There was once a city. A city I loved. I grew up in that city. It had colorful flowerbeds full off johnny jump ups, daisies, and marigolds with their pungent smells, and fountains on the main boulevard sprinkled fresh, clear water. Kids enjoyed classic soviet “cup” ice creams under the heat of the Donbass sun, and adults gathered in overgrown with ivy gazebos, played chess and gossiped. Musk strawberries, cherries, apricots and bursting from moisture watermelons came in abundance every summer and people were happy. My grandparents were the proud people of Donetsk, and we lived on Teatral'nyi Avenue 18, in the very center of the city.
It was a wonderful time. It was. Once.
And now there’s this – death, destruction, ruin. I remember us kids scaring each other by telling stories about the mysterious bomb shelters we had in our backyard, next to the house nr. 25, standing there from the times of 2nd world war. Now, the scary stories, turned into a sick, surreal nightmare. Half of the population of Donetsk fled, the other half is leaving in fear. Now, occasionally, the corpses of young and beautiful decorate the streets, their blood and guts – the artwork of war – are washed away by dirty water. Murder – is all I can think off seeing the images of those who lost their lives for nothing. They say crime takes a minute, and justice takes eternity. But justice can’t bring back those we lost. Nor can it rebuild the bombed-out.
I’m glad my grandfather passed away a month before the war broke out. He didn’t have to see the rise and fall of his beloved city and he didn’t have to see purposeless deaths, the scope of which I can’t even comprehend. And how can something dear to you be destroyed in a matter of months, a whole city, swept away by the invisible hand of death? And for what? I don’t understand, it’s just all big nonsense to me.
I’ve had a lot of loss in my life time, and this is just another drop in an ocean of pain. I’m angry, ashamed and sad. I don’t even know if my childhood friends are alive. #ukraine #donetsk