“They’re going to cancel prom…” I heard my classmate’s voice tremblingover the phone.
That would have been devastating news for most high school boys and girls around the world, but we didn’t really question it.
The prom was the last thing on our minds. It was February 2014, and I was living with my parents and little sister in the suburbs of Kyiv, Ukraine.
My classmates and I should have been snowed under with exam prep. But it was impossible to study with the city spiraling into chaos.
Just a couple of months earlier, President Yanukovych had rejected a political association with the EU, and the protests had quickly escalated, leading to the deaths of 130 people.
It was a cold, ordinary Thursday in February when the headmasterunexpectedly sent us home early — the same day a tragic massacre claimed over 50 lives.
On my way back, I saw people scattered across the streets, running in all directions. I dialed my mom’s number, but the lines were jammed. I ran home as fast as I could. At that moment, the color of a prom dress would be an absurd thing to think about.
My parents were home, watching the news. I sat in front of the TV stunned, seeing the city center burn. I saw how gunpowder and Molotov cocktails had torn apart the very streets I walked not too long ago.
“Masha, you’d better stay in our district”, my dad said.
“Ok”, I said over the phone. We were already on our way to the city center to watch the tires burn. Some kids spend their weekends at the mall, others find themselves in the city square where a revolution is unfolding. It all comes down to where you were born.
After walking a few kilometers, we reached a checkpoint. As we were going through, I tried to look older and put on my best “Eastern poker face” hoping no one would ask for ID which I didn’t even bother bringing.
“I want to show you a secret place,” my boyfriend said.
We reached an old building and the door creaked open. After climbing a few flights of narrow stairs we made it to the top floor. All I could see were someone’s long forgotten belongings chucked in a corner of an otherwise empty corridor.
“Is this your secret place?” I asked, a bit annoyed.
“Wait. We need to climb out through the window. But we gotta be quiet — we don’t want to disturb the neighbors.”
I was nervous, but curiosity got the better of me. I went first. As I crawled through the window, I tore my winter jacket on a rusty nail. But the view I saw was worth any grumbling I’d face from my parents about yet another tear in my jacket.
From that rooftop in Freedom Square, I saw thousands of lights and tents, exhausted protesters shuffling from one campfire to another. Revolution was in the air — the smell of smoke, the faint drift of falling snow.
The only photo I took that day.
From the outside, revolution might look like destruction, but its true purpose was change. What brought all these people to the streets wasn’t just anger — it was hope. And I felt it too. Hope that, one day, the protests would end, and the biggest worry in the country would be whether we could get all the holiday gifts ordered in time.
Some thrived in the revolution. They weren’t just protesting; they were there to make history. I, on the other hand, watched from above, unsure of what other 16-year-olds were doing. But here I was, witnessing history unfold.
My hands, feet, ears, nose, my entire face, were freezing, but I didn’t care. Standing on that roof, right in the center of it all, it felt like watching a fire engulf a village — terrifying, yet impossible to look away from the flames.
Then I looked at my boyfriend. I wasn’t in love, but it’s hard not to feel aroused when the world around you is crumbling. It’s like your body, drowning beneath the surface, is suddenly gasping for air.
He leaned in for a kiss. His chapped and warm lips touched mine. I was about to melt completely in that moment, when a tall man with an assault rifle appeared out of nowhere.
“What the hell are you doing out here?” he shouted, no introductions needed.
We froze. He walked toward us with steady steps, and the roof shook beneath his heavy boots.
“We are looking for snipers hiding on roofs. You’re lucky you didn’t get shot. Get out of here. NOW!”
I can barely remember climbing back down or getting home. We ran so fast that we were gasping for air. Reality hit hard.
We had a prom that year, after all. We laughed out loud and danced until the early morning.
The armed conflicts in Ukraine were far from over. Eight years later, Russia launched a full-scale invasion, causing over 14 million Ukrainians to flee their homes.
But in 2014, we, a bunch of 17-year-olds, did not know that. We thought our futures were ours to shape. Filled with hope, we watched the sunrise, looking forward to beginning a new chapter in our lives.
The prom feels like a lifetime ago now. But even with everything falling apart, I still cling to that hope — because, in the end, it’s the only thing that fuels my journey.
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