Stories that you confided to us
Angelina Selekеnova, Specialized school no.4 with in-depth study of individual subjects, Mariupol, Donetsk region
In the "One Day" essay competition, her work took 3rd place
Teacher - Filatova Elena
Explosions, gunshots, and everything is like in a mist… How? What is going on? A thousand questions that fill thoughts one after another.
I was nine years old when the war started.
It is so scary to pronounce that word. Before that, I had never thought about terrible things: how to hide in the cellar, seal the windows with tape, run into the house as soon as possible because the “bombing” starts, run to the nearest store while there is a ceasefire, quickly lie on the floor, cover your head with your hands, and leave the windows open to spare the window panes.
I will never forget how I hid in my mother’s arms hugging me, wiped away tears, and whispered wishing that it would end soon.
I will never forget the sky seen from my room, red-coloured by shellfire. From that moment on, I spent very little time there. Every next day, it was getting easier to tell what kind of weapons the firing was made from.
I was ten when I saw a bus that came under shellfire, and its passengers who would never see this world again.
Toys, things, blood… Questions were not leaving my mind: ‘Why are they doing this?’, ‘Why should the civilian population suffer?’ I was looking at that horrible picture with fear. I realized that there were children and their parents in that bus. They did nothing wrong, but unfortunately they were in the vehicle at that horrible moment.
The pain gripped my heart and only one thought throbbed in my head: there is nothing worse than war.
I was eleven years old when my friends’ family suffered from shelling.
The shell landed in the vegetable garden where the woman was working and she was killed. For me, this was terrible news, which made my hands shake and my voice tremble.
I am eleven – I am in the fifth form of school. My maths teacher nearly fell a victim to a shell that hit the bus station. At that time, she came inside the store and watched this terrible development through the door glass.
It was very difficult for me to go through this, because I understood that one minute later and my teacher would be gone. Every day I passed that place closing my eyes so as not to see a large pit in the ground left by the shell.
I was twelve when I first saw the tracks left by the tank
Letting my glance dwell on it, I was examining the imprints on the road. It was hard to imagine this murderous vehicle. I went to bed hoping to never see it again, but the next night it drove down my street. The house was shaking because of its movement and my heart was beating faster.
The thought about my life flooded my mind. How good it had been without the war! I could play with my friends. We could arrange children’s picnics, not being afraid to go outside.
I was thirteen when a shell fell near the bread-baking factory located close to my school, leaving the village without bread.
After that case, I was afraid to go to school because I did not know where the shell could fall next time. Leaving the house, I would take a deep breath and try to get to school as quickly as possible.
I was fourteen when my friend sent me photos from her school that came under artillery fire.
Shattered windows and broken furniture. I still see those horrible pictures in my memories. It seemed then that something bad would definitely befall my school. No one knew when his or her life could be ended.
I was fifteen when our friends’ car was damaged by the blast wave: there were dents and scratches left on it, and the glass was broken. Fortunately, no one was hurt.
I am sixteen now and I remember with horror the events that my family and I went through. The war is still going on, and I miss peace and quiet so much.
My parents never hid the news from me…
The day when the war began for me will remain in my memory for a lifetime. Explosions, gunshots, and everything is like in a mist… At first, I did not realize how scary it was. Later I got used to it, but was incredibly worried when the “bombing” would start. I wanted only one thing and that was for the war to end. Powerlessness in this case simply breaks a person. Bloodshed and nothing can be done about it…
I dream to see the war end, to have the blue sky over our heads, and to see our loved ones near us, warming our souls with happy smiles.
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/
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