What does it feel like to witness the onset of war through the window of your own home? “Wars begin in silence,” I heard in Chernov’s film, and this story exemplifies that reality. This report follows an ordinary woman who faced the war head-on in one of the hottest spots at the start of the full-scale invasion—in Irpin. Her experience serves as a testament to how a civilian endured one of the most brutal occupations in modern history. (This conversation took place in March 2022.)
At 5:50 AM on February 24, a call from her brother jolted Inna and her family awake in Irpin. He informed them that missiles were already flying over the capital. By 10:30 AM, they saw Russian helicopters flying towards Hostomel and witnessed explosions at the city airport from their window. The war had literally flown into their lives.
Inna, a 45-year-old woman with light hair and rosy cheeks, lived with her two children—14-year-old daughter Oleksandra and 9-year-old son Fedor—in a small apartment on the first floor of an old multi-storey building on the edge of town with a view of Hostomel. The family had slept through the initial moments of the invasion; it was eerily quiet.
After the call from her brother, Inna was left confused about the situation unfolding around her. Neighbours quickly packed their lives into a few suitcases, and the apartment complex seemed to disassemble like a toy Lego set. Some neighbours got into their cars and left the city. The sounds of explosions were everywhere, but Inna had not yet grasped the urgency to flee. They stayed in Irpin, in their apartment, but not for long. By 9:30 PM, during the bombardment of Kyiv, the explosions had reached her town. In the following days, the shelling and fighting only grew closer, though Ukrainian Ground Forces had not yet arrived in Irpin.
From light to complete darkness
By February 26, Chechen forces had entered the neighbouring town of Bucha, and by February 30, Russian troops had occupied 30% of Irpin. With no shelter in her building, Inna and her children urgently sought refuge nearby. It was relatively close, but they had to walk briskly for about a kilometre to reach a former retirement home for the elderly.
The place bore no resemblance to a bomb shelter; it was an old basement with partitions, resembling small rooms, and they took refuge in one of these. The family brought only essential items to the basement: documents, the clothes they were wearing, and some spare underwear. They understood that if they had to flee, running with suitcases would be impossible.
For the next 12 days, they lived in the complete darkness of the basement, without light, gas, or communication with loved ones, along with 57 other people.
“It was terrifying,” recalls Inna. Yet, people adapted surprisingly well: men fashioned makeshift iron tools for minimal protection, and the children played at being guards, using language as their only weapon.
“Who’s there? Say ‘palyanytsia,’ [Ukrainian pronunciation of “pa-lya-ny-tsia,” with its distinct vowel and consonant sequences, is easily handled by Russian-speaking Ukrainians, but Russians struggle to pronounce the soft “ts” sound that does not exist in their language – ed.]” they would command, firmly believing they were safeguarding their families. The procedure was strict: everyone approaching the shelter door had to stand perfectly straight, as if measured with a ruler, and pronounce the code word correctly.
Otherwise, the worst fate awaited them. “Moskali!” [Russians – ed.] the children would shout, and the adults took this very seriously.
On March 3, Irpin was hit by an enemy airstrike that destroyed part of the buildings. Inna realised the basement was the safest option, so she and her children settled there. Outside, the whistling of rockets, seemingly targeting the retirement home, and deafening explosions echoed around them. Later, their relatives managed to join them, and they all shared the small basement room.
Life in the abyss
Food was in short supply in Irpin. All the city’s shops were closed; some had been abandoned, while others had been looted by marauders. The only exception was a small grocery store, which reopened briefly on February 25 to distribute food to those in need and even treat children to ice cream.
In the retirement home, staff and volunteers provided meals from their own reserves and shared whatever they had with others. Keeping the children fed was the priority; the adults would manage.
“We didn’t know when it would end, so we saved as much as we could to make our supplies last,” recalls Inna.
Despite the constant danger, the temporary shelter was filled with a spirit of kindness and unity. “There was no distinction between us—whether rich or poor,” the woman emphasises. “People shared their food, warmed themselves by the kettle, and supported each other.”
The cellar was crowded, and one room housed an elderly woman in poor health who had been cared for at the retirement home. Local men had helped transport her. Her daughters had left her at the beginning of the full-scale invasion and gone abroad.
— “Come pick up your mother.”
— “We’re abroad. Do whatever you want with her.”
Despite the lack of medicine and diapers, the local retirement home staff stayed with the elderly woman until the very end.
Even pets were given priority and not left behind. People brought their dogs, cats, and even small animals like rats, guinea pigs, and hamsters, which coexisted with the others in the cramped shelter. Inna’s family also had a dog—a small grey French bulldog who, terrified by the shelling, ran away during the final evacuation. The children missed him dearly, but the dog miraculously survived.
“He was found! He’s now in Kyiv! We’re in touch with the people who brought him out of Irpin. He’s a bit deaf from the explosions, but he still responds to my voice,” Inna joyfully recounts.
‘Black canyon’ of Russian occupation
The fighting in the city was relentless, with the enemy spreading through it like ants. Initially, for their own safety, people became “invisible”—dark shadows in the depths of the night. As days grew shorter, one could slip outside unnoticed by midday. The entrance to the basement was from the courtyard, concealed from the street, allowing people to step out for fresh air and attempt to catch a signal. However, on March 7, 2022, Russian troops began targeting the basement area with automatic weapons.
