May 12, 2022


Original post: Translated and edited by our team.

I kept a paper chronicle. There were thoughts, words, emotions. There were…

I close my eyes, and I see a bomb that falls somewhere nearby. The shockwave blows out the kennel doors, and the cats are flying into the aviary. I run into the aviary, and I hear another drop. I duck under a snag in the aviary, I caught a cat in one hand, and I see. I see it, a bomb. It falls into the house across from mine. I’m blown away, pinned against the wall. There is a pillar of fire. There are children screaming in my house.

I close my eyes and I see a salvo fire from [multiple rocket launchers] “grad” at 6 a.m. On our houses. There was no shooting from our neighborhood in their direction. But we are just being pelted with “grad” fire. Methodically. My father, 84 years old, is nearby. On March 10, his birthday, a bomb landed in the yard of his 9th-floor apartment building. It was good that he was with us. He was congratulated tastefully. With a bomb.

I close my eyes, and I see. It’s almost 3 o’clock in the afternoon. We’re trying to warm water for the kids. A mine. I manage to run into the outhouse. A 7-year-old child is with me. Barefoot. The mine hit the wall of the house next to me. The wall falls on the outhouse, and all of it falls on me. I manage to cover the child with myself. Second mine. My husband screams. Through a veil, I see blood spurting. A 13-year-old girl is screaming. Her legs are hit by shrapnel. A mine. Right in the middle of the yard. My dogs are dying. A mine. Into that corner of the house where the ten cats were. I don’t have a home anymore. No job. No animals. No city. No shoes until the day before yesterday. I was freed from everything.

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