In 2014, Russia occupied my hometown of Donetsk in eastern Ukraine, and I was only ten years old.
My mother took my sister and me to my grandmother's house in Volnovakha, a small town located 50 kilometres from Donetsk. It was previously under Ukrainian control, but the Russians captured and destroyed it following the outbreak of the full-scale invasion.
Back in 2014, we had no idea what it meant to be under occupation. My mother left us with my grandmother and returned to Donetsk. I felt bad about being away from home, so I called her every day and begged her to return us home. Eventually, Mum made the difficult decision to bring us back to Donetsk. On our first day, the shelling began, and for the first time, I spent the entire night in the basement.
"You are Ukrainian," is the truth I've always known. That's what I was taught in school, and that's what my mother and grandmother said. I had no doubts about it. But there, in occupied Donetsk, a new reality struck me.
At my school, all portraits of Ukrainian poets and writers have been removed. The teachers, who had previously sung the Ukrainian national anthem with their hands over their hearts, instructed me that our new homeland was Russia. The Ukrainian language has almost disappeared. One Ukrainian lesson per week was formally scheduled, but how it was delivered is difficult to call educational.
We relocated to a village near Donetsk shortly after. Life became even more difficult for me there. It was dangerous to go outside because armed separatist soldiers were constantly roaming around. These were ordinary residents from dysfunctional families, alcoholics, drug addicts, or people who couldn't find another job.
Looking back now, I can't help but notice the distinction between a Ukrainian defender and a so-called DPR (Donetsk People's Republic) soldier. While the former inspires trust and gratitude, the latter instils fear in everyone, including the most ardent supporters. Everyone understood that a normal person would not fight for the so-called DPR.
At the age of 11, I endured my share of bullying. My pro-Ukrainian family acted cautiously, and no one at my school knew for certain. However, it was possible to guess. I was fluent in Ukrainian and the only one who prepared for the infrequent Ukrainian classes (which were later completely cancelled). Teachers did not respond to the complaints. They seemed to believe that the bullying, which was caused by my pro-Ukrainian stance, was entirely justified.
An interesting observation was that the majority of the pro-Russian teachers were Ukrainian language teachers. This created cognitive dissonance in my childhood mind, because how could someone who had read Lesya Ukrainka and Taras Shevchenko say that Ukraine was bad?
Over time, the situation worsened. Although the constant shelling had stopped and there were fewer armed soldiers on the streets, the locals had become increasingly brainwashed by Russian propaganda.
Every holiday and solemn event was transformed into an absurd theatre performance, with children forced to recite Russian poems and thank the soldiers for "liberating them from the Kyiv junta."
I couldn't avoid participating, so I spent most of the holidays "sick at home." My parents warned me, "Don't say anything to anyone, because your family will be shot dead," which I kept in mind until moving to Ukraine-controlled territory in 2021.
But even before I left for Kyiv, I was able to find like-minded people in Donetsk. It was a huge relief to find people with pro-Ukrainian positions. We were trying to stay silent because it was too dangerous to share our views. My father was repeatedly targeted because of rumours about our political affiliation. Once, he was "taken to the pit". That was what we called the torture chambers, where so-called DPR soldiers abused (tortured) those who disagreed, often killing them.
Youthful maximalism made it impossible for me to sit quietly. I attempted to discover myself by trying out various hobbies and activities. So, at the age of 15, I joined a charitable foundation and organised visits to one of the classrooms at a Donetsk orphanage. During each visit, I saw heartbreaking images and heard terrible stories about abandoned children. Nevertheless, I'd like to share with you one of the stories that I'll never forget.
I realised that the teacher who cared about the children outside of school had a pro-Ukrainian bias. One of the boys, Mykola, 10, drew a tank with a Ukrainian flag. I asked him why he did it. Mykola replied, "Because my teacher said I was Ukrainian. And I love Ukraine.
I had to tell the 10-year-old orphan that he could no longer draw the Ukrainian flag. If he persisted, both his teacher and I could be killed.
Mykola and all of the children I cared for were deported to Russia today. I never had a chance to say goodbye to them. I have no idea how they are or what their fate is. These children were able to spend their entire lives under occupation while maintaining their love for Ukraine, but now they are in the clutches of the aggressor. And I doubt we'll be able to bring them back.
I moved to Kyiv in 2021. In 2022, the full-scale war erupted. Since 2014, I've only had one year free of the daily reality of war. I didn't see curfews or checkpoints, nor did I feel constant fear. Despite the fact that our lives are constantly in danger and our country is going through a difficult period, I am grateful that I am now free to speak Ukrainian and proudly say that I am Ukrainian.
