It started at 4.30am. The loud explosions broke the peace of the night. My son, who was turning one month old that day, was still sleeping in his cot not awoken by the noise, but my phone was buzzing with messages: "it started", "the war started", "get your emergency suitcase ready", "we need to save our children".
Then the strangest morning came. We took our dog, the pram and went outside to see what was happening. The streets, which would normally be full of people rushing to work, children going to school, noises of buses and trams, were dead quiet. People gathered in small groups near their houses, with pale anxious faces, quietly discussing the news. The silence of the street was deafening… and then the shelling started. Loud roars of the rockets were echoing from tall buildings, repeating again and again, coming from all directions, making it impossible to understand where they were coming from. We ran to the nearest basement in the school, a dusty, dark overcrowded place. A few hundred people were pressed tightly together in the dark rooms of the basement listening intently to the explosions, trying to understand how close they were and how safe we were there.
In the next ten days that basement became our home. Complete strangers quickly turned into closest family. People brought mattresses, blankets from their homes and slept on the floor next to each other, sharing all they had, helping each other as much as they could. The shops were shut down, there was no way to get any supplies. The headmaster of the school stepped in and found volunteers, who delivered us food, and more importantly, all that was necessary for children.
It was the end of February and winters can be very cold in Ukraine. It was so cold at night that I couldn’t get warm in a winter coat under two blankets in that basement. My son was covered with everything I could find. We kept checking the news all the time, seeing that the Russian army was approaching. They were already in the town next to us. If they took over that town, we would be next. Bombardments were constant, during the day and night. One night was scarier than the others, the rockets were flying so close that the walls of the school started shaking. I bent over the pram in an attempt to cover my son with my body, hoping that the rule of two walls would save us and prayed that if a rocket hit the school, we would both die instantly. I couldn’t bear the thought of life without my son or leaving him an orphan, buried in the rubble, hungry, cold and scared, all alone…
Have you ever imagined praying for such a thing?
After that night I started fervently looking for any way to get out of the city. I couldn’t just sit and wait till a rocket hit our shelter or, even worse, to be captured by Russian soldiers. Leaving the city was close to impossible. All roads around the city were blocked by Russian tanks that would fire at any civilian car, the train station was so overcrowded with people trying to find their way to safety, that I would never make it with a one-month old baby and a dog. We were losing all hope.
But then, on the 10th day I got a call from an organization that was evacuating children with disabilities in additional carriages to a train. They gave us 15 minutes to make our decision and leave the basement. We left with what we had on us: two packets of formula, a tiny suitcase of clothes for my son and two kilos of dry food for Bella, our Labrador.
In a few hours we were on a train full of crying children, who didn’t understand why they were leaving and were begging their parents to take them home. Their cries were resonating with my own feelings. Most of all I wanted to wake up in my bed and realize it was only a nightmare. We were leaving everything behind, not knowing where we were going.
The journey was long, the railways had to be chosen carefully, to avoid any possible attacks. We were told to switch off our phones, so nobody could detect us. We were moving slowly, often making stops. After midnight I finally dozed off just to be awoken by loud noises of explosions around the shaking train. It was the scariest night of my life. We were in the middle of nowhere. If we had to run, where to run with the baby? The driver hid the train among other trains and we were sitting in the dark for a long time until it got quiet again and the train slowly continued its journey.
The next day we reached Poland, and by that time our friends had found us a temporary place to stay, from which we made a decision to go to Scotland. A long trip across Europe, and a ferry to Hull, and finally we were on a train taking us to the Scottish Highlands. The fields were covered with yellow rapeseed flowers, the waves of the North sea were hitting the shore, it was a sunny peaceful day, so different from what we had left behind. I couldn’t believe it was real, after the nightmare we went through, finding ourselves in this peaceful beauty was absolutely surreal.
We were like trees, with roots torn out, with branches burnt, taken away from all that we loved, trying to survive, find our way, longing for this peace and safety. I will never forget that nightmare, but my little son will never remember it. Here in Scotland he has a chance to have a happy childhood and a good life. The hope was slowly rising in our hearts, while the train was carrying us to the people, who opened their arms and hearts to us.
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