Mariia Smyrnova: Carrying Hope Beyond the Ruins

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💙💛 By Olena Gadomska

When people ask me about life before the war, I always pause. Which war do they mean – 2014 or 2022? Both tore apart my life and left deep wounds.

I was born and raised in Mariupol, a city that was both industrial and full of beauty. For me, Mariupol was not just a place on the map but a part of who I was. I loved the Sea of Azov, the rich history, and the unique mix of cultures – Ukrainians, Greeks, Armenians, Jews, and many others – living side by side like in a small version of Canada.

Mariia Smyrnova

My life’s calling was education. I studied Religious Studies, Philosophy, Linguistics, and International Relations, and by the age of 26, I defended my dissertation and became Chair of the Translation Department at a local university. Teaching and research brought me joy. At the same time, I worked as an interpreter with international organizations, translated for European missions, and volunteered in the Orthodox Church, coordinating social projects and teaching theology. My life was busy and full of meaning.

That life ended on February 24, 2022. The full-scale invasion turned Mariupol into a place of death and devastation. Within days, the city was cut off. There was no electricity, no water, no heat. In March, the nightmare deepened. Bombs fell continuously. All infrastructure was destroyed. People were starving, melting snow for water, and even eating doves. Every day, neighbours were buried in makeshift graves. Jets circled above us every ten minutes, bringing explosions, fire, and terror.

I stayed in a basement near the sea with almost no food and water. Each day felt like borrowed time – relief that I was alive mixed with guilt that others were not. My church was air-bombed, and its elder was burned alive. Friends and colleagues disappeared, many never to be seen again. A hundred thousand of Mariupol's residents were killed by bombs, by hunger, by disease, or shot when they tried to escape.

By the end of March, we had only one chance to escape. The road out of Mariupol was through ruins, destroyed villages, and Russian checkpoints. Shelling followed us, and death was always near. Somehow, I survived.

After some months in Western Ukraine and then Poland, my family and I arrived in Canada in February 2023. We were safe, but starting over from nothing. Our academic diplomas seemed to have no value, our perfect English felt strange and out of place, and every loud noise reminded us of the bombs. We carried grief that had no words, and yet we had to keep going – for each other.

Canada is not Mariupol. It will never replace my home, my friends scattered across the world, or the graves I cannot visit. But slowly, I have found a sense of peace here. The forests and trails, the geese on the lakes, the simple act of feeding birds – these things calm me and help me breathe again.

Now I am pursuing a Master’s in Theology at the University of Waterloo, focusing my research on post-Mariupol theology. It is my way of honouring those who perished and preserving the memory of my city. One day, I dream of giving my parents a home again by the sea in Ukraine.

I no longer dream of big, grand things. Life has shown me how fragile everything is. Instead, I hold on to small seeds of hope: that healing is possible, that kindness can restore faith, and that even after unbearable loss, life continues. Canada may never erase my grief, but it is becoming part of my journey – a place where I am learning to carry both sorrow and gratitude together.