The Banksy Copycat: a historical fiction

A historical fiction that seeks to express hope through art

Author note: I wrote this historical fiction piece as a response to the Russian invasion of Ukraine that started on 24 February 2022. The devastation of the torn-down cities and bombed hospitals, schools, and homes sent shockwaves of terror and confusion across the globe. I have always valued and believed in the power of humanity and our capacity for hope, empathy, and love. I find that through art, we can achieve a sense of belonging and hope, even through the most devastating circumstances. As we see the current political and social crisis of the attacks of Hamas against Israel, we strive to keep our humanity intact as thousands of innocent civilians’ lives in Palestine and Israel are destroyed, along with schools, homes, churches, synagogues, and mosques.

I would like to ask my readers to take a moment now to truly reflect on our own blessings, and give our thanks and spiritual trust in our shared humanity, through our faiths and with our family and friends.  I hope you enjoy my story about a young Ukraine girl who finds hope in her newfound love of art.

The Banksy Copycat

“What if these walls could talk, eh, what would they tell me?” The plucky little girl with brown hair over her eyes thought to herself and took the half-empty spray paint can and shook it under her coat, mapping her vision piece by piece as she walked along the deep tattered broken-up night.

Her papa who called her Maya, gave it to her in secret. Her name was Maryska, which meant bitter. She didn’t feel bitter, even now, as she and her family were running away to Poland.

Her papa had to stay behind. So did her father. And her older brother.

She wanted to stay behind too.

Staying behind only meant standing your ground.

And she wanted to let the invaders know this story. Her story.

Twelve years old is already a tricky part of adolescent pain and growth, you’re not quite a kid and you’re not a woman yet.

You are in between and it’s awkward and daunting and confusing and hard.

But, she will be strong for her mother. The mother who did everything for her and everyone.

She used to read about art in between school and her extracurricular activities. Her mother made sure she was up to date on modern art and artists as well.

“This man graffities cities and streets and brick walls. He does it late at night and he hides, but his art speaks for us all,” Her mother then said his name, Banksy.

Bomb Hugger was one of her favorites.

But, she didn’t think so.

She believed in his art. For the need of its very birth. The necessitation of its ongoing survival.

Like feeling something deep in your bones, the need for it to be created and seen.

Her father was muttering in a rapid and highly stressed fashion that night before she and her mother and baby sister left.

Before she got that paint can and decided to hurriedly run through a vision she had in her mind that would not leave her brain.

“We are all together. No matter what, Lubov moya,” Her father whispered to his wife. “But, no matter who is trying to take away our future and our freedom, there is a moment that defines us. And that is why I will stay. Why we can’t give in. This grit and deeply ingrained sense of identity is what we hold onto. To survive. To carry on.”

The plucky girl with the cheap spray paint can moved her brown hair away from her deep, green eyes.

She outlined her vision on a broken brick wall. It was the local hospital that had been bombed.

She had a bit of light from a flashlight her papa gave her and created her magnum opus.

A girl throwing a flower at a mirror.

The girl throwing the flower had a Ukrainian flag draped around her waist.

The other girl in the mirror had many different flags around her.

Then she showed the flower cracking the mirror.

She wanted to let these soldiers and military leaders know one thing:

We were all the same. Whatever you have done to us, you have done to yourselves.

A very simple, elementary lesson, she believes she has postured. At first.

But, she leaves the flashlight pointed the the point between the flower and the two worlds.

The crack in between, exposing the moment of silence right before something can hit you hard.

Hit you deeper and more potently than a brick or a bullet.

She felt like a Banksy copycat, but had a strong sense of pride in her craft. She felt her father would never see street artists the same again hoping that he will see her debut piece by chance. She smiled to herself as she went back to her mother and sister.

The End.