I believe many of us hold onto the memory of that fateful morning, the one that forever altered our lives - February 24, 2022. I awoke in what felt like the very heart of turmoil, in my beloved hometown of Kramatorsk in the Donetsk region. This was more than just a city; it was where my childhood unfolded, a place filled with cherished memories, and my sanctuary of peace. Throughout my life, I was aware that war loomed somewhere in the distance, a shadow that could invade at any moment. Yet, no one can truly prepare for the moment it confronts them directly. I didn't hear the first explosions. I was in a deep sleep, exhausted from the preparations I had been making for a geometry test - a seemingly ordinary school assignment that, in the end, marked the last moment of tranquility in my life. It's heart-wrenching to think that something so routine could be overshadowed by such profound turmoil. As I woke up, a sense of confusion washed over me. By the clock, it was already around ten in the morning. My parents were home, yet no one had come to rouse me or mentioned that I was late. I made my way to the kitchen and found my mother seated at the table, poring over a stack of documents. Her hands trembled with an anxious energy, and the unmistakable fear in her eyes spoke volumes without uttering a single word. It was a moment that made my heart ache, sensing that something heavy weighed on her. All she said was: “Maria, the war has started. Pack an emergency bag.” In that moment, her silence held more weight than any explosion could convey - an overwhelming sense of foreboding. For the next two, five, ten… and eventually thirty nights, we huddled together on the cold floor of the corridor. But it hardly felt like sleep; it was more like waiting - waiting for each unsettling sound, each distant rumble that felt like a verdict hanging over us. Every explosion served as a painful reminder that life could change in an instant. We clung to one another closely, learning to embrace silence as a way to shield ourselves from the gnawing fear within. One day, my mother uttered words that resonate deeply within me to this day: “We must help. If not us, then who?” Her compassion shone brightly during a time of despair, reminding us that even in our darkest hours, we possess the incredible ability to care for one another. The cities that endured the most devastating destruction during this conflict were Volnovakha, Avdiivka, and Mariupol. What were once mere names on a map transformed into deep, painful scars - wounds that could not be overlooked. In response to this crisis, we gathered a compassionate group from our community to help evacuate displaced families to Kramatorsk. While it wasn't a perfect solution, we held on to the hope that the war would soon end and that families would be able to return to their beloved homes. We didn’t realize that for so many, “home” had already become a distant memory. The eyes of those people are etched in my mind - filled with fear, emptiness, and heartbreak. Many had been evacuated in armored vehicles, each carrying their own silent burdens. I remember pregnant women cradling their bellies, murmuring quiet prayers for safety. Some children wandered, searching for their lost parents, too weary to cry any longer - each tear long since dried. I witnessed a mother tenderly bury her son in their yard, using her own hands. There was no coffin, no priest, and no words to express the depth of her sorrow. In moments like those, when one's heart feels shattered, words can seem utterly insufficient. I know I can’t remember every individual story; there were simply too many. The weight of their pain is beyond what one heart can bear. We created an improvised kitchen, cooking meals amidst the haunting sounds of explosions around us. Distributing humanitarian aid, we felt the ground tremble beneath our feet, a stark reminder of the chaos surrounding us. People found refuge in the basements of our House of Culture, a once vibrant space filled with music and laughter, now silent except for the whispers of fear and the soft echoes of quiet prayers. In those moments, I came to a profound realization: war is far more than just gunfire and combat. It encompasses the haunting gaze of eyes forever changed. It's about children who have been forced to grow up overnight, carrying burdens no child should bear. It's about mothers learning to navigate life with an undeniable absence in their hearts. These are the stories and the scars we continue to carry today.
Mariia Kononenko