only one who’d never tried to shame me for that.
I remember that he found some audio books for me, when a psychiatrist in Kyiv said that I have ADHD and dyslexia. That made it clear why it was so difficult for me to read, sitting somewhere in one place, and that it would be much easier to listen to the stories instead, especially if I’m passing the room.
Most of those books that I listened to dealt with Ukrainian history, but there was also Harry Potter and some Sci-Fi. We both liked it, me and my old man.
I remember chestnuts in Kyiv.
I tried to bite them. They were bitter.
I want to unremember how my Dad was killed by an FSB agent in Kiev for his pro-Chechen activity. The killer was never found.
I want to unremember how Chechnya was occupied.
I remember how Mum sent me to England.
I remember my first day at the Eton boarding school. All the boys seemed smarter and posher than me. Better than me.
I remember that my best friend from the very first school day was Arby, a boy from Chechnya. Our families were friends.
His family helped pay my student loans, and so now I too feel like I owe them, as well. Not just his family but all Chechen people.
I remember putting the black-and-white photo of Shukhevych and my grandpa on the wall in our room, next to the Ukrainian flag. I remember Arby’s smile.
I remember the first time getting drunk in an English pub. I don’t remember the morning.
I remember how I listened to the Beatles because it seemed such a British thing to do. How I longed to finally fit in, somewhere.
I remember when the English language became as easy for me as Ukrainian and Chechen.
I remember wondering who I was now, Chechen, Ukrainian or British.
I remember feeling shame for those thoughts.
I remember that I was named after my Grandpa.
And that I told my British friends about it when we watched Avatar at the cinema. I was drinking Pepsi and toying with my key.
I remember the day of Stalin’s deportation of Chechens. February 23, 1944.
And the day when Russia invaded Ukraine. That’s February 24, 2022.
I remember, when Russia attacked Ukraine, the world finally realized that my father wasn’t a fanatic, that he was right all along.
All my childhood, I dreamed for the world to believe him. Now, I only want to unremember that.
I remember that in those years, everyone used to believe Russia was a democracy.
I remember the Sci-Fi movies about the weirdos who believed the alien invasion was near, ignored by everyone.
Because my father would watch those movies with me. And because he was one of the few then who believed that one day, Russia was going to attack Ukraine.
I remember the first day when my family came back to Ukraine. It was ‘coming back home’ for them, and ‘moving to a new land’ for me.
In our village, I was the only Ukrainian boy who was born in Chechnya.
I remember the big Cathedral in Lviv, the first Cathedral I’ve ever seen. The adults thought it beautiful but to me, it was just boring. I remember the smell of oranges and spruce. It was Christmas time.
I remember the toy Dalek, and my first day in kindergarten.
No one knew who daleks were, but my teacher thought these kinds of toys were bad for my mental health.
I remember crying when she took the Dalek away.
I remember the porridge with lumps.
I remember when I refused to eat it. And how my Dad told me about Holodomor, that deliberate hunger that Stalin launched against the Ukrainians, and how my father’s father escaped from Ukraine to Chechnya with a bunch of other teens, trying to find some food. And how a Chechen family gave them a safe haven.
I remember how, many years later, little Dokka said that my grandpa was like a Littlefoot in the ‘Land before time’.
I remember that the Chechen family, who had accepted my grandpa as their own son, all died in a cattle train, when Stalin deported Chechens from their homeland.
I remember that my father thought that he owed them. The Chechen people.
I remember spending hours and hours asking Dad about how my grandpa was fighting alongside Shukhevych against the Soviet army.
I remember how journalists called my father Nazi on TV simply because my father hated the USSR and didn’t trust Russia.
I remember when Russian attacked Chechens again, and my father decided to come back to Chechnya to fight alongside this small Muslim nation.
Dad tossed my hair when he told me he was going back to Chechnya.
Dad’s car was stinking with gasoline.
I remember the joy of flapping my hands and walking on freeze without stepping on the ground. I’ve known this joy since I was tiny.
Dad was the only one who’d never tried to shame me for that.
I remember that he found some audio books for me, when a psychiatrist in Kyiv said that I have ADHD and dyslexia. That made it clear why it was so difficult for me to read, sitting somewhere in one place, and that it would be much easier to listen to the stories instead, especially if I’m passing the room.
Most of those books that I listened to dealt with Ukrainian history, but there was also Harry Potter and some Sci-Fi. We both liked it, me and my old man.
I remember chestnuts in Kyiv.
I tried to bite them. They were bitter.
I want to unremember how my Dad was killed by an FSB agent in Kiev for his pro-Chechen activity. The killer was never found.
I want to unremember how Chechnya was occupied.
I remember how Mum sent me to England.
I remember my first day at the Eton boarding school. All the boys seemed smarter and posher than me. Better than me.
I remember that my best friend from the very first school day was Arby, a boy from Chechnya. Our families were friends.
His family helped pay my student loans, and so now I too feel like I owe them, as well. Not just his family but all Chechen people.
I remember putting the black-and-white photo of Shukhevych and my grandpa on the wall in our room, next to the Ukrainian flag. I remember Arby’s smile.
I remember the first time getting drunk in an English pub. I don’t remember the morning.
I remember how I listened to the Beatles because it seemed such a British thing to do. How I longed to finally fit in, somewhere.
I remember when the English language became as easy for me as Ukrainian and Chechen.
I remember wondering who I was now, Chechen, Ukrainian or British.
I remember feeling shame for those thoughts.
I remember that I was named after my Grandpa.
And that I told my British friends about it when we watched Avatar at the cinema. I was drinking Pepsi and toying with my key.
I remember the day of Stalin’s deportation of Chechens. February 23, 1944.
And the day when Russia invaded Ukraine. That’s February 24, 2022.
I remember, when Russia attacked Ukraine, the world finally realized that my father wasn’t a fanatic, that he was right all along.
All my childhood, I dreamed for the world to believe him. Now, I only want to unremember that.
Ayman Eckford is a Ukrainian Autistic asylum seeker who now lives in Sheffield, UK, with his wife and two cats. Ayman lived as a refugee or asylum seeker in Russia and Israel, before coming to the UK. Ayman is the creator of ‘Neurodiversity in Russia’ and a founder of an initiative group, ‘Autistic Initiative for Human Rights’. He is writing for the Ukrainian Think Tank ‘solid info’. He is also writing a dystopian novel.
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