The story of Liza, who fled from Ukraine to Germany

The war has been going on for more than two months now. In all the horror of what is happening, many of us have abstracted away: now even the most terrible news doesn't seem as impressive as it was. But we shouldn't forget the nightmare. As before, Sahar reminds us of it through the lens of Lisa's memories.

This year we had a lot of planning to do. My family had just got out of a difficult money situation, and we wanted to go for a drive in the country. Dad had already agreed with some acquaintances from Kharkiv, and my mother and I were planning a trip to Lviv. A couple of weeks before the war started, I managed to drive to Kiev with my school for a day, see the Maidan, walk the streets...

No one thought anything like this would happen. Even mines in schools were not scary: we laughed when they took us out of school every day, lined us up and checked the building. Everybody understood perfectly well that it was impossible to bomb every school in town. I remember one night my mother and I were talking about Russia's plans to attack Ukraine: it sounded like a joke. Many people started to panic then. My mom and I understood that my school, rural and unknown to anyone, was safe: no one would waste time or explosives. But February 24 changed everything.  

 In the morning there was an explosion: they hit a military base. Some people paid attention, some didn't even wake up. My town is an industrial town and we are used to explosions. 

 The first week was the hardest. When you just realized what is happening, all you have to do is scroll the news day and night. We started living with neighbours: we slept near one another, we kept the doors to each other's rooms open. At the first siren we ran together to the nearest school – we sat in the bunker together. I calmed a ten-year-old girl down. She's the daughter of my neighbour's sister. She lived at her aunt's, as her mother is a medic and was very busy at work. 

After a couple of sirens, we realized that running to school was too hard. Gather everyone together, walk down the seventh floor – the elevators were switched off on February 24 – run to the school, calm people down, lead them back, go back again... We read a lot of information and understood that our room in the center of the building was the safest place in the house. We set it up –  put mattresses, blankets, carried food there. Right on time: the sirens turned on 6-7 times a day and lasted 30-50 minutes. 

 Man is a creature who gets used to everything. And we got used to it. We got used to sitting at night without light, going to bed in our clothes, checking the emergency bag two hundred times a day. It was really scary to sit at night without any light and to look at columns of military convoy. Driving through a city littered with "hedgehogs" [anti-tank barriers] and checkpoints; seeing military equipment rushing down the street.

 The most frightening thing was when we were told that the Russian army wanted to take over Zaporizhzhya’s Energodar. My father works there, a hundred kilometers away from me. I remember my father called my mother and said: "Get ready, pack your things and buy iodine".

We sat with the windows closed; reading how the Russians were bombing the Zaporozhzhya’s nuclear power plant without fear or regret. For the first time in my life, I prayed that everything would be all right. It was scary: I didn't sleep and sat there, looking around, waiting for my father to call. He contacted us the next day and said that Energodar surrendered: they did not want to risk people's lives. Then we exhaled in relief.

My mother and I, both real patriots, were sure until the last minute that we were not going anywhere. We were ready to become partisans, work at the farm, or wherever – people are needed now, the sowing season was coming, we needed to feed the people. 

One day we were told that soon there would be the last train to Poland. At that time our city was under attack and it was not the first day my father begged my mother to go.

We packed in an hour and a half. We took the last seats on the train, we had to ride standing up. It was a difficult journey: instead of the planned two days, it went for five – changing trains, sleeping on folding beds or even on briefcases. My parents didn't sleep at all. It was frightening to go through Ukraine: you had to listen to every knock; you were afraid that they would bomb the rails or even hit the train. Abroad they did not sleep either. You cannot sleep peacefully, knowing that troops are already near your hometown – even in another country. 

 I remember we were in a border town in Ukraine and humanitarian aid was brought to us to the train: diapers, food, water. All of this was running out. Some little boy brought biscuits to my younger brother. I remember that I couldn't hold back my tears then. It was so...I don't have the words to describe the feelings that were bubbling up inside. When you are in need and someone is giving you a helping hand for free, you realise how important it really is to help others.

 We are now in a hostel, in a six-bed room with seven people, counting me. It's still hard to accept that you have run away, abandoned your motherland, your home, your pets, your family…It is frightening to realise that you might not come back at all. But we have hope – we haven't even completely unpacked our suitcases. We are even ready to take the first train back home tomorrow.

When I return, the first thing I want to do is pet the cats in my hometown. I want to hug my father, and see him again. I want to rebuild my country, I want to volunteer and help other people the way they helped me. I hope we will be back soon: our city is one of the most protected, everything is calm. The only problem is that they have started shelling trains.  

 We have an acquaintance, who works as a conductor, who told us that the last train to Poland was going from our town. He said that conductors from the hot spots – Donetsk and Kyiv - were traveling with him. When the train next to them honked, they fell to the floor, plugged their ears, and were almost hysterical. It was very scary.

We saw a girl in Poland. She was very small, about ten years old or even younger. When the door slammed loudly, she got hysterical; she was lying on the floor and refused to get up. The girl had fled with her grandmother from Kiev. Her parents were no longer alive. Polish volunteers helped her, a huge number of people ran to her aid, tried to support her, even found and brought a psychologist, and all this in the shortest possible time, literally in a couple of minutes. Such solidarity is surprising and gratifying. You feel that you’re not alone; there are many others like you, who are ready to help.

 I'd like to tell you about something that's more frightening than an explosion. It's the cars from the hot spots. Cars that are completely labeled "CHILDREN", covered in white rags. Cars look more like sieves. There is blood on some of the cars. And you can't figure out who this family lost. Whether it was the same kid they wrapped the car for. Whether it was his parent. Whether he's dead, whether he's alive. You don't know and you'll never know. Seeing cars like that, you understand what war really is. You wouldn't wish that on anyone.