One day, around 6-7 p.m., my father left the house and went somewhere. I waited for him to come back for a long time, and then I asked my mother: Where did he go? That was the first time I learned about the sürgünlik, or deportation. I was about 10 years old.

That year, Crimean Tatars from all over Crimea walked to the central square of Akmescit (Simferopol) to honor the memory of those who would never return home. My father had to walk 55 kilometers. Some people walked from Sudak, Dzhankoy, and even Kerch...

At the time, I was very impressed, as I was still a child. However, I could not yet comprehend what deportation was. But after that, I started asking my grandparents, who were deported from Crimea as children, what happened in 1944.

Later, during my 20 years of work as a journalist, I recorded many stories of the sürgünlik. I did it more as a researcher. 

Listening to these stories hundreds or maybe thousands of times, I could not understand three things.

First. How can one go through such pain, such difficult trials, bury children who die of hunger and disease, and remain a person who is true to his or her values? But today, I am acquainted with many people who have gone through and continue to go through incredible life trials. They are usually the most sincere, kind, and bright people.

The second thing that I could not understand and fully comprehend before was my longing for my homeland. I was born and lived in Crimea until I was thirty. And I rarely had periods when I was homesick, because we were never apart for long. Today, I began to understand the stories of people who told me how they were happy to eat Crimean apples or dogwood back in Uzbekistan. Today, I probably enjoy these things in the same way.

The third is dreams. When we were collecting the stories of the sürgünlik, I often asked: “What did you dream about?”, and 99% of the answers were as follows: “Just to return home to Crimea”. And I, who is a big dreamer, could not fully understand this. But today I understand it. Because my whole universe has narrowed down to this one dream: I want to go home and have coffee with my parents. 800 kilometers separate me from home. The most insurmountable 800 kilometers.

After collecting hundreds of stories of deportation, I realize that many people held on to some stubborn belief that they would return. 

Perhaps we should hold on to this as well. And do everything in our power. Including so that the next generations know about these trials and feelings only from our words, and cannot fully comprehend them.