Living under bombs on the 9th floor in a wheelchair

My district was unlucky: on one side we have Russia, 30 kilometers away, on the other — the Luhansk and Donetsk oblasts. We became a hotspot. Our markets, kindergartens, and schools were on fire, but the worst part — residential buildings were burning. I don’t think there’s a single building in my district that the Russian army hasn’t hit at least once.

My building, to give you an idea, took four direct hits. Three happened while I was there, and the fourth after I’d already left.

Two balconies on the upper floors of my building burned, several apartments were destroyed, the pipes burst, and one of the stairwells was completely encased in ice — there was no way to shut off the water. We lost electricity, water, heating. Our neighbors had all their windows blown out. We lost one; they lost all of them. And outside it was minus 10, sometimes minus 20.

Rescue services wouldn’t come when the apartments were burning — they’d say: there’s shelling, we won’t go. You can understand them too, but you could also understand the people whose homes were on fire. Everyone tried to put out fires on their own. During the rare moments when the water was turned on, everyone tried to fill their bathtubs and buckets, just to have some water — in case of a fire.

There were cases when people standing in line at the supermarket had a shell explode right next to them. When a missile was aimed directly at a line of people waiting for humanitarian aid. They knew people would be there — and deliberately targeted civilians who’d come so they wouldn’t die of hunger.

I have a genetic condition — brittle bone disease. I get around exclusively in a wheelchair. I sat in the hallway, praying there wouldn’t be a direct missile hit. That’s how my day would begin and end, and sometimes I’d have to sit up half the night too — fighter jets were flying overhead. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to fly on planes again. When I hear a similar sound, I start panicking. That sound I’ll probably remember for the rest of my life.

I understand why they shut off the elevators, but it meant I was given an ultimatum: if they carry me down once, I live in the metro, where there are absolutely no accommodations for me.

You could leave the city by car, bus, or train. On the train, people rode in the aisles, on their suitcases, and some were made to throw out their suitcases to fit more people. I would’ve been trampled. To get out, I reached out to volunteers. But I needed to get to them first. Taxis weren’t running. Private drivers refused: “It’s hell where you are.” A friend gave me the phone numbers of two drivers. They said they were busy today. I started sobbing — and I’m generally not someone prone to strong displays of emotion. And I’ll be eternally grateful to the driver who said: “All right, I’ll come for you after all.” I asked: “How much will it cost?” He said: “Nothing. If you want to thank me, you can.” I needed to be carried down from the 9th floor. I weigh 45 kilos. One guy who was sitting in the basement was able to carry me. But what about bedridden people who can’t even sit up?

With the volunteers, we drove for 20 hours. The driver chose a safe route, but while we were still close to Kharkiv, at every checkpoint everyone was afraid these were Russians who would shoot us. There were many cases when people from Kharkiv tried to leave and were shot. Even volunteer vehicles with signs saying they were carrying children. The Russian army simply doesn’t care about anything — they have no mercy for anyone.

Are Russian-speaking Kharkiv residents oppressed in Kharkiv? No! Ninety percent of Kharkiv Oblast residents speak Russian; there was never any talk of oppression. We were doing fine. Our problems started when one crazy old man decided he could encroach on another sovereign state. I want as many people as possible to hear my story, the story of Kharkiv. What my people are going through should not be happening in the 21st century. This is the darkest Middle Ages. This should not be happening.