“We huddled in those cold walls without ever leaving. We had an old feature phone with a reliable battery and a power bank. We rationed its use, turning it on every three hours to check for news, to see where the Ukrainian forces were, and where the occupiers were,” Inna recalls.
There were times when the occupiers threw grenades into basements where civilians were sheltering, prompting silent prayers that this horror would not become their reality. Even the hamsters, endlessly spinning in their wheels, would freeze in their tracks at those moments.
On the morning of March 8, a radio announcement suggested that reaching Kyiv on foot via the Romaniv Bridge might be possible. However, the family was terrified due to a tragic incident from the previous day. On February 26, foreign buses arrived to evacuate those willing to leave the city. At that time, the occupiers were preparing a human shield to advance towards Kyiv. They misled people through authoritative sources—local officials—who falsely claimed to have organised a green corridor for a safe and unimpeded exit from Irpin. Instead, Irpin’s territorial defence thwarted the plan, resulting in some locals being forcibly transported to Belarus.
“Russians try to cross our river, I believe, three times, despite its small size and narrow width. But at some point, the Ukrainian forces blew up the dam, causing the river to overflow. That’s why the occupiers didn’t know how deep it was and couldn’t advance,” Inna explains.
People found out from Mayor Oleksandr Marhushin that the evacuation was a ruse. He communicated updates on the situation in Irpin whenever possible, where residents read about the Russian military’s manipulations.
However, on March 8, those who could move decided to risk their safety and attempt to cross the Romaniv Bridge. The route to the bridge passed through areas controlled by Ukrainian defenders, though the concept of ‘safety’ in such circumstances was highly subjective. Inna, unwilling to wait any longer, joined a group of other residents or familiar strangers, as she preferred to call them, in their bid for safety.
Their journey began on Poltavska Street, where shelling was already underway. People sprinted as fast as they could, seeking cover beneath the railway as enemy helicopters hovered overhead. These helicopters, armed with “Grad” rockets, obliterated everything in sight—any movement, any creature—without hesitation or discernment.
The explosions were frequent and intense. Only after some time did the thick grey smoke clear enough to reveal a sliver of sky. As the chaos momentarily subsided, Inna, with her children and family, resumed their trek along Ozerna Street towards Romanivka, a settlement near Irpin. Unfortunately, the street was a scene of utter devastation—collapsed buildings, burnt-out cars, and a haunting emptiness that resembled a war film.
As they approached the Romaniv Bridge, the residents of Irpin were confronted with a grim reality: bloodstains on the asphalt signalled that not everyone had made it to safety. Abandoned vehicles littered the area, left by those who had either been turned away or worse—shot or set ablaze. With no other choice, the family pressed on, stepping onto the bridge with determination, leaving no room for hesitation.
“Ozerna was terrifying, but the bridge itself was worse,” Inna recalls. “There were hundreds of cars, all riddled with bullets and burnt out. On the bridge, there were bloodstains—human blood—and scattered body parts, both large and small.” She clenches her teeth as she recounts the horror.
Within minutes, they reached the end of the bridge and were met by Ukrainian Armed Forces soldiers who helped them cross safely. They were then escorted to a church in Romanivka, where volunteers awaited them. Large evacuation buses, parked behind, took the family to a safer location near Kyiv, offering a much-needed sense of relief.
Despite escaping the immediate danger, Inna felt no joy. Her mind was clouded with the uncertainty of an unknown future. There was no time for reflection; part of the family headed to Lviv, while Inna visited relatives in the Zhytomyr region before joining them.
At Lviv’s main railway station, local volunteers were on hand to help the family settle in and rest after their gruelling journey. “My nine-year-old son came running up, asking for a sandwich. After eating it, he brought another one to me. The feeling of being homeless… I’m 45 years old, and I’ve lost everything,” Inna says, her voice breaking with emotion.
The weight of losing everything she once had, coupled with the collective suffering of countless Ukrainians displaced by the war, was overwhelming. “I have to start my life from scratch. And I’m not alone—millions of us are in this situation. It’s terrifying to think that with the actions of one sick individual, millions have been left without homes, families, or loved ones,” she adds sorrowfully.
Despite the despair, the family’s stay at the station was brief. Thanks to the prompt actions of local volunteers, they soon found temporary accommodation and remained resolute in their decision to stay in their country.
The road to peace
Initially, Inna and her family sought refuge in Stryi, a city about an hour’s drive from Lviv. They were accommodated at School No. 2 on Taras Shevchenko Street, close to the city centre, where the local community had transformed part of the school into a temporary shelter for internally displaced persons. For about a week, they stayed on the first floor, in a room marked “4-B Class” behind a large white door. The shelter offered them a roof over their heads and a semblance of peace amidst the turmoil.
During their stay, volunteers assisted them in finding a permanent residence nearby. “The little house is wonderful; we couldn’t have imagined a better place. I’m sure we’ll grow to love it, and it will come to love us,” Inna says, her gratitude evident. Nonetheless, she is determined to return to Irpin once it is safe, to rebuild the home she holds dear.
