Posted on January 24, 2025
“It took time for me to realize that, now, I am the matryoshka.”
My name is Poli, Amitim 2003. I live in Haifa and I’m a graphic designer. I’m a mother to Naomi (4 years old) and Nevo (a year and 8 months old) and I have an amazing partner named Itai.
I was born in Kyrgyzstan and grew up hearing stories of heroism from my grandfather, who was a pilot. Along with these heroic tales, I also heard the perspective of the women who were left behind and had to survive and protect their children.
These stories, which became part of the history of the people of the former Soviet Union, shaped a clear narrative: the men go to war, and the women carry the burden of life. This is how the myth of the strong woman was born—the one who must not break, because you never know when she’ll be left on her own. Today, I realize how deeply this narrative is ingrained in me and how it shapes the way I deal with my own life.
Over the past year, Itai served in the reserves for 228 days, leaving on the morning of October 7. The first round of reserve duty lasted five months, and the second lasted another three. During this time, I found myself alone with two children, navigating a life that swung between uncertainty, fear, and deep pain in the face of what was happening in the country.
Now, I Am the Matryoshka
Since Russia’s invasion of Ukraine in 2022, I’ve been carrying the image of the matryoshka doll in my mind. The pictures of a million women—mothers who left their homes and fled, carrying all their belongings and their children dressed in thermal clothing—reminded me of the familiar matryoshkas: the wooden figures that contain all their descendants inside. They are the home, they protect the children, they carry the weight of the world on their shoulders, and everything inside them stays hidden within. What a powerful image.
This is the story of the “Soviet” woman: she always stands alone, keeping everything within her, never breaking—because she is “made of wood.”
And then came October 7. It took me months before I could begin to recognize myself in the face of that Ukrainian mother in the photo I had seen a year earlier. It took time for me to realize that, now, I am the matryoshka.
In the past year, I’ve felt invisible to the system. There’s something about how automatic things are here—the notion that a person can be drafted for 228 days, used because they’re needed, without considering the impact on what’s happening at home. It’s been hard to digest. You know that what needs to be done will be done—you’ll take care of the children, the business, the household, and the worries—but no one will acknowledge you.
At some point, the image of the matryoshka began to take shape as an artistic project, and after a lot of encouragement and guidance from the program’s staff, I was also granted the support of the Alumni Venture Fund to bring it to life. I think it’s only thanks to Bronfman that I realized it even has a place.
I’m currently working on a mini exhibition of matryoshkas made of raw clay—fragile and bare. I imagine 50-60 matryoshkas, arranged in rows, somewhat like the terracotta warriors found in China. The army of invisible mothers.
At first, I hadn’t really wanted to create an exhibition, but there was something inside me that needed to be let out. In a way, I created something that forces me to talk to people about my experience. It’s not an easy thing to do. But I think it has some meaning – that it’s not just my personal story. There’s a larger story here, hence the exhibition, the multiplicity, the need to put it all out there.
The Images That Will Tell the Story of This War
When I was an art major in my senior year of high school, my final project explored how visual images shape our personal narratives. I think about it now. We are living in a historic time. It will be studied and taught in many ways, and I believe the visual images that remain from this period will be incredibly significant.
In the past year, some incredible artistic projects have emerged – Bezalel’s “Wrapping Memory” postcards, which depict the kibbutzim in the Gaza Envelope as they once were, with all their beauty and tranquility; and Engelmayer’s Daily Postcards, which have been following this entire period.
I believe the image etched into this chapter of our history is the yellow ribbon for the hostages. It has painted the entire country; it’s everywhere—a yellow chair standing in the middle of a square, signs reading ‘BRING THEM HOME,’ yellow flags waving in solidarity.
The question of who will tell the story of October 7th is, ultimately, a political one. I hope the narrative taught about this period will be that of the struggle of the hostages’ families to bring them back. To me, that’s the real story of this war—these ordinary citizens. When I see a yellow chair, it says it all: it’s empty, someone is missing, and someone is waiting for them to come home.
