Stories that you confided to us
During the shelling, Svetlana Matsui lost her husband and youngest son. She and her eldest son miraculously survived, but were seriously injured. A strong woman tries not to show her tremendous pain, tears and grief to anyone.
Time does not heal, it dulls. The further, the worse, the more you realize the loss.
My son was an athlete; he was doing in wrestling. He was calmer than the eldest, the kindest man he was. He was rather daddy's son, so the two of them left. He looked like my husband, and he walked in the same manner.
We did not understand anything, how it happened. We slept, there was silence. The shelling began. We didn't have time to get out. We went to the children's room; everyone was in this room. They were lying on the floor near the armchair. We lay down to protect ourselves. Well, we were not protected ...
The four of us were lying: Andryushka was under the bed, Dima was next to me, me and my husband Yura. Andryushka was near the battery, the net saved him from the bed, it covered him, all the garbage fell on him. And Yura and Dima died, they were on my sides. Somehow it happened over one: Yura died, I survived, Dima died, Andryushka survived. We started calling the ambulance. An ambulance arrived from Popasna, they took us away.
The youngest son's jacket is still hanging there. He did not wear it in winter. His things were all torn, everything was torn completely.
I didn’t attend the funeral. I asked for my son, the son was here. His legs were injured, but we asked to let him go. I also tried, but they quickly pricked me with a sedative so that I could sleep, not to worry. I could not get there, because I had drains all over me. Two arms, three through wounds, the entire left side, leg, abdomen, no spleen. I have a whole bunch; it will take a long time to recover.
The husband was engaged in the fields, worked as a guard. I am a housewife; I ran the household. We lived well, we had enough for bread and butter. My husband rented land shares, sowed wheat, barley, sunflower. He liked the land. There were enough to provide for children. They went to our competitions, to all sorts of crafts. They went to school.
We lived well, even very well. We understood each other, everything was fine with us. Now he is gone - as if my hand was cut off. He supported and protected me all my life.
I always talk to him. I know what he would tell me: well done, you are holding on. He did not let his spirit drop, we always got out of all situations together.
The son was doing in judo, he has many certificates, medals. He was always satisfied, even if it was the third place. The first is, in general, he would immediately call us back that everything was fine, he got it. We were always waiting for him with a cake, we always congratulated that he was doing so. There was a cup for the first place. When they bombed us, the cup was blown up.
I live in an apartment in Mironovka. I live alone. There is no noise, no hum, no worries, no one to care about. When I want - I get up; when I want – I go to bed, nothing else. I miss my son very much. I don't show my tears to anyone. I always go out and smile in spite of everyone. I cry at home, but I never cry in public. And who needs this pain? Nobody needs it. Why showing it? I keep everything inside, everything in myself. And they think that everything is fine with me.
For some reason I was left here, if after such wounds, after everything I was allowed to live, it means that something is not finished on this earth, something must be continued. This is how I calm myself down. I open my eyes and say: thank you. We must move on.
When quoting a story, a reference to the source – the Museum of Civilian Voices of the Rinat Akhmetov Foundation – is mandatory, as follows:
The Museum of Civilian Voices of the Rinat Akhmetov Foundation https://civilvoicesmuseum.org/
