Odesa

My mother was born in Kazakhstan, and my father in Chernivtsi. They ended up in Odessa after university, both assigned to work at the same factory. That’s where they met and decided to stay. So, no, I can’t claim to be “an Odessan of the nine-hundred-and-thirty-eighth generation,” but the city became our home nonetheless.

As a child, I lived with my family in the dormitory of a large Odessa factory where my grandfather was the director. The dormitory was near a market, a zoo, and an amusement park, and our weekends followed a familiar routine. My dad would put me on his shoulders, and we’d set off for the zoo. But what sticks in my memory most vividly is my enemy there — a llama. I didn’t know that llamas spit, or perhaps I just never learned my lesson. Every time we passed its enclosure, I’d get my dose of llama saliva, much to my father’s amusement. He’d cycle through every reaction — laughter, irritation, then eventually calling for my mom to come help. That’s one of my strongest memories of childhood: sitting on my dad’s shoulders, everything was fine, until the moment the llama made its presence known.

There were two neighbourhoods that shaped my childhood. I grew up in one called Tairovo, but at some point, we moved to another called Cheryomushki. Both were residential, but I went to school in the city centre, which was a different world. In Tairovo, I learned about the everyday — mundane, practical things. In the city centre, I picked up more refined, cultural influences. These were two very different communities, each contributing to who I became.

The sounds of Odessa are unforgettable: the gentle roar of the sea, the call of the lighthouse from the port, the market’s lively buzz, the clattering of the tram, and the melodies of street musicians. The city smells of the sea and sand, mingled with the heat—there’s a specific scent that comes from the mixture of saltwater, hot sand, and fish. And then there’s the fragrance of black locust trees, which fills the streets.

Odesa isn’t just a place—it’s an experience, and much of that comes from the way people speak. One local peculiarity is called 'Shokanye.' (in Odesa, people replace the 'CH' sound with 'SH,' creating a soft, almost shushing effect). For example, instead of saying 'What-cha you know?' it sounds more like 'Wattsha you know?'.

The dialect is full of Yiddish words like 'bekitzer,' 'glick,' and 'tukhes,' and the local slang reflects the city’s Jewish influence. For instance, the word for pancakes made from sprat isn’t just 'pancakes' — they’re called 'latkes.'

Though I grew up in a non-religious family, Jewish food and customs were part of life. There was forshmak (stuffed fish), and babaganoush (eggplant pate). At the time, I didn’t question where it all came from, but later, the puzzle pieces started to fit. “Why is it Jewish if it’s from Odesa?” I’d think. But to me, it wasn’t so much about the religious significance as it was about the food — eggplants, for instance, are never as delicious anywhere else as they are in Odesa.

They gesture with their hands when they talk. Even swearing becomes an art form, a blend of obscenities and local languages that somehow feels less offensive and more like a form of expression. There’s even a concept of ‘well-mannered swearing’ — non-offensive words spoken so harshly and affectionately at the same time that you realise you’ve messed up. Take the word 'woodpecker,' for example — no one really considers it an insult, yet somehow, it stings when said in just the right way. It’s a peculiar form of communication that you only really understand when you’ve lived it.

As for the places that mean the most to me, I could say something cliché, like “home is where my family is,” but there are specific locations in Odesa that hold my memories. The market, the amusement park, the zoo — they don’t sound romantic, but for me, they are the heart of my childhood. Old Arcadia, Langeron — two beaches that have changed drastically over time but still carry the same familiar vibe. When I go there, memories flood back, as vivid as ever. Shevchenko Park, Gorky Park — these are all pieces of my past.

I miss the atmosphere. I miss walking down Deribasovskaya Street, the uneven paving stones beneath my feet, and the lively energy of the city all around me. It’s the peculiar charm of the people themselves — Odesans don’t always know how charismatic and unique they are. You can sit back and watch them forever, and somehow, it never gets old.

May 2nd, 2014, was a terrifying day. It was the May holidays, and most people were out of town at their dachas. My friends and I were at a recreation centre with terrible cell reception, and when we finally got a signal, our phones froze from the flood of calls and messages from concerned relatives abroad. The events of that day spread across the globe. When we returned to the city after the holiday, it was as if nothing had happened — everything had been cleaned up and hidden away, except for the lives lost, which left a permanent scar on Odesa.

And then there was February 24th, 2022. By then, I was living in Israel. I woke up to my phone vibrating with messages. At first, I didn’t know what was happening, but after reading the first message, I knew. War had come to Ukraine. That day marked the beginning of a terrifying new period — shock at first, and then fear as the situation worsened. I found myself in chats with displaced people, desperate to find shelter or a safe way out.

I’m not sure what remains of Odesa. The city has been scarred by war, but I know there are places — like the beautiful buildings on Cathedral Square — that are slowly being restored. There’s also the sea port hotel, a building everyone hated because it blocked the sea view. When it was destroyed, some dark humour emerged, but that’s how Odesa is — a mix of tragedy and humour, all woven together.

It’s been almost seven years since I left Odesa. Yet, every year, I pack my suitcase and tell myself I’m going back. When the war started, I was ready to return immediately, but thankfully, those around me reminded me that I could do more to help from Israel than from Ukraine.

I grew up with strong Zionist values, but after living here for a while, I questioned them. I wondered if I had truly given Israel a chance, and even now, I wrestle with that. But I also know that I’m more useful here, where I can help the friends and family who need me. People in Odesa are running out of resources — emotional, financial, and others. Just being able to offer them a place of refuge, even temporarily, gives me purpose.

I’ve tried to convince my parents to leave Odesa and come to Israel. The situation there is worsening, yet they refuse to go. Odesa is all they know, and they’re not ready to abandon it. Still, I hold out hope that one day they’ll agree to leave, even if just for a while. That hope is what keeps me grounded here.

When the war in Israel began, I knew I wouldn’t leave. I’ve found a new purpose here, helping Ukrainians who fled one war only to land in another. They listen to people like me, people who understand both worlds.

If I ever return to Odesa, the first thing I’ll do is go to the sea. There’s something about the Black Sea that I can’t find in Israel. As a child, I would stay in the water until my lips turned blue, my mother yelling for me to come out. Even now, the Black Sea feels like a close friend, the one I tell everything to, while the Mediterranean is more like an acquaintance — nice, but not the same. There’s something different about breathing in Odesa; it’s like I can fully exhale there.