A Niva pulled up, they loaded on all our belongings and drove off

I was on the second floor. I turn my head, and there’s a rifle barrel pointed at me. He’s smiling, waving me over — come here. Motioning for me to come down. Four of them enter the house. All in uniform, with red ribbons. They point four rifles at my husband and say: “Do you have any weapons?” He says: “Guys, I’m standing here practically naked in front of you — what weapons? Please lower the rifles.” They tell him: “Don’t be afraid, you won’t be harmed. Give us your car keys and we’ll leave.” They needed something to get around in — driving across the whole city in a tank is too costly. They took my father’s car, but our car was in the garage. They didn’t figure that out — we just got lucky.

They transported their dead in our cars. They’d dig pits and bury them. They wouldn’t let us bury our people. A man’s body lay in our street for ten days. They wouldn’t even allow us to dig a grave at the cemetery.

They took our school buses. All the school buses were marked with Z’s. And we had no ambulance. At first there was one — they only allowed it to go out for calls when a child was ill. They’d verify whether the child was actually sick. Only then would they permit treatment. Later, even that was gone.

My friend had two laptops. One was taken at a checkpoint when he was leaving through a green corridor. At the last checkpoint — there were 7 total — they ask: “Do you have any devices, phones?” He says: “Yes, I had two laptops.” “Why 'had'?” “Well, one was taken.” “Who took it?” “Your guys.” And that soldier says to his comrade: “Did you hear what they’re doing?” “Have they lost their minds there?” So not all of them are scum. Another acquaintance also had two laptops — his and his mom’s. They wanted to take both. A commanding officer came up and said: “No, take only one.” He returned one and put it back.

On March 16, I left through the third green corridor. My mom, my brother, my dog, my son, and my husband. Dad and Grandma stayed behind. We passed through all those checkpoints, reached the village of Boromlia. Two Russian tanks are standing there and they start aiming both barrels at us. I don’t understand what’s happening. Gunfire breaks out. Then everything calms down, a Russian soldier runs out. In front of us is a car with a teenage boy — my neighbor — trying to evacuate his mother, trying to save himself. The Russian throws the mother out of the car along with her bags, gets in the passenger seat, and they drive off toward where the shooting came from. I hope he’s okay and survived.

On March 23rd, two APCs pull up to two five-story buildings across from my father’s house. Armed men get out and start firing into the air. People come running out. They say: “You have until three o’clock today. After that, you’d better not be here.” People started asking: “Where are we supposed to sleep?” “Where are we supposed to live?” They say: “If you want to live, you have until three o’clock.” They forced everyone to open all doors. Carried out belongings. Loaded up two APCs and said: you’ll be thanking us yet. Your people are planning to blow up this building today. And if we see a single person here, they’ll be shot. Two neighbor women ran to my dad — one barefoot, the other in slippers. A day passed — nothing was blown up. Two days — nothing. I think they just wanted to scare people so they could carry out the valuables.

On March 27, we were robbed. My dad had been at Grandma’s. He comes home — there’s opened canned fish, opened vodka from our fridge. Russian soldiers sitting there, drinking. Dad says: “This is my house — what are you doing here?” They say: “Our commander told us to set up here.” Dad says: “Well, call your commander — this isn’t happening, this is my house.” They: “We have no communications. Fine, step outside, come back in an hour and a half.” Dad says: “Can I at least take my documents?” “No, you can’t.”

A Niva drove up, they loaded all our things and left. Dad waited at the neighbors' while they carried everything out. They stole our electronics, an angle grinder, a hair dryer. They stole all of my husband’s underwear. Clothes, sneakers, jackets. They knew they’d be retreating, and the day before, they just robbed everyone in the nicer houses. And they drove off with everything they’d stolen — plasma TVs, scooters, ATVs. In our cars.

A Russian commanding officer came to my mom’s acquaintance and said: “We’ll be living here.” She says: “Please, I’ll do anything, just don’t kick us out. I have two children, I have nowhere to go.” They say: “Fine. You’ll cook for us, clean up after us, and we’ll let you live and won’t touch you.” And she watched as the “slaves” — that’s what he called his own men — went around cleaning out our houses, bringing everything to him. He’d pick what he wanted, and give the rest to the “slaves.”

I spoke with a psychologist, and she told me I’m still stuck in that time. I dream about the war every night. There isn’t a single day I don’t dream about it. Every day: that they’re shooting at us, that they’re attacking us, that they’re killing us.