I was raised by my grandparents in a small city in Moscow province. I called my grandmother ‘mom’ for as long as I can remember. Ten years ago, I was abroad on a summer study trip when she died suddenly. My relatives decided not to tell me so that I could finish my studies in peace. But, of course, from their silence, I deduced that something terrible had happened at home. I was so paralysed with fear that I didn't even ask. I waited for the end of my studies in appalling oblivion.
When I returned, my grandmother was already buried. I never saw her body and for a long time couldn’t believe that she was no more. She just disappeared, and it seemed to me that at any moment she would appear again. It took me years to realise that she was really gone. I also had to cope with agoraphobia, and begin to get out of the house and travel again.
The death of my grandmother completely changed my life, but also made me who I am today. It made me a feminist activist, as I wanted to do something that would restore harmony and meaning to the world that I had lost. It made me a scholar, as I wanted to better understand those who had been like parents to me.
