Mom made canned stew for the Armed Forces — we didn’t eat it even on the hungriest day

We sold practically all our jewelry, electronics from the house, expensive niche perfumes, bags, shoes. We sold things to buy diapers and medicine for our grandfather.

We had no money whatsoever. In March, we lived on 2,000 hryvnias (at the start of March, that was approximately 7,000 rubles; by the end, about 5,700 rubles — S.P.). The Russians were distributing their humanitarian aid. People held out at first, but then many went, handed over their personal data, just to get a can of stewed meat. We didn’t go, no matter how hungry we were.

Medicine was extremely hard to come by — there was bartering, trading one medicine for another. For example, if I had some liver medication — I have liver problems — but I understood I could survive without it, whereas our grandfather needed blood-thinning medication every day. So I’d trade the liver medicine for heart medicine, and then trade that for blood-thinning medicine.

The hardest part was the lack of insulin. Our grandfather has been on insulin since 2003. He needs injections morning and evening. It was a quest I will never forget — I searched for it everywhere. People who had it were selling a single syringe for 200 hryvnias.

In the summer, what every Kherson resident feared happened to me and my husband: we ended up in a basement. We were walking past a Promsvyazbank branch. I took out my phone and was scrolling through something. A guard comes out: “You’re detained.”

We say: “What exactly happened?” — “There will be a document check.” They lead us into the bank branch. People with assault rifles arrive and check our phones.

My husband’s phone was simply clean, but I’d been taking a lot of photos from our window. We lived high up, and I’d been shooting a lot — I genuinely love my city. Basically, they found fault with these photos, called me a spotter, and took us to the basement.

They transported us, thank God, without a bag over our heads. I could see where they were taking us, and I prayed to God it wouldn’t be the basement of the building that used to house the SBU — that’s where the most terrible things happened. We were in a different basement, an administrative building — the Court of Appeal.

During the interrogation, they tried to pressure me into admitting I’d somehow helped the Armed Forces of Ukraine, that I was a spotter. I say: “If I’d really been helping, don’t you think I would have deleted everything from my phone?”

They used force on my husband — beat him. I was in severe hysterics there, screaming, yelling. They detained me because of my phone, right? So let them beat me, not him.

The Russian soldiers didn’t care. They’d crack jokes like: “Better not kick the bucket early — you’re next.” They asked whether we had anyone on Ukrainian-controlled territory we could be helping, anyone who serves in the SBU, and so on. Obviously, we do have such people, but we said no.

I remembered every prayer I knew, reciting Psalm 91 from memory. My faith in God — that alone held me together.

One of the soldiers said that because of people like us, someone in the “DPR” was suffering. And that’s where it helped that my husband is from Luhansk. I say: “Hold on, don’t lecture me — my relatives live in the 'LPR.'”

They asked if we had Russian passports. We say: “We actually just submitted the application.” They didn’t have the records to check, so they took our word for it. We’d never gone anywhere, of course.

After that, they released us. We spent about six hours in the basement. I don’t remember how we got home. We just walked, understanding nothing.

I stayed home for two weeks. Then we gradually started going out, but soldiers were everywhere. Several times, when I saw Z-marked vehicles pull up and soldiers step out in full gear, I had a panic attack.

They simply silenced me. My phone was always left at home. We Ukrainians are freedom-loving people, but in those six to eight hours we spent in the basement, all of that was taken away.

On October 19 or 20, our grandfather was hospitalized with an ischemic attack. On the 19th, they announced that the right bank would be evacuated to the left bank. I went to our grandfather’s endocrinologist: “What about insulin?” — “There isn’t any. We’re taking everything and leaving.”

Then our grandfather calls and says: “I think we should go.” I say: “Go where, my dear?” — “There’s no insulin here.” He was told that he wouldn’t find insulin here, but over there they had it.

There really was no insulin left in the city. We had enough for about a week.

I went to the hospital. They told me: “You have two options. Either your grandfather goes alone and they’ll place him in a nursing home, or you go with him.” I say: “The SIM cards they sold us don’t work anywhere. So I won’t have any contact with my grandfather?” — “That’s correct. Tomorrow at 8 a.m. — the ferry. Off you go.”

We throw some things together, go to our grandfather, pack his things. And that’s it. First they took us across the river, then by bus to Dzhankoi, then by train to Anapa.

Before the border, a man got on the bus: “Prepare for filtration, so we don’t let Ukrainian filth into our Russian Crimea.” But we passed through the border fairly easily. They didn’t check phones or anything.

Our grandfather had a very difficult journey. He felt terrible. I had some herbal drops with me, and I gave them to him.

They took us to a settlement near Anapa. We’re by the sea, living in cottages, they feed us, there’s a cafeteria. But we don’t have the money to go any further.

I desperately want to go home. I believe an opportunity will come to leave here, cross all of Russia, go through Europe, and return to Ukraine. All of this costs money — sums that used to seem tiny but are now enormous for us.

I dreamed of being in my city when the de-occupation happened. We’d bought disposable plates and utensils to feed the Ukrainian soldiers. We understood our forces would come and we’d need to feed them. My mom made stewed meat — we didn’t touch it even in the hungriest times.

I cry every day.