Witnessing war: A teen tells her story from life in Kyiv to safety in Sacramento | Opinion

On the morning of February 24, 2022, I awoke pleading, “it’s not true, it just cannot be.” I was 11, living with my family in the Ukrainian capital of Kyiv. And Russia had just invaded my country.

In the three years since then, I have witnessed firsthand — and remember well — the terrors brought by the war. Now, living in Sacramento, I am thankful for the opportunity to live safely and thankful for my community’s continued support of Ukraine.

February 24, 2022

When I awoke on this Thursday morning, I did not yet know how much cruelty there was in this brutal world. It was very early, and I could sense that something was off. It was so dark in Kyiv that I could barely see my hands.

Our tiny electronic clock showed that it was a little past 5 a.m. I wondered what could have caused me to wake up so early. Turning my head, I saw my mother in the dull light entering the room silently. I watched from the second floor of my bunk bed as she leaned down to my father’s ear and whispered something,

“My father just called,” she said, pausing for a second. “We are invaded.”

I lay on my bed and cuddled with Isabel, my soft, pale gray kitten and thought about tomorrow’s geometry test. My brain refused to process the absurd information I just heard, but some part of me already knew that it was true. That day, even though I did not go to school, I learned an important lesson: that the most important things are not objects, they are the memories you carry with you — present wherever you go.

“Mom, dad, is it true?” I asked. “Did they really attack us?” In response, there were two silent nods.

“Get your clothes and Isabel,” my father told me. My mom went to wake up my brother.

“We are leaving,” she said. “Now. And —” but her voice was cut off. An unfamiliar sound started building — a whistle-like noise that kept growing louder and closer, faster and stronger. Then it stopped, and for just a tenth of a second it was quiet. Suddenly, the missiles detonated. BANG. First explosion. BOOM. Second one. And then, before we could even process or understand what had just happened, we heard a mournful, heartbreaking yowl of a siren.

I could not imagine then that that sound would wake up the country for months — for years. It would bring death, ruin and endless tears.

The next few minutes are hard to remember. When I try to recall that memory, it’s as if it is clouded in smoke — a haze of fear, despair and hopelessness. I recall grabbing Isabel, some clothes and a supply of food and water; I remember going down the stairs from the eighth floor and bursting outside into the still night. The cold air seemed to smell of gasoline. The city was filled with smoke.

The worst feeling

This is the part I wish to forget the most, but I can’t. It’s as if every detail is carved on the inside of my skull. While we waited for my father to lock all the doors, we stood near our car under the dim light of a lone street lamp. A sound started to grow bigger and louder. And then we saw them: Warplanes flying low over our city. They kept getting closer, and lower.

Several more missiles were launched. It was the worst feeling — just standing there, the whole family covering their heads with bare hands, not knowing what else to do and wondering if we would survive the next few seconds. Those few seconds felt like an entire lifetime. The planes faded away in the dark cover of predawn haze, and everything went quiet again.

We left Isabel with my grandparents, kissed them goodbye and set out on our journey. Isabel meowed in protest and grasped my sweater; she had to be ripped away from me. Leaving behind my kitten, my closest relatives and my beloved country felt like tearing out a piece of my heart.

The next few days were very difficult, filled with sleepless nights and endless cries for help. Our silent car trip to the border of Poland took us three times as long as usual, and the car line stretched for miles. My parents decided to leave our car with friends and go by bus. The driver, a young man who had probably just received his license, refused to take pay for children’s bus tickets.

The journey out of Kyiv

We were able to find two seats on the bus. We switched spots every hour, so everybody had a chance to get some sleep. And then, finally, we arrived in Poland. From the border, we settled into another bus that took us to Warsaw. We stayed there, shuddering at the sound of airplanes overhead, until my parents were able to purchase plane tickets.

All the flights were overbooked, and we waited for days to get tickets. Finally, we got one: It had a lot of transfers, but it was still a flight. We boarded a stuffed plane to Qatar, and I thought of how exciting it would be in any other circumstance — how fun to explore a new country if not for the actual reasons we were brought there.

From there, we had yet another exhausting airplane trip and then spent a night in Los Angeles. It was the first time in three days that we slept on beds, not narrow airplane or airport seats. The next day, my family went through the last step of the journey: a short flight, from Los Angeles to Sacramento. We were in America.

Life in Sacramento

Here, in Sacramento, my family and I have made a fresh start over the past three years — we have made new friends, and met many new people.

But it’s not the end: Ukraine will not give up, and the enemy will be defeated. Many of my classmates, teachers, friends and family members remain in Ukraine, under constant missile raids and drone attacks. My grandparents live a few kilometers away from Kyiv. They are bombed every night.

I check the news every day when I wake up, again in the afternoon and finally before I go to sleep. I am terrified that I will see the name or face of somebody I know.

Ukraine is a shield — the only force actively defending the world against Russian invasion. Which is why I was extremely alarmed by President Donald Trump’s recent meeting with Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky.

A fifth of Ukraine is currently under temporary Russian occupation; millions of Ukrainians, who fled the war, are scattered across the globe, and hundreds of thousands more are now fighting at the battlefields.

Ukraine is the most valuable memory I have. If Russia wins, I will lost my motherland again — this time, forever.