Sevostianova  Diana, 17 years old

Winner of the 2024 essay contest, 3st place

Vuhledar educational complex “MRIYA” (comprehensive school of I-III levels - preschool educational institution) Vuhledar city council of Donetsk region

Teacher who inspired to write an assay - Soroka Halyna Petrivna

 

«1000 days of war. My way»

There’s been a war on on our land for 1000 days, which is cruel and merciless to everyone. Our cities and villages are burning and groaning. It’s hard to even imagine what is happening in my country, as if this horror began yesterday, as if you still see a terrible dream from which you want to, but cannot wake up.

On March 7, 2022, I lost a piece of myself, a piece of my happy life, my childhood, friends, acquaintances and loved ones – everyone who was with me. It was on this day that I was home for the last time.

It’s not about my own home, but about the atmosphere of home comfort, furniture, decor, which will never be there again, and most importantly – the view from the window and balcony, which I learned by heart, because every morning when I woke up, I looked out the window and admired the sunrise, then I hurried to the kitchen to put on the kettle, make coffee for myself and my parents, wake my younger sister up for school, repeating her homework.

I recall every day of my past life with tenderness, the life that once was, before the war.

I still remember the faster path I tool to run to school to be on time for class, because I was almost always late. And today, unfortunately, it takes me a very long time to remember where and what was at home, how and where my favourite things lay or stood.

Only now have I begun to appreciate time, family, experience, various moments of pre-war life, both bitter and happy, although I admit: it is very difficult for me.

On February 24, 2022, time stopped for me, the carefree childhood, truly happy school period ended. To be honest, I miss it and sometimes in the evenings I shed tears of pain and despair for a stolen and destroyed life, for the desire to return home and to my “old” self.

During all this time, I realized only one thing: no one will understand me, will not feel what is happening inside me.

After all, each person has their own view of the situation. There are those who will despise your worries and problems, longing for childhood and home, and there are those who will not believe, claim I invented or twisted something and say: "Do you want to be pitied?" It is at these moments that you want to fall through the ground, run away from the world, there is a desire to never talk to anyone, not to tell about yourself, about your experiences and your fears.

As it turned out, it is easier for a person to hit where it hurts the most if they know about your weaknesses. No, people will need it not right away, but later, when during an unpleasant conversation they want to stab you.

They do not even guess how much pain and hatred fill my eyes, which immediately fill with tears and look on autopilot. In an instant they have changed, and you are no longer a strong and always smiling girl, but the one who sits with a stony expression and without regret will throw this person out of your life, then sob into the pillow at night, when no one sees or hears you.

No one will know how many cities and apartments our family has changed during this time, with what burden we wake up with every morning, what we regret, what we did not have time to do, say, prove.

By the way, I was lucky with my new classmates. They did not pay attention to where I am from, did not bother me with questions about moving. I now understand that if they had questioned me, it would have broken me even more.

I am already defeated. No, not on the outside, but on the inside, there is nothing alive, childish, weak, carefree there anymore.

A completely different mind reigns in me, it is cold, often emotionless, ruthless and indifferent, it appeared immediately after I realized that the way it was before would never be. Oddly enough, almost the only thing that can move me and bring me to tears is news about my native land.

It still hurts me to hear about my city, which everyone calls a fortress, a city of ruins. And those who stayed there jokingly call it a crystal city (because all the streets are covered in glass from broken windows).

I haven’t found a better way to vent my pain, my hatred for war and injustice than to go to the gym and lift heavy weights and hope that the physical pain will somehow drown out the mental pain.

Indeed, after exhausting workouts, it does get easier for a while, but that burning pain for my home doesn’t go away for a long.

One day after a hard workout, I called my mother to say that I was fine. “Mom, I’m running home now.” The phrase I uttered during the phone conversation stopped me for a moment, as if it pushed me into the abyss. Where am I running to, home? But this word has lost its meaning for me.

My home is only on the map, not on the ground, it lives in my heart, not in my head. I’m beginning to understand that I’ll never be there again.

I will not run to my native school, controlling my anxiety caused by worries about whether I did my homework correctly. I will not wander along such known, familiar paths, my friend and I will no longer sit on a swing, gossip about those who annoy me, dream about a happy future, graduation party and the friendship of our families. I will no longer rejoice in victories and achievements in dance classes and new skills in choreography.

I will never worry that I will not pass the State Academic Performance Exam, that high school students will not like me, and that we will not find common ground, because we will write a school project together. I will never look at people who say they miss their hometown strangely.

To be honest, I still have dreams where I am at home, where there is no war, where everyone is close. It's funny, but even in a dream you pray to sleep longer and that the dream never ends, and even better if it were all in reality. I made a promise to myself that during the year I would remember my native home only with a smile, and to grieve and cry only on March 7; on this day, I would pay attention to my own memories, stories, situations, moments that are close to my soul and cause a storm of emotions that cannot be calmed down.

So the small mining town of Vuhledar is my home, my homeland, which will forever remain in my heart, it will never be forgotten. I will carry the memory of it through the years, because it is a part of my happy and joyful life.

The real me, a carefree child, remained there forever. My story of the struggle with myself continues, but I hope that a little more and I will finally break the shackles that do not allow me to move on, to look into the future without fear.