“I catch myself thinking ‘How much pain can a person take?’ multiple times a day. I feel it from the moment I wake up to the moment I fall asleep at night, and always prepare myself to receive the worst news. It’s a vicious cycle that has been going on for more than a month, since February 24th, when Russia started a full-scale invasion of Ukraine. For the first week, after the explosions in Kyiv started, spending a night in bomb shelters and then taking a long way to flee the country, my brain was in a survival mode, not analysing what was going on, but trying to calculate every decision on how to save my life at that exact moment, ruled by adrenalin rush and survival instinct.
I left Ukraine over 3 weeks ago and I have not yet been able to process the terror of war from a first-hand experience, due to the multiple tragedies and deaths that are still taking place in my homeland. My personal pain turned into numbness, letting in the pain of those who are still facing the hell of war so I can fight for them the same way I would fight for myself, even from a distance.
C.S. Lewis said: “The death of a beloved is an amputation.” With imposed circumstances, the “beloved” here is my home, my fellow citizens, my former self. Every death of a Ukrainian feels like an amputation, tearing me piece by piece. And in that feeling, I believe we as Ukrainians have grown to become one body, a body of values, beliefs and sentiments, that is undergoing constant torture.
It’s hard for me to imagine the future, knowing that someone’s being taken away every day. I don’t wish for peace, as there is no peace in torture. I know that in the unity we share we will overcome this nightmare one day and will become stronger from what we’ve endured. But this sharp yet numbing pain will stay, and as for now, I don’t know how to live with that.”
Words by Rina Priduvalova.