Prayers in the Basement

The most recent attacks on residential buildings in Dnipro show how crucial it is to continue providing humanitarian aid to the affected civilian population.

The Drones are Coming

Telegram channels are abuzz with hundreds of warnings about incoming Shahed drones or their Russian replicas. For both of them Ukrainians have long since coined the term “mopeds” for the only advantage this instrument of war brings with it is that it is as loud as a moped – if not louder.

However, these drones have absolutely nothing to do with scenic flyby pictures. Their size is that of a compact car and their destructive force can bring down entire buildings. Lately, they have also been known to carry aerosol bombs. These will ignite the oxygen in the surrounding air and thus burn the victims’ lungs from within. Death by explosion or internal injuries. Quite an unexpected prospect to face in the 21st century.

Imagine my surprise hearing the sound of a loud moped on the 21st floor. However, after having worked all day and driven 945 km, I am only catching on slowly for all I really want to catch is some sleep. Fortunately, my lagging realization is compensated for by my preparatory efforts bordering on compulsion. Every time I enter an apartment, I will take exhaustive precautions: Placing my shoes and jacket near the exit ready to be picked up at a moment’s notice with a bag next to them containing water, change of clothes, and a first aid kit.

So, I am lying in bed with my book and suddenly, I hear this loud moped-like noise. My mind, however, ignores the sound for the first few seconds for a moped on the 21st floor seems highly unlikely. It’s illogical and therefore none of my concern. But then it hits me: This is an instrument of war, a real and deadly threat flying close-by. Barefoot and wearing nothing but my pyjamas I run into the bathroom, following the two-wall rule. Everything else can wait. The Telegram channels confirm what I am hearing: Dozens of drones are currently flying above the city, bringing nothing but destruction.

As the first explosion loudly occurs nearby, I am beginning to wonder: Should I go to the underground parking lot? Will the drones continue on their deadly path to another part of town? Will two walls really protect me and why on Earth am I on the 21st floor? The first explosion is followed by the sound of more mopeds, however, they seem to be further away now. I am using this time to place my phone at the floor-level window and start recording.

Now all I can do is wait. For more explosions and more destruction. But I don’t have to wait long for the next explosion. It’s close and powerful. Without thinking, I grab my shoes and jacket and run to the elevator where a mother is already waiting with her infant. We try to comfort ourselves and the child as we struggle to put on our shoes whilst standing. Finally, the elevator arrives and there’s only 21 floors to go until we reach the basement’s safety from these loud explosions. The elevator is getting crowded. Even the toughest among us are starting to leave their apartments. We hear another explosion as we are going down in the elevator. We’re smiling at each other, anxiously. “Somebody must have slammed their car door really hard,” says one mother to her child.

Life Between Concrete Walls — Surviving Together

Many people have already made it to the building’s underground parking lot. The place has been prepared during previous attacks. Some of the walls have been painted and benches have been put in one corner for the children to sit on. There are people here of every age. Not far away, a grandmother is carrying a newborn child. We all have only one thing in common: The neighbouring country wants us dead. As soon and as many of us as possible.

I am counting at least 7 dogs and 12 children. I feel strangely naked as my phone is still upstairs on the 21st floor, recording. I don’t have a screen to hide myself or the panic rising within me. All I can do is observe. Dogs are hiding in corners, frightened. Cats on people’s arms are getting restless. Children don’t know what to do with themselves. More explosions rock the building and the mood changes. Doubts are beginning to grab hold of our little community. The grown-ups are whispering as they don’t want to scare the children. But what good does all the whispering do when there’s the deafening sound of explosions all around?

What if the building collapses? That one question that is on all our minds is spoken out aloud by one courageous woman. And yes, what if it collapses? Will we be buried under 22 floors worth of concrete? Will we be killed by an explosion or by burning air in our lungs or will be we buried alive? The prospects are getting bleaker by the minute. The question still lingers, however, we have no choice. We can’t go to our apartments, we can’t go outside, we can’t go anywhere. My throat tightens, tears burning in my eyes. I try to breathe evenly to suppress the fear rising within me as I remind myself that I’ve already survived worse.

You may take my life today, but you’ll never have my fear!

A Child’s Prayer

The explosions are now several minutes apart and from the basement we cannot hear the drones anymore. That’s why every new explosion catches us off-guard. The echo in the basement is distorting all sounds, I can’t even tell anymore if there’s a car door being slammed, drones are being shot down by our air defence or something nearby has gone up in flames.

More news is coming in, quickly making the rounds in our subterranean community. Today’s attack is being considered as one of the heaviest attacks since the beginning of the invasion. Never before were there so many drones flying in the city’s air space. The city centre is said to be ablaze with many residential buildings having been hit. The number of dead and injured people is not yet known for rescue units cannot dispatch due to continued shelling.

Amidst all this chaos, a boy sits down next to me. He’s about 11 years old, bright blonde, wearing a t-shirt in Ukrainian colours. His mother and his sister are standing not far away, pale, silent, tired. Waiting for the next explosion. The boy is without his phone, too, we are both limited to observing what’s going on around us. He looks around, maybe counting the number of pets as well to distract himself?

He takes in his surroundings and the people in it, absorbing the situation as well as the mood. He’s observing the people and I am observing him. What’s going through a child’s mind in times like these?

The boy stops observing and draws his brutally honest conclusion. After one last look into the crowd he lowers his head, folds his hands, and starts praying. It’s a short prayer. One he quickly finishes by half-heartedly crossing himself.

He is well aware that the grown-ups are unable to protect him, not today, not tomorrow. So, he turns to a higher authority. If we can’t manage, maybe God can. I am no longer able to keep back my tears and panic, the boy has managed to tear down my walls. I am not crying for fear of my own life. I am crying because I feel useless, a looser that has to keep apologizing to the children of war for all eternity. I am crying because the boy arrived at this very conclusion: He knows that we can never protect him. Not yesterday, not today, not tomorrow.