Valeria, Nikolaev / Tbilisi

Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I try to live – this is the best thing I can do right now. My father is in a fever, my mother is under bombs, friends are scattered everywhere, and I do not know if I will be able to see any of them in the near future. Most of the time I want to scream. Sometimes I want to sing.

I listen to songs only in Ukrainian and drink Georgian wine. During a month in Tbilisi, I met guys from all over the world, but I don’t know a single Ukrainian here. Fortunately, the Georgians understand me. Local acquaintances often recall 2008 and what it turned out to be for them.

Everyone I know here hugs at a meeting, holds hands, gives something, gives. I can’t take it anymore. There hasn’t been a meaningful touch in a month.

We can only wait and hope. In three weeks – to Poland, the company opens a temporary office there. I don’t know what’s next. I don’t know if I’ll get home either. Statistically, 80% of people who left the country during the war never return.
There’s nowhere special to go. There are shells under Mom’s windows, and her workplace is blown up. Now it remains only to work at full strength to send her money for an indefinite period. Now we can only pray that all this is over as soon as possible and that everyone remains alive. Everyone I’ve ever known for a moment.

I haven’t prayed for 15 years, but now I repeat every day like a mantra: “Dear God, I know we haven’t been in harmony for 15 years, but just let them breathe. Full breasts. And I’ll be fine. Today, tomorrow or one day.