Regina Revazova worked as a journalist under Vladimir Putin’s regime reporting from the North Caucasus for the BBC and other media outlets. In 2008, she had to flee Russia and seek asylum in the United States.
Today, she lives in Phoenix and works as a professor at Arizona State University’s Cronkite School of Journalism and Mass Communication. But, Revazova still keeps in touch with old friends, and one in particular has been on her mind.
Ten years ago, a friend was a luxury as I had just immigrated to the United States a few years prior. Twenty years ago, a friend was the base and the guide. Thirty years ago, friend was all I, a small kid, lived for.
Now, the friend is a tough matter. He lives in trenches, fighting for his country, Ukraine. I learned how to talk to him without asking for specifics about his location or plans for the next hour, two or a day.
I learned not to ask things, like how many Russians have you killed since February 2022? Is it true they are always drunk? Is your parents condo still standing in Kharkiv or was it in one of the neighborhoods Russia leveled? Where are your parents right now?
My friend sent me his portrait. It was taken by a professional photographer from the UK who documents the war. In the photo, he is wearing a black T-shirt with an image of Ukrainian tryzub. His beard is trimmed, short haircut. I see some gray in the temple areas.
He's looking into the distance. Like many Ukrainians, my friend abandoned the Russian language more than two years ago. He tells me he can't hear or speak it anymore, and I'm the only one left he uses Russian with.
“Teach me English,” he wrote. I can use apps that translate to Ukrainian. I ask, would he abandon friend for not knowing an alternative language?
“No,” he said, “we would learn a new language together. I now learn so many languages with my friends. You, teach me English.”
You've changed, I texted as I looked at the portrait he sent.
“I'm very old,” he wrote back.
No, I don't see you aging. Your eyes have changed though.
“Changed how?” he wrote back.
They’re stern.
“Stern?” he asks.
Stern. Yeah, like you know, stern.
“It's because I'm not your age anymore,” He said.
And by the way, we're both in our early 40s.
“I'm 70, maybe 80,” he writes. “Old people's eyes are different.”
Once about a year ago, I had not heard from him for two weeks and I thought, that's it. I remember this empty void forming inside and around me as if I just lost an important piece of my life. But he finally wrote back.
“I am sorry. They had to tie me down and take me to the clinic.”
Were you injured?
“No, I had a nervous breakdown.”
These are the moments where I really struggle to keep this exchange normal as if two old friends are having a light chitchat across this peaceful world.
But he helps me and we go on. Things will get better when the war is over, I wrote back.
“Oh, I also learned that I got an award from Zelensky. I'll go to Kiev soon to get it.”
Send me a picture with Zelensky. I'll brag about you.
“OK. Don't be surprised. I lost 20 kilograms.”
I'll be looking at Zelensky. I won't even notice you, I wrote back.
He got the order of merit third degree from the hands of the Ukrainian president for outstanding achievements in public service. As of late August, and that's when I'm recording this story, my friend is alive.
