Dust Laden Dreams

On my last day in Ukraine, I wandered into a sprawling supermarket called Metro—or at least that’s the name I think I caught, though the neon lighting made everything feel a bit surreal. If you’ve never heard of it, imagine a Ukrainian version of Costco: towering shelves stacked with items in bulk, steel beams overhead reminding you that everything here is about practicality and scale. Except in my case, I almost didn’t get to buy anything at all because I didn’t realize it was a membership-only setup. The cashier blinked at me when I handed her my wallet stuffed with random IDs, but no membership card. I was bracing myself for a polite (or maybe not-so-polite) boot out of the store. Instead, she flagged down the customer behind me, borrowed his membership card, and just like that, I was allowed to check out. It was such a humble, generous gesture—one that in my home country, I’m not sure I’d ever see. Maybe we’re just too suspicious of each other or too lost in our own routines. But here, in a country under siege, I found that simple kindness still thrives.

That alone would have been enough to make me sentimental, but then I strolled past the luggage aisle. It was deserted, the racks lined with suitcases that might’ve been bright and appealing once, now coated in a thin film of dust. The tags read 2021. It looked like no one had touched them in years, as though the world had stopped turning right after they were stocked. I stood there, caught in the sort of quiet heartbreak that sneaks up on you in the most mundane of places. While I was getting a membership card loaned to me by a total stranger—and yes, planning to waltz back across the border with my rucksack whenever I pleased—these suitcases had remained untouched, neglected by a nation that no longer travels for leisure. After all, who’s thinking about beach vacations or city breaks when your entire life can be uprooted by a single mortar shell?

And there it was: this poignant contrast between my freedom to come and go, and the stark reality that many Ukrainians—especially men of fighting age—cannot just pack up and leave. For them, a suitcase has become almost a relic of a former life, a symbol of carefree wanderlust that is now locked away by the brutal demands of war. No one is grabbing one of these dusty suitcases for a quick weekend getaway. They’re either standing their ground or frantically fleeing with whatever they can carry, but either way, these bright plastic shells remain forsaken, a testament to a different era.

In that moment, I couldn’t help but think about the nature of travel itself. I came here with a camera and curiosity, but is that a privilege? Or is it an act bordering on callousness? I’ve been trying to document what war does to ordinary people, yet I can always hop on a bus, a plane, and vanish to the safety of home. The folks around me don’t get that luxury. They may not even want it; many have chosen to stay, to fight, to rebuild. Still, the dusty luggage seemed to whisper: “We used to dream bigger dreams. Now, all that’s on hold.”

Sometimes the starkest reminders of loss come from the unlikeliest corners. Not the bomb craters or the bullet-scarred walls, but a silent aisle of suitcases that no one’s rushed to buy. I walked out of that Metro with a lump in my throat and a few groceries in my bag, feeling oddly ashamed for being able to leave so easily. The war continues, the dust gathers, and all I can do is hold onto that fleeting memory of kindness from a stranger who loaned me his membership card. Because despite the heartbreak, that small gesture still glows with hope—proof that even when an entire country is weighed down by sorrow, a simple act of generosity can momentarily lift the burden.

I will be back for you Ukraine - it is a promise.