Today, of course, one already thinks that all this was clear before. You can start with Crimea in 2013, or you can start with the eight-day war with Georgia. When the war starts, everyone is tearing their hair out: Why weren’t we ready? Why did our government sleep through everything? But let’s be honest: NOBODY foresaw such a turn as February 24. Simply because it is absolutely meaningless. There was no interest in this, no more opportunities for the Russian Federation than if they continued the hybrid war, which we reflected on for the ninth year with varying success. Even more, looking at the reaction, for example, of the Hungarian state television on February 24 (the commentator declared Russia’s right to defend “its own” and compared Zelensky with Hitler), I understand that we were losing the information war. And here’s a twist that no political scientist has ever spoken of as a minimally realistic scenario.
On February 19, my best friend celebrated his 60th birthday. We managed to traditionally fry kebabs, drink wine, which he himself makes every year, eat a delicious cake, and even dance at the request of the hero of the day. And then we were covered by a wave of conflicting news: Russia is preparing to attack, the day and hour are known when the Russian Federation will attack. The English SUN called him; and then a day passed, and an hour, and two. Nothing – and even memes appeared with Atkinson, how we are waiting for them, but they do not come. Sometimes I have premonitions; I don’t like them very much and I try to put pressure on myself. It’s impossible not to feel the “goosebumps” on the back of the neck, remembering that under Stalin everything was done by certain dates: they took Stalingrad like that, etc. etc. The reddest dates are November 7, February 23.
And on the night of February 23-24, it begins. War. Real war, about which we only read in books. Enemies climbed from all sides, including Belarus .
24 hours. Emotions.
The first 24 hours is a time of shock and I would even say cognitive dissonance. You go into another room and by the time you get there, you forget what you came there for; you start a phrase – you forget the word, and another, and everything falls apart without meaning. Words have left me. For me it’s quite strange; I’m a professional chatter. This is ‘my everything.’
So the main emotion is confusion. Suddenly everything lost its meaning. Why recharge? Read a lecture? Write an article? And what are the clothes for? Books? You can’t take it with you if you run. I started to collect everything as a “disturbing bag” — medicines, some wires, a computer, in general, communication is the main thing, the main thing. It’s scary to even think about how it would be without it. And at this time, everyone calls, writes; many of my friends are from behind the cordon. The word “cordon” cuts the ear. This is the line that cut us off from them. We are with our trouble, they are there. This seemed to be the main thing. I don’t have the strength to read, “We are with you, if anything, we will help, write only how to help.” Well, Lord, how can you help me from there?
And confusion is replaced by anger. I’m trapped and no one will help. My whole country is trapped. And the world is silent. It is disgusting to look at the bleating of world leaders — they all talk about nothing as always. And I see clearly: no one will help us. They are no longer talking about how to stop the fights, but about what will happen next. It’s like we don’t exist anymore, we were written off. Biden revealed this logic: the sanctions were supposed to stop Putin, but they didn’t. I read this as “We don’t have a plan B.” No one sends weapons, no one turns off the SWIFT, no one covers the sky above us, from which death is pouring with might and main. And the thought beats: we were abandoned, we were deceived.
Against this background, the question of friends, the same from all: well, how are you there? Irritated. I wanted to scream: What do you think? We are afraid, we are very afraid. But, of course, you politely answer: thank you, while everything is quiet, we are in the city, we are considering how to leave, if anything, to the village. A dialogue with Nazira was very important; she survived the eight-day war and fled from Abkhazia to Tbilisi. Now she is there. And she gave advice: No, this is a bad option, it’s better to sit in the city, be patient, stock up on candles, alcohol, and water. And I immediately believed her that if you twitch, it will be even worse.
Then I spoke with another refugee from Donetsk, and she also said: Sit quietly, the best place is in the corridor closer to the load-bearing wall and away from the windows. The fighting will not last long; it is important what happens next. The fact that everything will end quickly is reassuring, simply because there is no strength to think about the same thing all the time. And in a circle. And again.
Therefore, anger gives way to physical fatigue. No matter what you do, your strength quickly ends, as if you are rolling a huge stone uphill. I can’t think, I can’t speak, I can’t do anything.
