I spent the morning of New Year’s Eve unpacking my suitcase, having just come back from a weeklong trip to Israel. This was the first time I had left the country since I came here, a little over five years ago—years that were spent with the complexities of the U.S. asylum process gnawing at my back. Even now that my status is cemented, getting an international visa is nearly impossible.  It took my mother to sit in the Israeli consulate for hours, weeping, until they gave her the visa.

And even then, as a favor; a handout. 

There was a peace in the unpacking—it was almost ritualistic, the folding and unfolding of fabric, sorting stained from clean and into stacks, then the washing machine. I was completely inside myself. The memory of the trip rolling in my mouth, my tongue mulling it over as it slowly melted into me.

It was ten years ago, the summer I first went to Israel. I remember little about the trip—how hot and dry it was, the orange tree in my grandmother’s yard, the old graveyard where my brother Igor was buried, and the living corpse that was my great-grandmother. It was strange to go from seeing her, almost ghostly at ninety-seven but still alive, to the stone marking Igor’s passing. He was only twenty-three. I dreamt about my great-grandmother for years after, a long hallway and her at the end, in a wheelchair, staring at me in a deep loathing. Now, she, too, was gone, and my grandmother, Lily, replaced her in that small, coffin-like apartment. Aging scares me.

I wasn’t raised Jewish, not really. My family was that post-Soviet brand of Jew, indifferent to religious values but clinging on to the title—our ethnicity—and the rather random selection of qualities associated with it. That identity was wholly reliant on Russia’s heavy antisemitism that forced us into a homogenous Jewish community. In the United States, surrounded by gentiles, I quickly grew apart from it, the word “Jewish” becoming paradoxically more and more shameful. Now, it meant “zionist” or “anti-Palestinian,” all things that I decidedly was not. The thought of going to Israel was only exciting due to the international novelty, and I barely mentioned that I was going to any of my friends. 

Initially, the trip’s significance was mainly rooted in seeing my father, Marat. He left Russia at the same time as me, but instead of heading for America, he decided to make his new home in Montenegro—a small, mountainous Balkan nation—where he still lives. Because of his busy schedule and my travel restrictions, I wasn’t able to see him since we parted ways, and our communication was, at best, seldom. So, as soon as I was able to travel, he and I planned a trip to Israel, joined by my mother’s elder son, Misha, to visit my grandmother and enjoy some badly-needed family time. 

The week began dully and awkwardly. Being around my withering grandmother was at once deeply terrifying and saddening, and the palpable silence between Marat and I lingered despite the close quarters of his car, in which most of our time was spent. Of course, I reasoned bitterly, that it was naive of me to expect any emotional vulnerability from him—our relationship has been purely obligatory for most of my life. Because of this, our conversations revolved around his work, and when that subject miraculously exhausted itself, Marat would occasionally inquire about my future plans. Having made his own career in the world of politics, he both pressured me to do the same, and discouraged me from any hope of doing so. In his mind, this path was the only one worth taking—and yet I was clearly inadequate for it. Still, my path has always been clear: college, law school, the state department. I was excited for it, and more interested in politics than anyone I knew. Still, I’ve always been part of the artistic crowd, poets and painters and street artists. That was the community that I feel the most at home in, and the contrast between its welcome and my expected corporate future was stark. 

This contrast shone when I was transferred into my brother’s care from that of Marat’s. Misha, at thirty-seven, still dressed like a high schoolboy. His work was in the street culture industry, so his typical pastime involved smoking weed, doing graffiti, and listening to Russian rap. Being with him made me realize that even as a person ages, they don’t have to lose the often reckless vitality of youth. I was used to treating Misha’s career as childish, which it was in the eyes of the rest of our family, and in my mind, he was still in his twenties. The time we spent together in Israel, however, led me to see him as an adult—a cool adult, which I didn’t even know existed. His path, different from my father’s, was no less exciting and offered a culture that was as creative and open like the one I am in right now. Seeing him and his friends forced me to face the fact that I had absolutely been dreading my future, the legal career inevitably making me forsake my self-expression, my artmaking, and my queerness—all vital parts of my identity. Seeing that there was another way was incredibly liberating, and came at just the right time.

In the weeks surrounding the trip, I began planning my directorial debut at my school and grew to see myself more and more in the director’s seat. I entertained a career in directing previously but was embarrassed by it, knowing that it would be looked down upon by my parents. I came back to Chicago with the knowledge that my options weren’t limited by my acceptance, just like Misha’s weren’t. I was finally able to grow into the person that I wanted to be, and there was nothing more joyful.  

With Misha, I explored Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, walked across the cities’ streets with a lens of art. There, I noticed some of the most beautiful graffiti I’d ever seen, with nearly every building painted over, colorful. The markets, the houses, the sand-colored landscape, and the ancient alleys—everything breathed with culture, vibrant and familiar. I felt at home there, just as my ancestors did once, and returned with a deeply revolutionized knowledge of myself and what I wanted out of life.

Now, I am no longer scared of growing old, because I know that I will become the person I have always dreamt of being. No matter what.

Eva is a high school senior, an INFP, a Slytherin, and, among other things, a poet. Growing up in Russia in a family of political dissidents, she struggled with her parents' and peers' expectations. Now, a refugee in Chicago, she has learned to let go (a little bit) and notice the beauty in the world. And write about it. She is passionate about the Beatnik movement, the 1920s, electoral politics, contemporary art, and people-watching. She also occasionally exists on Instagram at @evagelmann.

This article was edited by Kailah Figueroa

Copyedited by Tah Ai Jia