Glossary: Words of Refuge

During the first hour of the one-day workshop where I met Vira, Olena, Alla and Alyona, I didn’t put on my earphones so I can hear the translation. It wasn’t intentional. But once I took my seat next to the 13 Ukrainian women who had accepted the Abandonment Museum’s invitation, I felt I needed to hear them speak, without knowing what they were saying. I suppose I wanted to feel I was in a completely foreign country where I didn’t speak the language. To hang on to familiar-sounding words, to try and construct the fragile present from gestures, intonations and facial expressions.

I was stunned when I realised that for many of the women sitting in front of me, Russian was their native language – the language in which they grew up, fell in love, and fled their country. I knew the statistics on the percentage of people born in Ukraine who consider Russian their primary language. I had read, for example, that in pre-war urban environments, Ukrainians tended to pursue education and speak Russian on a daily basis, with Ukrainian more often associated with rural areas. But nothing had prepared me for how intertwined these two languages are in the consciousness, in the families and in the room we were in. Nor for how often I would hear the words “conflict”, “trauma”, and “hard” in relation to a question to which I was used to hearing a simple answer: “What language do you speak?”

Out of this linguistic short-circuit and the desire to find out what it was like for them to adjust to being in Romania, came the idea of a refuge glossary. A glossary of terms in the first person, including both words that have helped them or did them good, and words that hurt or words they never want to hear again. In whatever language they used them during the last year and a half.

The direction our little project has taken, with much of the words in Romanian, lots of humour and infinite tenderness, has been dictated by them and reflects their constant efforts to build a peaceful existence, however temporary, for themselves and their children. (Gabriela Pițurlea)

Note about the words/phrases defined here: I have decided to use quotation marks for the phrases we received in English and translated into Romanian, which they use, among the family members, either in Russian or in Ukrainian. Words collected directly from Romanian, Russian or Ukrainian appear without quotation marks.

Note about definitions: they are in the first-person form and are supplied by the four authors.

Acasă –Home – The Romanian language has “casă” and “acasă”. I think of our house in Odesa every time I say that word. I feel something different when I pronounce it, it’s not the same when I say “home”.

Acasă (2) –Home (2) – Now I have two homes – one in Ukraine, the other in Romania. When I pick up the children from school and say “we are going home”, in my mind “home” means Kyiv. I don’t know what to call this place where we are living now.

Ajutor – Help – It is one of the first Romanian words my son learned, in the early days of kindergarten. It reassured me to know that even though he is in a country where he doesn’t speak the language, if he needs help, someone will give it to him.

Apă plată– Plain water – It was the first combination of words I learned in my first job in Romania, in catering, and it was the easiest for me to remember. I love drinking water, my son and I start our day with it since he was very young.

Bogdaproste (May God forgive) – This word used when performing an act of charity made an impression on me, because its origins are Slavic. “Bog” means “God”; “da” means “to”; “proste” means “forgive”. “May God forgive” – would be the translation. In Ukraine, they give alms, but they don’t say that word. People here kept it, we didn’t.

Borș / Bulion (Borscht/Tomato sauce) – In Romania, borș (fermented wheat bran juice) is the juice you add to soup, to make it sour. In our country, borscht is a ready meal. Borscht can be green or red, but it is not sour, a little on the sour side at most. Back home бульйон (bulʹyon) means chicken stock, while here it means something made of tomatoes.

Capac/Copac (Lid/Tree) – During that time when the trauma was very raw, I found it hard to concentrate. I was asking my aunt: “And where’s the tree (copac) from that saucepan?” And she would correct me: “It’s not „copac” (tree), but „ca-pac!” (lid). But I couldn’t figure out in my head when you are supposed to say “tree” and when “lid”.

Castravete (Cucumber) – When I say “you’re like a cucumber”, it means “fresh as a cucumber”, that is you look good. When you don’t look so good, a bit tired, you look like a pickled cucumber.

