Daryna Kolomiiets at the scene of a missile attack in Kyiv
(Picture: Daryna Kolomiiets)When will I finally get used to the fact that explosions are “normal”?
The windows and the mattress in the corridor shake from the noise wave. It’s been the longest three weeks of my life. My heart shudders. It’s 5am and tears well up in my eyes. I don’t want to get used to it.
I had tried to fall asleep. Light began to make its way into the room, despite the windows being covered with 10 blankets so the glass wouldn’t shatter in the event of a loud explosion.
Two hours later, I was by a charred house. Before I had woken up, it had been white.
Thank God no one was home. The family had left as soon as the war broke out. No one died. No one but the house.
I tried to imagine what it was like before. There was probably a cozy table on the terrace with chairs, of which only black iron rods now remained.
Curtains probably hung on the windows. But there are no more windows.
Neighbours managed to put out the fire before rescuers arrived.
Only the first floor was burned out. On the second floor, two small bright pink abandoned beds remained.
I wanted to touch these abandoned things. Feel their atmosphere. But I couldn’t. It’s so scary to look at a charred sofa and imagine that children were playing on it a month ago. And they had had fun where the four-metre pit now is outside.
The only thing I dared to touch was the remnant of the Russian cruise missile in the yard. An unwanted, obscene, deadly spear hurled at us by cowardly Dr Death himself in the Kremlin.
Firing rockets off indiscriminately at distant civilian targets — that’s the Russian way of conducting their murderous diplomacy of ‘give in or we’ll pulverise you into submission’.
On the way back, we drove again past dozens of checkpoints. Our friendly guys checked our documents, smiled and wished us peace.
We drove in silence. A grey curtain of smoke rose over Kyiv. The city will never be the same again.
Daryna Kolomiiets is a correspondent for the Kyiv Post
.jpg?w=600)
