25 Aug A photo camera and a favorite teddy bear
February 24 divided our lives into before and after. Forever. I’ll never forget that morning. I woke up at 5:00 a.m. to the sound of airplanes. I went out on the balcony and could hear explosions outside the city. They were bombing the airports.
I picked up the phone and read a post in our photographers’ chat room: It began, guys! WAR!
At some point I decided I was in a dream. After all, what kind of war can there be in the 21st century? We live in the heart of Europe, a peaceful and hard-working people who has never attacked anyone. What war? I was supposed to shoot a wedding that today. There was chaos in my head, I browsed the news feeds and all the work chats. And the only news that was on everywhere was: Putin did it! He declared war!
I sat in the kitchen, hugging my dog, completely lost, unable to grasp what was happening, what was going to happen.
By 8 a.m., the airplane noises had died down. A terrible silence fell over the city. By 10 a.m., the city was filled with queues of people crying at the ATMs. They withdrew money from all their bank cards, as if they knew something. There were queues at petrol stations for miles. People were leaving the city in droves. And it seemed like I was the only one who didn’t understand what was going on, a kind of surrealism. The bride called me, I was supposed to photograph her wedding. She was sobbing and gasping for air as if in disbelief that on her wedding day the war started.
All day I sat and waited for some news and explanations. Like in a crazy nightmare. Later video footage began to emerge; burning cities, columns of military equipment and reassuring speeches by our President.
I was sure that it was some kind of provocation, that the politicians would sit down, sign some agreements, and tomorrow it would all be over. But by late afternoon, people began sharing the locations of bomb shelters. There were none in our area. Whenever an air raid would begin, people climbed down into ordinary basements with no water, ventilation or emergency exits. Many have realized that if a missile hit there, these basements would become mass graves. But they kept going down anyway.
I once saw a film about a Jewish family that ended up in a concentration camp during World War II. The father did all that was possible to protect not only his son’s life, but also his mental state. He said it was just a game where they were supposed to hide some place and run all the time. And a prize awaited them at the end. The child survived.
I tried to do the same. Every air raid meant we’d be running all cheery to the nearest basement carrying a mattress, some food and our dog. There were children and pets in the basement, watching cartoons and eating cookies. And when the gunfire and explosions got nearer, I turned the cartoon volume up so the kids couldn’t hear them. Crying in the basement was not allowed! It was the number one rule to avoid scaring the children.
Ghastly videos of blown-up houses and shot up cars had started filling the Internet. There was ever more talk of the atrocities committed by the Russian soldiers. They tortured and murdered men, raped women and children. They destroyed everything in their path. Cities have turned into ruins.
Every day, the Russians were closing in trying to capture Mykolaiv. My home city. Several times troops landed within the city. One evening, I was making fried potatoes and felt like opening up the window. I could hear machine-gun fire coming from the next-door courtyard. The place where our children used to play! I realized that this was no longer my hometown. Now it turned into a stranger, cold and unsafe.
On the outskirts there was terrible fighting. One night, a Russian tank even came near our building. It drove along the main street firing at residential buildings until it was destroyed by the Ukrainian army.
Another week went by, rockets began reaching the city. From that point on there was a real chance you would go to bed and never wake up again. Nights spent on the concrete floor of the basement were getting harder to bear. My husband and I could barely get a few hours of sleep. My nerves strung out, I was hurting all the time.
More than anything, I was afraid of the city being occupied or locked in a blockade. I would imagine how the Russians could one day break into our home and what they would do to me and my child.
The packed bags have been sitting in our hallway since the first day of the war. We just needed to get up the courage and leave. Leave our home, our parents, our happy life and our dreams of a bright future. A future there.
March 9 was the day we left. Waking up in the morning on the concrete floor of the basement, I realized that we couldn’t go on like this. We took lots of warm clothes because the border crossing would have to be done at night. On foot. I took my camera and laptop because photography was the only way I could earn a living. And I let my son take the teddy bear he sleeps with and put a few small toys in his backpack pocket.
As we were leaving, a new air raid had begun. Missiles flew overhead. We ran towards the bus and prayed that the bridges would still be standing. After all, our city is on a river and the only safe way out at that time meant crossing a bridge.
I looked into my husband’s eyes and tried to hold back the tears. He tried too, he even smiled. But mentally we said our goodbyes.
Our bus made it across, the bridges collapsed right behind us. I knew they were mined. In the event of a Russian invasion of the city, our army was prepared to blow up the bridges. To save the next city – Odesa. I knew that from the first day of the war.
I wasn’t going any place in particular. I had nothing planned. I just wanted to live where there were no missiles flying, no troops landing, no bridges blowing up, and no hospitals or schools burning.
We crossed the border quickly. Volunteers fed us. Trains were packed. Children, animals in cages, lots of suitcases. Sometimes people would leave half of their things at the train station as there wasn’t enough room for everyone. Abandoned luggage. Some have even left their pets behind. I can’t understand that. It’s like leaving your child at the train station alone, hungry and scared. I left my dog with my husband and we would never leave her.
It was very crowded in the train car. Night transfers with a sleeping child and suitcases – it wasn’t easy. We took several trains and buses. And on March 10, at night, we arrived in Bucharest.
The volunteers put us up in a very nice family center. I knew nothing about Romania, but the people here were very kind and open-hearted. Everyone tried to help in some way. My child was crying and didn’t want to go anywhere else. That’s how I made the decision to stay. He decided, in fact.
I don’t know where to go now. All that made up our life, everything we once loved was now a ruin. My son’s school, his favorite café, our grandmother’s house, the restaurant where we used to eat, hospitals, universities, all of it was destroyed by Russian missiles. The forest has burned down and the beach where we took our walks is now a mine field.
I don’t know if Ukraine has a future and what that future would be like. But my son should have one. That’s why I’m here. For my child’s sake, I, like the weeds, will take root under any conditions. I will find a job, make friends and move on as if nothing has changed. But now there is forever a black hole in my heart aching like a sore joint every time home is spoken of.
You go to work every day, do stuff, go someplace, smile and even make jokes. And the world around you is completely different. Now everything has become so plain. The beautiful landscapes are not pleasing to the eye, the food seems bland, you’re even afraid to turn the music on because there’s still war at home. Or maybe I don’t have a home anymore.
My hometown, my Mykolaiv is now a martyr city! It protected, like a shield, the whole of Southern Ukraine. The Russians are angry that they can’t capture it and are blowing it to pieces. One night over 40 rockets were fired into the city. And somewhere amid this inferno are my parents, my brother, my grandfather and my husband who have stayed behind and are now defending our city with the military.
Every morning I wake up and dread picking up the phone. When I see a video of new devastation, I go to the bathroom and have a quiet weep so that my child doesn’t see my tears.
Until February 24, I had an amazing life. I was a family photographer. I was photographing happiness. Now I can’t even pick up my camera. After all, happiness was stolen from me.
If women ruled the world, there would probably be no wars. After all, only women can understand how hard it is to give life, and how hard it is to save it.
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Kateryna is now the newest bookseller on the Seneca Anticafe team and was part of the 3rd group taking the intensive Romanian courses offered to Ukrainians by SNK Scholarship program.
Story donated by Kateryna Hadilova to the Museum of Abandonment as part of the Suitcases of Abandonment campaign. Project funded by CARE through the Sera Foundation, Care France and FONPC
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