I woke up to explosions and immediately checked my watch. The precise details of this horror swept me off my feet. It’s 7:17 a.m., Tuesday, January 23. We are practically in the middle of Europe, in Kyiv, Ukraine. It’s -1 degree Celsius outside, and a group of Russian X-101 missiles were launched from their Tu-95 aircraft. If this doesn’t ring a bell to you, then you’re probably not from Ukraine.
The glass suddenly rattles, but not too much. I hear familiar muffled explosions coming from the air defence systems and decide not to wake anyone up. My husband is peacefully sleeping next to me; the cat snores softly. Our cat is just six months old and she knows no other life but war. My husband is 34, and he is from Donetsk; the war has been ongoing since he was 25. His apartment, childhood memories, the native university, which was only partially relocated, and his family’s country house surrounded by trees – are a significant piece of the puzzle. As time goes by, we tend to mythologise his native city: I would buy items with Donetsk symbols on them and books about the Ukrainian East as if trying to convince us both that we can recreate something similar here, that our familiar streets are just nearby, within arm’s reach. We both pretend as if we fully believe in this story.
I’m checking online whether the third missile group was launched. It’s almost eight o’clock in the morning, and three things concern me: whether anyone in Kyiv was harmed, how long the air raid will last, and how likely it was for the debris to fall on the bridges and block the traffic. If the air alarms resume and the metro will halt, the bridges are our last hope to make it on time this morning. I live on Kyiv’s left bank of the river, and here, I could jokingly think that I’m not a true Kyiv resident and then respond to myself that rocket debris from the attack on Kyiv fell just a minute’s walk from my home. But whether I like it or not, I absolutely have to get to the right bank this morning. I have to be on the radio— and they are never late there. In Ukraine, missiles are no longer a significant reason to miss important business meetings or broadcasts; if this information shocks you, you probably are not from Ukraine.
I acknowledge that I won’t be able to sleep, so I rush to check our stock of bottled water, the Ecoflow power bank charge, and other details necessary for survival. If the power, water, or everything disappears at once, this apartment will last at least five days in a quite comfortable mode. I have a few stacks of canned goods (safe in case of radiation), a solid supply of bottles, batteries, gloves, raincoats, glasses, and even a Geiger counter bought last year for a ridiculous amount of money—the result of my insatiable desire to control and understand every situation, especially when it comes to a nuclear attack. I have everything, including a solid supply of vitamins, because a full-scale war is no reason to lose your shiny hair, glowing skin and “cheerful mood”.
I take three of my morning pills and quickly scroll through the news channels. Kyiv’s Sviatoshynsky district: a building and apartments are on fire. Russian missiles hit a kindergarten, and cars are burning nearby. There is a fire in Pechersk. Then, there is news about emergency services arriving at the scene and already working to save people. What is a routine phrase for me, which I almost automatically skip, is forced daily heroism for someone else. I pause and force myself to reread it slowly out of respect for our State Emergency Services. They may not know about it, but I do.
There are fires, fallen debris, and harrowing destruction throughout Kyiv. Again, if this has already scared you to the core, you’re probably not from Ukraine. I keep looking for different information: the wounded and the dead. You can fix the windows in a shop, clear out debris, go to another kindergarten, and restore electricity. People’s lives can’t be brought back. Information about the injured and hospitalised Kyiv residents is constantly rising, resembling a chilling children’s game of “name odd numbers,” except that now it’s about people—5, 7, 9… Whenever I see an update, I beg this counter to stop, yet I know it will not listen to me.
Then, another message appears on my screen: a woman died as a result of a Russian missile strike on Kyiv. A whole life, a series of hopes, friendships, completed books, experienced love stories—all cut short early this morning. I lock my phone —now it makes no sense; the limit of pain and absurdity has been crossed again. It’s very easy for me to answer the questions about the meaning of life and why my country is fighting. So that families are never orphaned again, home libraries wouldn’t lose their owners, and pets wouldn’t lose their carers. Now, everything in my life rests on three big words —Anger, Humanity, and Love. Today, Anger prevails. But only today.
