Olha Novikova is from Dnipro, where she worked for a major Ukrainian newspaper. In 2015, she was a participant of the M100YEJ. Today she lives in Munich and works as an SAP security consultant for a large company.
January 2023. For several seconds I stop existing when I read the name of my hometown. A nine-storey block of flats hit by a Russian missile. We don´t have an air defense for this missile type yet. Instead of those nine storeys I see a big hole and a pile of rubble. I am petrified. It looks like any other house in my neighborhood. Those typical Soviet-era buildings, you know. We are in the East close to the frontline: there is an air raid alarm day and night for hours, constant blackouts make it impossible to use elevators, often missiles hit before the siren starts, nobody is hiding in the bomb shelter anymore. There must be people under the rubble: children, whole families. I read the name of the street and breathe out: NOT MINE.
October 2022. For the first time in nine months I met my mom in Romania. Meanwhile, Russia launched the first massive missile attack on our critical infrastructure. We had our first blackout. It was easier, as I knew my mom was in a safe place. I wanted to take her with me to Germany. But she went home: back to my dad and to her patients. I am scared and sad. But I understand that she is more important there than in Germany. In the hospital: with wounded soldiers and civilians. Support for my dad and the grandparents. I remind myself, that I am not a child anymore and let her go. As we talk, a local guy about my age asks us where exactly we come from. I say “Dnipro”. He says: “Wow. Yesterday they bombed a road there and today it is fixed like new”. He is impressed. He adds that we fight not only for our country and freedom, but also for the democratic values and peace in Europe. That we should get more help with weapons and sanctions. That you cannot compare prices for gas and human lives. “Since when are you in Romania?”, he must think we are refugees. I tell him I have been living abroad for 6 years, and my mom is on vacation and about to go back to Ukraine. He is surprised: “Really? To Ukraine NOW?”.
September 2022. When I was an Erasmus student people would ask me where I come from. I would say Ukraine. Mostly people were asking about Odessa, Lviv and Kyiv. Sometimes they even knew a football team from my hometown Dnipro. We found everything fun, we were living in the peaceful times after all. They still ask where I am from when they hear an accent. I say “Ukraine”. They say “oh”. Nowadays people know much more about us. They know Mariupol, Bucha, Izium. I see, they don’t want to talk about it, because it is not fun anymore. They are confused, they think I don’t want to talk about it. Wrong. I am eager to shout about it because the world should know. They ask me if my family is still there. I don’t understand the word “still” in this question. What would happen to Ukraine, if all the doctors, rescue and fire brigades, teachers, soldiers and millions of other important citizens just fled?
July 2022. Sometimes in a bar people ask me what’s up. I am sipping a cocktail and wondering what I should say. I have just heard that 10 missiles are in the sky flying direction my hometown. I am reading that my hometown is under an air raid. My hometown where my family and friends live. Imagine you are sitting in a bar, and someone is getting killed by a missile or by a gun. People prefer not to be involved in politics. They prefer not to support arming anyone. They suppose if the victim has no weapon, the attacker will stop the attack. Wrong. Families are left homeless in one minute. Children lose limbs in one minute. The whole towns are wiped from the earth surface. I read that those missiles were shot by the air defense and exploded in the air. Houses, children and towns are intact this time. Thanks God we have weapons like that.
June 2022. I visited Rotterdam. Hard to believe that it was completely destroyed in the WWII. Seeing it today as such a vibrant, sustainable and modern city gives me hope. I hope, Mariupol can look like this one day!
March 2022. I called an ambulance during the night. Honestly, I am just afraid. I don’t know when and if I see my family, when I can go home and if I can go home, and whether my home still exists when I go. I feel guilty as well. For doing normal things, for being safe abroad, for smiling, for working in a clean office. My classmates are giving birth in the shelters and joining the army, volunteers are risking their lives, doctors are saving lives of others, small children are crossing the border by themselves. Even my 90 year old grandparents are fearlessly facing their just another big war. The other day I warned them not to touch any objects outside, as it might be a cluster bomb. My grandfather matter-of-factly told me he had already learnt it hard way (He lost his right hand in a landmine explosion in the WWII). No, I am not entitled to panic attacks. If we want to help, we need to be strong. Eat properly, take care of ourselves, you know. Be able to think clearly and react quickly. Just help with what we can: not less, not more.
February 2023. Imagine watching a war film backwards. Debris constructed into buildings. Missiles flying back to planes. Planes flying back to military bases. Bullets flying back to guns. Dead people getting up to run their usual errands. Invaders and refugees returning home. War criminals becoming innocent civilians. Factory workers destroying weapons to the smallest parts, so they can never hurt anyone again. Watching the war backwards would be a happy end.
