In Mariupol, a lot of things did not feel significant. We ate from the same plates, so as not to waste water for washing. We slept on mattresses together, so it would be warmer. We wore hats and ran over to anyone we saw to find out what was happening in the neighbouring courtyard. We forgot that shops existed, that one could turn on the TV, catch up on social media, shower or sleep in a real bed.
Today we found out that fewer than 40,000 people had left the city during the entire blockade. Hundreds of thousands of people are still in hell. It’s harder and harder for them to go through each day. Please help them. Tell the truth about my city.
20 March 2022
#mariupol #nadezhda The main thing is not to go crazy, because the unknown is worse than bombs.
I have a friend named Lyosha, who is still in Mariupol. He could have left, but refused. His children were still in the city. The day before we left, he came to our basement and brought food, because we were no longer going up to the surface.
At that time, our main food was buckwheat soaked in water. We waited for it to swell up, and then swallowed two spoonfuls with difficulty. The children had to be forced. There was no salt or taste to this porridge. Lyosha also brought us porridge, but with pieces of tinned stewed meat. He and his extended family lived at his parents’ house.
It was then that I promised him: “If I survive, I will definitely write about you.” He said: “What are you talking about? You will definitely survive.”
When the war began, we were walking down the stairs from our fifth-floor flat to walk the dog, Angie, twice a day. There was heavy shelling and it was scary to the point that I experienced convulsions.
For several days we struggled with nightmarish horror.
Then we put Angie on her leash and took her to Maxim and Natasha’s house. First we left our dog, then we moved there ourselves.
We lived there for more than a week. I named this house “Noah’s Ark”. The hosts accepted everyone, fed them and kept them warm. They divided the food supplies equally, as more and more people came.
On the first floor, in the hall, under the stairs, there were 28 people. We even had a Madonna and Child in the basement: my friend’s daughter with her baby boy, Nikita, born on the first of March.
We didn’t go up to the second floor. It was dangerous there. Only in the mornings, after terrible nights buzzing with mines and shells, did they run to look out the window at the flag on a tall building in the city centre. It was important for us to know that the blue and yellow still fluttered over Mariupol.