Cățel (Clove) – “Cățel de usturoi” (a clove of garlic) sounds very curious and funny to me. We use something like that as well, but it’s “a tooth of garlic”.

Ce faci? (How are you?) – When my city was under occupation, I would call my parents and ask how they were doing, afraid I would hear bad news or that it might be the last time we spoke. In Ukrainian, that question is Як справи? (yak spravy). While in the past I would ask it just to find out how someone’s day was, now it’s more like, “Are you OK?” or “Do you need help?”

Cu soț / Fără soț (Evens/Odds), literally With husband/Without husband) – I asked my aunt when she does her manicure/pedicure. And she replied, “Last week, this girl worked odd days (without husband), so this week, she’s working even days (with husband).” And thought to myself: So the husband comes to work with her? I couldn’t understand a thing. The funny thing is that even in Russian and Ukrainian, the logic is the same – there are paired and unpaired days – but when I heard “husband” here in Romania, I was amazed.

„Drum bun, aveți grijă de voi și scrieți-mi când ajungeți!”- “Have a good trip, take care and text me when you get there!” – Two weeks ago, we met up with our husbands in Chernivtsi. That’s something we say to each other when we part.

Hai să jucăm (Let’s play) – These words are for my son, Artem. Once, he told me that the other kids wouldn’t play with him in kindergarten. We thought maybe he needed to express his intention somehow. So, we used Google Translate and learned this sentence together. At the time I couldn’t tell the difference between “a juca” (play) and “a se juca” (play), but I kept repeating it until he remembered it, and it helped him make friends.

“Iepuraș” (Bunny) – When we left home, all we could take was a backpack each, our IDs and some food. I took with me a stuffed toy, a gift from my husband. It doesn’t have a name. It’s a fluffy cappuccino-coloured bunny that I hold in my arms when I sleep. The Ukrainian for “bunny” is zaichyk (зайчик).

IOR – IOR Park reminds me of Nyvky Park in Kyiv. There was a lake too, lots of trees, many places to relax. It’s close to our home and we would often take our children on a walk in it. We happened to live near IOR Park in Bucharest, so we spend quite a bit of our time there.

La revedere (Goodbye) – I pronounce it “larevedere”. It makes me smile. And my favourite Romanian singer’s song is called La nevedere.

Lumânare (Candle) – I always compare stretching moves to something from our lives. And I was teaching exercises where I would tell my clients: “and now you’re like candlelight”. In the winter, I realised I couldn’t make that comparison anymore, because that could be painful to somebody. Since the war has started, candlelight is no longer a reference only to the comfort of your home, like lighting candles to feel good, but also to power outages and people dying.

Lumină (Light) – Many words become triggers. I notice this during improvisation, because there, the girls and I get some words, some themes we have to work with to create a scene. And you never know what kind of reaction will follow. Once we were doing an improvisation, we had to do a four-person story, and our Romanian coordinator gave us the theme “no light”. It could have been something silly, an adventure, but just hearing those words made the girls stiffen. During winter, people in Ukraine had no electricity, no water, no heat.  So, we apologized and said we couldn’t do it.

„Mi-e dor de tine și de copiii noștri” (I miss you and the children) – These words spoken by my husband have a completely different impact than before. Recently, he was wounded in Bakhmut and managed to get out safely. 3 out of 10 people came back alive. A lot has changed since then in the way the people look at it. When we met again recently in Chernivtsi… I am at loss for words.

Milion (Million) – A lot of people here, even young people, still count money in millions. And I’ve been trying to find out when that money reform took place and why people haven’t switched to the today money. No one could tell me when the reform took place, so clearly it was a long time ago. My theory is that when you say millions, you feel richer. But psychologically, it’s a very interesting phenomenon.

