By Olha Chepil | 2026-05-21

In a Kyiv courtyard, the air smells of coffee brewed on sand. Tables hold baklava and kobete -- traditional Crimean Tatar pies. Decorations list the names of peninsula towns: Sudak, Aqmescit, Eski Qirim. Outside the window is Kyiv.

For more than a decade, Crimean Tatars have been celebrating Hidirlez away from home. This year, hundreds gathered across three Ukrainian cities -- Kyiv, Lviv and Odesa -- for one of the most important Crimean Tatar holidays, marking the arrival of spring. The festival raises the same question it always does: when does the temporary become permanent?

Crimea for a day

Hidirlez was traditionally celebrated outdoors with family and neighbors on the peninsula. After Russia's occupation in 2014, the holiday moved to the mainland. This year marked its second large-scale iteration in exile.

"There is a need for these platforms where you can get together with your community, feel that Crimean vibe, listen to music, eat treats, and participate in contests," Ayshe Umerova, co-founder of the Qadın Divanı public organization and one of the festival's organizers, told Kontur.

After the first Hidirlez in this format, other events followed: Eid al-Adha, Crimean Tatar Flag Day and International Day of the World's Indigenous Peoples. Each opens with a discussion. This year's topic was literature.

The festival draws a broad crowd. About half the attendees are Ukrainians. The kobete competition drew contestants beyond the Crimean Tatar community -- participants who simply wanted to join in. Ten bakers brought their pies anonymously, each assigned a number. Guests voted with tokens while a jury conducted a blind tasting. Kobete comes in many forms -- with meat, broth or vegetables -- and every cook has her own secret.

"We used to hold these contests back at school in Crimea. These are family traditions," organizer Elvira Emirova told Kontur.

One guest, Valentyna Evseenko, came from Mariupol. She is Urum, a representative of the Azov Greeks, a Turkic-speaking people, and said much of what she saw felt familiar -- similar words, similar traditions.

"We must come together to show that we exist, we haven't forgotten, and we haven't faded away," Evseenko told Kontur. "My homeland is also occupied. We exist, and we have every intention and plan to return home."

'When you are not home, you are not home'

Najie Ametova has lived in Kyiv for nine years. A journalist and public figure, she created the Faces of Free Crimea project for QIRIM.Media. She left Sudak in 2017 after Russian security forces detained her father, civil activist Kyazim Ametov, on political charges.

"I remember leaving -- I cried so much. I didn't want to leave Crimea. I feel a deep connection to that land," Ametova told Kontur. She grew up in a family that forbade any language but Crimean Tatar at home.

At first she could still visit, returning for two weeks at a time to see relatives and hear the language. The full-scale invasion ended those trips. Now she relies on phone calls -- when her parents' VPN in Crimea is working.

"If the VPN is down, I simply cannot reach them. There is no other way," she said.

For Ametova, festivals like Hidirlez are a lifeline. In Kyiv, Lviv or Odesa, Crimean Tatar is rarely heard. The familiar city names are gone, along with the neighbors she once shared morning coffee with.

"You are constantly fighting to preserve this identity -- speaking the language whenever possible and attending events with people who share the same pain and the same dream of returning home," she said.

A generation letting go

Ten years in, Ametova sees a new fear taking hold: growing comfortable with life without Crimea.

Those who survived the 1944 Soviet deportation and fought to return to their native soil still long to go back. But among younger Crimean Tatars, the answers are shifting. Ametova described a recent conversation with an acquaintance who said she might keep a cottage in Crimea for her old age, but her work and ambitions are in Kyiv now. She would probably stay.

"Honestly, that terrified me," Ametova said.

The demand for Crimea's return persists, she argued, because people still experience their current lives as unfinished.

"I feel that the puzzle will only truly come together in Crimea. But only if it is a Ukrainian Crimea," she said.