365 days of war
Close your eyes for ten seconds and imagine a war. What do you see? Whatever you picture - explosions, destroyed houses, shattered lives, the sound of the air-raid siren, people running for their lives or weeping over the bodies of their loved ones, paralysed with grief - this is what neither I, nor any other Ukrainian, wanted to see before the Russian invasion.
While British and American intelligence warned us about a possible full-scale escalation, we were looking forward to spring and holidays, buying new dresses or concert tickets. No one wanted to believe that war was possible in the 21st century. That someone could find it more interesting to create rockets that would kill tens and hundreds of people, rather than rockets that would go in search of life on other planets.
Everything you imagined when thinking about war is a reality now. One year on, you can find this almost everywhere in Ukraine. And the closer you get to the front line, the more you can see.
But that's not all.
There are levels of war that cannot be seen with the naked eye. There are the children whose kindergarten teachers lead them to the shelters with the help of a new game every time so that they don't cry. The children who have to do their homework by candlelight or in underground stations and basements because power cuts and air-raid sirens are something they have to deal with every day.
These children, when they blow out the candles on a birthday cake, no longer wish for a new toy or a tablet, but for the war to be over. Or at least for their dad to come home from the front. The students whose college years fell during Covid and war and who never got to experience the taste of college life.
The students who were preparing to graduate and instead of looking for their first job in their field, were forced to seek refuge abroad. The families who have been living separately for almost a year because the mothers and children have moved to a safe place. And the growing divorce rate, because a year is quite a long time for people who are living in different paradigms.
The reliable businesses that buy generators not only so they can continue working and provide jobs, but also to host people during power outages. And no matter what kind of business it is - a coffee shop, a gym or a post office - they make sure that people can charge their devices and take some hot water away with them. Sometimes this "reliability" can reach absurd levels.
Such as when right after some news about explosions in Kyiv, you get a reminder message about your appointment with a beautician in an hour, telling you that it's going ahead. Or when there is a sign on the door: "We are closed during large-scale missile attacks." You ask for clarification, "What about air-raid alarms?" and get the reply: "No, only during large-scale missile attacks." Because the economy must continue to function.
And there have already been 678 air-raid sirens in Kyiv since the start of the full-scale invasion, lasting for 758 hours and 19 minutes, or over 31 days. For over a month I lived with the realisation that I could be killed by a missile at any moment. And for the remaining eleven months, I have been waiting for that to happen.
This is living in constant stress, whether you have left Ukraine or not - you are constantly checking the news. Did the air-raid alarm in the city where your loved ones live end without any explosions? Or did our foreign partners provide us with tanks?
Or maybe they promised to send them next year? Does this mean that next year the war will still be going on?.. ***
Sometimes I remember our pre-war life, when we were still worried about global warming, sorting the recycling, and the latest row over who would represent Ukraine at Eurovision. I would like to go back to experiencing emotional rollercoasters because HE texted me - or didn't text me - rather than because there have been no missile attacks for a suspiciously long time, and it's so worrying that non-existent sirens or explosions start to seem real. But above all, I am scared about post-war life.
Most of all, I'm afraid that nothing will change after the war. That those who stole will go on stealing. That the people who went abroad will not return.
That I will still see, on the steps at the metro entrance, the former soldier missing a limb, holding a sign saying "For prosthetics". Most of all, in all of this, I believe that we could not have remained unchanged. ***
But war is not just about trying to live this life between air-raid sirens and power cuts, planning each day around a possible missile attack and wondering what's next and whether there will be a "next" at all. War is also about finding life amidst death. In the morning coffee at the coffee shop near my house.
Because, as it turns out, it's not just coffee, but also support for the economy. In the concert held in a basement, because if an alarm starts, everyone is already in the shelter. In the bouquet of flowers bought from a granny near the subway.
In the bottle of wine waiting in the cupboard "for victory". In every compulsive purchase. In gathering yourself together and going to work, even when it seems like there's no more strength left within you.
Or in looking for a job in order to be able to donate. Trying something new that you've been putting off for a while. Finally passing your driving test, attending fly-yoga classes, and learning how to cook borshch, because there may not be another opportunity to do it.
Getting pets or starting relationships so you're not going through all of this alone. Telling your loved ones that you love them. Not arguing for long.
Finding happiness in the little things. Even though now it seems more like surviving than living, we are looking for ways to enjoy it. We are relearning to plan and reviving the ability to dream regardless of the war.
Because these years still count as a part of our life.
Originally was published in Romanian on PressOne.