Mulțumesc (Thank you) – I like that word. Because it means “I thank you” and it’s also a verb. “Thank you” is also a verb in Ukrainian: дякую (dyakuyu). In Russian, спасибо (spasibo) is not a verb. I often think about the similarities between Ukrainian and Romanian. We have many similar words and when I come across one, it makes me feel good. For example, you have “oglindă” (mirror). In Ukrainian, we have оглядати (oglyadaty), which you can use when looking, for example, in a shop window.

Mută pistoanele! (Get a move on! Literally, Get the pistons moving!) – I used Google Translate and it gave me this. That’s a Russian expression. I use it for my son, Vanya, when I need him to pick up the pace. Now, when someone is sluggish, our guys yell: “Get a move on!”

Nu-mi vine să cred (I can’t believe it) – After I came to Romania, for the first three months I had a job at a jewellery store in a mall. I had to do something to get an income. But this was not my field and it was traumatic, especially since gold, diamonds are not something I am fond of. Every day I had customers asking, buying things, all around me there were well dressed people. At the same time, horrible news kept coming from Ukraine.

When I came back to my aunt’s where I was staying, the TV would be on. My aunt is very passionate about jewellery. She likes to wear bracelets and everything, and she buys things from a TV network. So, after a day spent at the jewellery store, home there was more of the same. This girl on TV selling products, was screaming, “I can’t believe it! I can’t believe it, only 127 lei!” That expression, pronounced in a slightly hysterical tone, would send chills down my spine. I was also in a state where I couldn’t believe that everything that was happening to me was actually happening. Except my reality was about war, about immigration, and the reality on the home shopping channel was about diamond prices.

And now, when I hear “I can’t believe it!”, even if it sounds different, I remember straight away those crazy times, with jewels everywhere.

„Perete” (Wall) – We would do a lot of exercises where we would say to clients, “go to the wall,” but I changed it, because the people who get shot are standing next to a wall as well. So now it is “let us stand next to a vertical space…” Likewise, during missile attacks, the Ukrainians know that you have to have two walls between you and the outside. For example, my sister won’t stay in her bedroom, she moves to the hall. I used to teach an exercise where I would say “and now imagine you are moving between two walls”. I can’t say that anymore. So, I say “imagine you are moving between two shop windows”.

Privighetoare (Nightingale) – Privighetorilor Street is the first street I lived on when I came to Bucharest. I had a hard time pronouncing the word and it sounded funny.

Pomana (Wake) – In Ukrainian пам’ять (pam’yatʹ) means “memory”. But in Romanian, “memory” sounds quite different from “pomană” (wake) and “pomenire” (wake), which are of Slavic origin.

Roztyazhka – Розтяжка means “stretching” in our language. But it has always meant a wire stretched between two trees, for example, and if you touch it accidentally, it triggers a bomb explosion. This is what “roztyazhka” means – a wire. So, in my classes I replaced it with the word “stretching”.

„Salariu” (Wages) – Once, a Ukrainian from Romania told me that our military are paid very well, especially those in the front line, and I couldn’t help myself and told him he could go and make some money too, instead of being here in Romania and complaining there were no jobs. I hate this talk about wages.

„Șah” (Chess) – My husband and Alla’s are very good at chess, they do this a lot when they get together. Now our children want to learn the game too, so they can play with their fathers when they meet again.

Tobă (Drum) – It is a word that makes me feel good. I went out one night to Freddo Bar and loved the way the drummer was playing. So, I looked up the translation and told him, “You play the drums very well”.

Trupă (Band) – To me that word sounds intriguing and very sad. In our language, труп (troop) means “corpse”. It gets you thinking that in a way, army troops are potential corpses.

„Totul va fi OK, cred în tine” (Everything will be OK, I believe in you) – These words, in whatever language I say them, give me strength, inspiration and self-confidence. I tell them to my children as well. For example, Dmytro took up Roblox and was a little worried, because it’s a pretty expensive module for us and he wasn’t sure if he could manage. When my children hear that sentence, they know they can rely on me and that I am there for them, no matter what.

Editor: Gabriela Pițurlea