In Simferopol, I never felt ashamed of being Roma. Our home was filled with my grandfather’s beautiful pigeons, and we spoke our language freely. In a city of Crimean Tatars and other minorities, my name, Mercedes, surprised no one. I belonged.

Everything changed in 2014 when we moved to Kharkiv. New city, new school, new attitude. I was an outcast. I’ll never forget the day I was called to recite a poem in class and heard someone whisper behind me, “She can read?!” I wanted to disappear. I fell into a depression, hiding in my room for days.

In 2022, the war found us again. We were trapped in Kharkiv for weeks with no food. My two-year-old niece drank only sugar water for half a day. When the shelling started, she would cover her ears and bury her face in a pillow. It was unbearable to watch.

We finally escaped. My family went to Germany, but I stayed behind in Ukraine, living in shelters. Being among strangers was uncomfortable. Sometimes I would come back too late and find the doors locked for the night. I ended up spending the night at a round wooden table outside three times, freezing in just shorts and a t-shirt with a dead phone. I just sat there, looking at the stars.

But I learned. I learned how to get by, how to speak Ukrainian better by listening to tongue twisters on my headphones. I learned that even if I have nothing, I will not be lost. I have experience.

In the shy girl from Kharkiv who was afraid to raise her hand in class, I no longer recognize myself. At a conference in Warsaw, I took the microphone and introduced myself with a word that once just sounded beautiful, but now defines me: “Roma activist.” When I remember the person I used to be, I realize how much I’ve grown. And now, I want to help others, because I know how hard it would have been to achieve anything without the support I received.