Once upon a time... Two years ago, to be precise, I visited Israel. Well, "visit" is the wrong word. It was a two-week spiritual journey to the religious roots. We visited the most important places for Christians: Jerusalem, Mount Zion, Nazareth, the Sea of Galilee, Bethlehem. And to be clear—I'm not a religious person. Yes, I was baptized as a child and, like every Russian, wear a mandatory cross around my neck. But I don't go to church; I don't know how to pray. I believe in various things—but I don't believe the church represents them. So for me, it was just a historical journey—to see "the Bible come alive." To Bethlehem. When I was there, in the cave where Jesus was supposedly born, something happened to me. I burst into tears, feeling as if I were part of an ocean of sadness, love, joy, hope, and a deep sense of belonging... I couldn't stop crying until I was outside, and suddenly one of the church ministers approached me. He hugged me, took off his cross, and gave it to me: "Your tears are beautiful. Never forget where you belong."
That struck me. Suddenly, I realized what this cross, and every other cross, means to me. Not a symbol of religious belief, but my own symbol of belonging and respect. I've been living abroad for almost nine years. I speak different languages, work in different countries, consider myself a European, and have even applied for European citizenship—as a conscious choice. Modern Russia isn't a place where I feel right at home. And for a long time, I tried to hide my "Russianness" and pretend I was someone else. But I am Russian at heart—made of the rustling of birch trees, the melancholy of Dostoyevsky, and the romanticism of Rachmaninoff. And when I began to respect that, it began to give me energy and strength. So now I wear a cross around my neck every day. But not the obligatory one. It's a cross of respect for my roots and my culture, which is a part of me—and is always with me.
