I’m a Crimean Tatar American—my roots are in Crimea, a place I can no longer return to. The war has drawn thick lines between where I am and where I’m from—between memory and reality. Over the years, I’ve grown weary of images that show only suffering. I understand the need to document pain, but I also know how it flattens people into symbols of loss.

In 2021, I met Katya and Bohdan at an art collective. Katya fled occupied Debaltseve; Bohdan’s Kramatorsk remains on the edge of the frontlines. We shared something unspoken—this ache of dislocation, of being severed from home, culture, and language.

When the chance came to return to liberated parts of Ukraine, we didn’t go as journalists or war chroniclers. We went with songs, with costumes, with a centuries-old Ukrainian tradition—Vertep. We carried it into towns marked by occupation, and we performed in the streets, in broken buildings, in front of people still piecing together their lives.

This film is about that act: returning not just to place, but to joy, to meaning. It's about choosing creation over despair. Through the eyes of young performers, we revisit what war tried to erase. Through movement, voice, and presence, we reclaim space.

For me, this isn’t just a film—it’s a way of saying: we are still here. Our culture lives. Our stories live. Even if only for a moment, we made a new world together.

We endure. We dream. Imagination, too, is a weapon. So we use it.