When Maksym Netkachev—who often goes by "Max"—first arrived in Macomb through an exchange program, he carried more than just a backpack and a Ukrainian accent. He carried memories of air raid sirens, nights interrupted by shelling, and the strange numbness of living through a war that started when he was just fourteen years old. For a year and a half, the bombs fell on his hometown in the Kyiv region. They targeted civilians, he says quietly, for reasons he still doesn't understand.

Now a junior at Macomb High School, Max is quick to say what he treasures most about his new home: peace. "It's very cozy here," he explained. "No one is bombing you. Everything is quiet, and people are good."

That simple statement reflects the enormity of what he has lived through. Growing up in the Kyiv region, Max attended a school he describes as "like a dark ghetto," where discipline meant something different than it does here. "Very strict discipline," he recalls. "If they don't like something, you will get hit." The contrast he found in Macomb is striking. "Here, teachers treat you like a person," he said, his voice brightening. "Not like in a gulag. They respect you, and that feels very different."

Language was a hurdle at first. During our conversation, Max hesitated when speaking in English, searching for words. But once encouraged to switch to Ukrainian, his thoughts flowed freely—full of humor, honesty, and conviction. It was a reminder that behind the language barrier is a young man with much to say.

Max has also found support in friendship. He speaks warmly about Jonathan, a classmate he describes as "a very exceptional person" and the kind of true friend who matters more to him than a crowd. "I don't care how many friends there should be," he explains. "The main thing for me is to have one true friend." That sense of connection has given him a foundation in a new country where even the smallest gestures—the way people talk, how they try to understand—have become precious to him.

Max's eyes light up when he talks about the future. He loves the gym, once trained in mixed martial arts, and now dreams of serving others through law enforcement. "I want to join the police," he said with unmistakable determination. "America got me out of such a mess... I will become a police officer here in this city."

His plan is methodical: college first, then police academy, two years of service, and eventually the FBI. He already participates in the Police Explorer program, taking concrete steps toward his vision. "I am a very fair person," Max insisted. "I don't like it when people do nonsense on the street—grabbing, killing, whatever. This country should have many protectors. And I am one of those who wants to protect this country, because I see how beautiful it is."

For a young man who has seen what happens when law and order collapse, this dream feels less like ambition and more like a calling—a way to repay the country that gave him safety.

Like any teenager experiencing a new culture, Max notices the small things. He laughs about portion sizes—"So much food! You look and think, oh my God, how will I eat all this?"—and marvels at how Americans seem to put butter on everything. "In Ukraine, everything is natural. Here it's different, but I like it."

What surprises him most, though, is the way people speak to one another. "I just really like how people talk to you here," he said. "They try." For someone who has lived in fear, that effort—the everyday kindness of ordinary people—means everything.

Max doesn't romanticize his past. He admits to living with "mild PTSD," the lingering freeze that comes when something feels unfamiliar. "I might freeze for a minute and then come back," he explains matter-of-factly. But he refuses to let fear define him.

Instead, he marvels at America with the eyes of someone who knows what it means to lose everything. His perspective is both profound and refreshingly innocent: "Every city, every state is a big piece of art. Everyone has their own people, everyone has their own rules, and everyone has something that others do not." He pauses, searching for the right words. "You compare each one, and they are all beautiful, all of them. I don't care what they are like. Each has its own charm."

That perspective, born of hardship, is a gift to Macomb. In sharing his story, Max offers his classmates and neighbors a reminder of what is too easily taken for granted: safety, dignity, and the freedom to dream. When you've spent a year and a half wondering if the next bomb will find you, even butter on bread becomes something to marvel at.

He has chosen to see beauty where others might only see differences. In return, the people of Macomb have the opportunity to embrace a young man who reminds them that peace is precious, kindness matters, and every city—even this one—can be a place of new beginnings.