Day 332. Home is where it hurts.
Dnipro.
Hey everyone.
This is a model of the Peremoha housing estate, Dnipropetrovsk (currently called Dnipro), 1970s.
In 2023, a russian missile will hit one of the buildings, destroying one entrance.
That was last Saturday, 14 January 2023.
By Tuesday, 17 January 2022, the death toll from russian missile strike reached 45, as the body of another child was pulled from the wreckage. At least five children have been killed in total.
"The goal of the strike has been achieved." - said the report by the ministry of defence of the russian federation on the January 14 missile strike.
97% of the russian targets are civilian.
Home Is Where It Hurts
I absolutely adore Dnipro. That’s where I went to university and formed as a person.
It has the most incredible people. Most of my Ukrainian friends live there.
Even though it’s not my hometown, it’s been hurting like hell to see it in pain.
300-something days into the full scale war, sometimes it feels like nothing can stagger you anymore. But watching my friends have to deal with the aftermath of that tragedy - knocked me out for 2 days. And it’s nothing compared to what they have to deal with there on the ground.
“This landed in my room”
My very close friend and mum of my godson Vania, Olessia lives right by that building.
When the russian missile hit the residential building, she was 300m away, with her kids.
The kids and Olessia unfortunately witnessed the tragedy.
The below is a translation of her recent Insta stories:
“Alice is my former student. Her parents' apartment, her apartment, - are in that very same building.”
If I personally can't even go to my favorite coffee shop now, as it's nearby, and I don't know how I'm going to take my children to school past this place, then I can only imagine what it feels like for a person who has had his childhood memories taken away.
How her parents feel, who have been told they can only take documents and valuables because the rest of the house is in a state of disrepair.
I still don't know what is the purpose of writing all, but I feel the need to do it. I don't understand if this makes it easier or harder for me, there is simply some physical need not to be silent, not to keep it to myself.There is an absolutely immeasurable cloud of huge, obvious tragedies of people who lost their own lives or lost their parents, children, husbands or wives under the rubble.
And less "noticeable" ones, such as, for example, Alice’s one.
There is an absolutely immeasurable cloud of huge, obvious tragedies of people who lost their own lives or lost their parents, children, husbands or wives under the rubble.
And less "noticeable" ones, such as, for example, Alice’s one.
It’s when everyone is alive, but it’s like a large chunk of your life has been forcibly torn from you too.
I'm sitting alone and don't know what to do. I blame myself for letting my children witness this.
I understand that there are reasons why we are here, but I can't stop thinking about what I could have done to prevent my children from having this traumatic experience. So that I wouldn't have had it myself either.I'm writing this here because I don't know who to talk to about this, because everyone is having a tough time right now.
And when you publish it in a Insta story, it's as if you're not taking it out on anyone in particular, because when you talk to someone personally, you always feel guilty that you're taking it out on a person who is also having a hard time.But she will have to say something back, but does not know what. While here you can just read without feeling the need to say anything. You can just like and scroll through. It's easier like this.
The most difficult thing for me in this is that I realised that all this time, despite the awareness that anywhere can get hit at any time, for some reason I was sure that nothing would happen in my area.
This complete collapse of a sense of security, even conditional (or imaginary), is the most traumatic I had no idea at all that I could witness an explosion, this picture is in front of my eyes almost non-stop and I have to “push it away” from me by force.”
Before I forget: Please give my friend, a photographer Arsen Dzodzaiev a follow on Twitter or Instagram.
“I moved to Peremoha when I was 1 year old.”
Here is the translation of the thread written by the girl from the photo above.
Her name is Anastasia, she is 23yo.
In the Satuday strike she lost her parents, her cat and her home.
Her significant other was died defending Ukraine a few months earlier.
“I moved to Peremoha when I was 1yo. For 23 years I lived by the river, with a beautiful view from the window, always went for walks with my parents to the beach, we grilled BBQ there with parents and friends, almost had a small pet cemetery in one place.
Over 23 years, I learned every path, every corner of my neighbourhood. My parents and I always had the habit of walking in a small circle - that’s to the Salute cinema, then to the Avenue, to the ring road and home or in a large one - to the yacht club and ending as the small [circle]. My grandpa always fished with us.
2 or 3 years ago, we finally renovated the living room, mom told dad:“we need cosmetic repairs in the kitchen", “we need to do the bathroom". We even already decided how we’d do everything little by little, what accessories we’d buy for toothbrushes, for soap…
The day before, my mum complained that the washing machine wasn’t washing well, and dad said that she was making it up. After the new year, we decided to take out some stuff to declutter the apartment a bit, it was a Saturday morning.”
This is my apartment. The balcony, the entrance to the kitchen, the remainder of the closet, the corridor and, apparently, of the living room.
My most precious people left their lives there.
My life and heart stayed there too.
