Yulia's Letter to Trump - An Imaginary Cry from the Heart

Dear Mr. Trump,

My name is Yulia, and I am 12 years old. I’m writing to you because I heard you say something that broke my heart again. You said that “Ukraine is gone.” You spoke those words as if my country, my home, and my people no longer existed; as if bombs and war had erased everything we were. But Mr. Trump, you are wrong. I'm still here, as are many of us. Ukraine is still alive. It is in our hearts, our memories, and our pains. Perhaps we are broken souls, but we did not leave.

I wish I could take you to the places I remember. To the streets of Mariupol, where my best friend Liza and I played, laughing so hard we could hardly breathe. Or the sunflower fields where my father took me and my younger brother Bohdan to pick flowers for my mother. Those were happy times. Those moments now appear to belong to a different life and someone else.

You see, I don’t have a mother anymore. Nor father. The war took them both from me. Right at the beginning, my father was among the first to sign up to defend the country. My mother died when a Russian missile hit our apartment building. I remember everything about that day – how the sky turned orange from the fire, how the walls crumbled around us. However, the explosion wasn’t the worst part. What came after was the worst. Silence. The void. I crawled out from under the rubble, shouting for my mom, but she didn’t answer. I found her later, lying still with her arms wrapped around Bohdan, trying to protect him until the very end. He was only five years old.

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I heard you say that Ukraine no longer exists, and that’s why I want to tell you about Bohdan, my younger brother. I told you he survived when the missile hit our building because our mother shielded him with her body. She trapped him beneath her lifeless body for hours. The neighbors found him there, his small body covered in dust, his face pale and frightened, but alive. My mother saved him, but she couldn’t save herself.

Bohdan hasn’t spoken much since then. Most nights, he wakes up screaming and crying for our mother. He clings to me like I’m the only person left in his world, and maybe I am. When I look into his eyes, I see a deep sadness that makes it feel as if he has already lived his whole life in sadness, and he is only five years old. How do I explain to him what happened? How can I explain to him why our home has vanished, why we are now alone, and why our parents will never return?

Mr. Trump, how is Ukraine gone while Bohdan and I are still here? How can you say this when there are so many of us – kids like me and Bohdan – who have lost everything but are still struggling to survive in our Ukraine?

I want to tell you about my friend Oksana. She is 11 years old, and her father was a soldier, a proud man who believed in the defense of our country. He died on the front line, somewhere near Bakhmut. Oksana was always so close to her dad; she kept talking about him and how he was her hero. But now she can hardly speak, as if the war had taken not only her father but part of her soul. She doesn’t smile anymore. She doesn’t play like we used to. She just stares, empty-eyed, waiting for someone who will never come home.

And there is Maksym. Although he was only six years old, the Russians kidnapped him from his home in Kherson after they took over the city. They took him to Russia, along with numerous other children, and placed him in the care of a new Russian family. Can you imagine, Mr. Trump? They take you from your home, from your country, and give you to strangers who don’t speak your language, who tell you to forget everything you’ve ever known. The bombing killed Maksym's’ parents, and now he is raised by people who attempt to erase his Ukrainian heritage. The Russians call it “adoption,” but it’s not adoption. That’s theft. They’re trying to wipe us out, one child at a time.

I keep thinking about Maksym, whom they now call Maxim. Does he remember his real name? Does he still speak Ukrainian, or has he forgotten? Does he cry for his parents at night, or has he started calling someone else “mom” and “dad”? Mr. Trump, these are the questions that keep me up at night. Questions no child should ask.

And yet, you say that Ukraine no longer exists.

I don’t know if you have heard of little Sashko. He was only three years old when the Russians took him away. His father died while defending Mariupol, and his mother died when their building came under shelling. Sashko was found wandering the streets, alone and terrified, before he too was taken to Russia. He’s just a baby, Mr. Trump. He doesn't even understand what happened to him. He doesn't know why he can't go home. He is unaware of his parents’ deaths or his country’s destruction. All he knows is that he is scared and far away from everything he knew.

When you say that Ukraine is gone, you are saying that Sashko’s pain does not matter, that Bohdan’s nightmares don’t matter, and that Maksym’s stolen life does not matter. But they are important. We are all important. Our lives, our stories, our future – they matter.

Mr. Trump, Ukraine has not disappeared. We didn’t leave. We are still here, broken but not defeated; we are hurt but still fighting. We are Ukraine’s children, and we are the future of our country. Every day we survive in the shadow of this war, clinging to the memories of our parents, our homes, and our language. We struggle to remember who we are, even when everything around us tries to make us forget.

You may not see us on the news every day. You may not hear our voices. However, we are still here, and we need the world to see us, hear us, and remember us. If the world forgets us and influential individuals like yourself proclaim Ukraine has disappeared, it’s possible that we will eventually vanish completely.

But I refuse to believe it. I refuse to believe that my mother’s sacrifice, my father’s courage, Maxim’s stolen life, Oksana’s tears, Bohdan's nightmares – I refuse to believe that it will all be in vain.

Please, Mr. Trump, refrain from claiming that Ukraine is gone. Don’t say we’re lost. Because as long as there are children like me, like Bohdan, like Maksym and Oksana and Sashko – as long as we are here, Ukraine is here too.

We are Ukraine. And we didn’t leave!

Sincerely,

Yulia