Third-party observation: Do not think beyond tomorrow morning; everything can change, literally everything.
48 hours. I’m thinking.
And then I see that our army is fighting, and people are helping, very young people are lining up to donate blood for our wounded. The thought that we have already won because we have not given up changes everything. The first victims have gone. I’m crying, I haven’t seen them, but I can imagine them so clearly, they are dear to me, like my children, which I don’t have. Long before the war, I already knew that Ukrainians should fight for Ukraine. And so it happened. Who do you get angry at? Biden, the “world leader”? On the collective impotent, the EU? God is with them.
Humility has come, acceptance of one’s fate. And at that moment I remembered the old song “All That Jazz” by Bob Fosse. There, the comedian on the show learned that he was terminally ill and will die. He goes through all the stages from unbelief to humility. I went through them in a day, well, a little more. On the second day, I realized that we will adapt or die. So I concluded that there is no difference between thoughts about my death and a global catastrophe: the same stages, emotions, the strength of these emotions.
I am a pessimist, always dissatisfied with something. But after a disaster, how everything changes! How keenly you perceive life, its color and light, its beauty; you understand that you lived beautifully, so much was given, and so much was in your power! The days were sunny, and the bread was unusually fragrant and tasty. I understand only now how I have become attached to this city, how I fear not only for myself and my loved ones, but for the theater, the streets, the house where my beloved lived, where I was happy and unhappy, our main building, on the steps of which he was waiting. I see these places and days now as if I were full of love, the world smiled back at me along with every passerby. It is impossible to think that these streets are threatened with destruction, because without them I will not be me.
It is not clear how “those on the other side” do not see that we cannot reconcile ourselves, cannot give up, that we will not give up what is so dear to us. Our strength is in our love for the city and all those who lived and died here, and not only in hatred for the enemy. This is mine: the sea, parks, a cemetery, flowers and cafes, yard cats.
Third party observation: No one says more nonsense than professional experts; you can let everyone “on the soapbox.”
72 hours. Surrounding.
Our dependence on the media is amazing, although I myself have written extensively about it. What would we know if the connection was broken? I think there would be more panic. Now we can clearly see on the screen that everything works, everything is in place. It is only fools and provocateurs who sow panic. Are there more fools or provocateurs? The issue requires further research. In the queue that instantly appeared at pharmacies and shops, an aunt broadcasts: “Well, this is all for a long time. THEY have finished their mask project and now they are starting THIS.” We must pay tribute to our residents of Odesa — everywhere there is order and emphasized politeness, so no one answered the old fool, they just turned away. Many people are sick and flawed, but this is not news.
For a couple of Zooms, only one girl came and was obviously not in better condition than I. The rest disappeared and did not respond to emails. Colleagues say the same thing: the students are not ready to study, many have left, and the situation there is even worse or there is no Internet. And some are already digging trenches and volunteering.
The management arranged a “meeting of the labor collective,” and a discussion broke out about whether to study or not to study. I did not think that it would be so hot; many took the idea of studying as an insult. But in principle, I am for studying, while, of course, adapting to realities, but we must get in touch with the students, even if one person just wants to talk or be distracted from thinking about what is happening.
That doesn’t stop me from helping everyone I can get my hands on. That’s when I bitterly regretted not having a car! Volunteers are beautiful, but I can only organize and give money! On the third day of the war, in my department, five people actively joined; from the rest there was neither a rumor nor a spirit. And that’s nothing. The dean said that the students wrote, asking the administration to protect them from the anti-Ukrainian comments that one professor made right in the classroom (apparently on the first day of the war). And the most disgusting of all is that some of the other faculty, who are smarter, do not say anything themselves, but hint: we are professors, we must strictly go about our business and not express any political views. One would like to ask them: What can you teach students? Do you have something within your soul that allows you to be teachers and mentors? Everything that has been smoldering latently since 2013 has now come out for everyone to see. Let them be a small minority, but there they are: lovers of the “Russian world” in Odesa.
Third-party observation: The war manifests everything in the sharpest form. A fool becomes an idiot, Russophiles become traitors, and in myself I found extreme agitation, as if I were a cauldron that was about to explode if the steam was not let out. And so I’ll keep volunteering and writing, writing…