Awakening to War

Thursday, 5 a.m., February 24, 2022. I am jolted awake by unsettling noises that terrify me, though I can’t quite place them. There’s something deadly about these sounds, a deep, instinctually felt warning that something significant is unfolding. The pale morning light spills through the balcony door, casting a grim glow on my husband’s face, marked by fear and horror—a reflection of my own dread. Explosions chill the blood; their reality is undeniable and horrifying. As we lie in bed, our silent glances acknowledge the unknown trials ahead.

Our thoughts turn to our children, our two daughters aged ten and four, still asleep and dreaming of rainbows and unicorns, blissfully unaware of the stark reality intruding upon their dreams. The scene feels eerily reminiscent of Valentin Papko’s chilling painting “Not Even Dreamed. June 22, 1941,” which depicts the surreal calm before the storm of World War II. I never imagined facing a similar terror, a terror unfolding in the very heart of Ukraine, in the city of Dnipro. A terror that swept across the entire country that morning.

I feel helpless in the face of this looming danger, an ancient fear I can’t protect them from. History, once confined to the pages of books or museum walls, is now painfully present, repeating in a way I could never have imagined, touching ordinary families like ours.

In a protective instinct, I wish to gather my children into our bed, to hold them close despite not understanding the full scope of what’s happening. My husband, Artur, attempting to preserve their peace for a little longer, pleads with me not to wake them. So, I lie down with our younger daughter, Dasha, holding her tight, while he does the same with her sister, Masha. We hold each other as the sounds of chaos eventually fade, but my mind races, trying to piece together the surreal events unfolding outside our home.

About an hour later, I rise to drink some water and, through the kitchen window, I witness a mass exodus. People are hastily packing their cars, an unmistakable sign of a dire situation. My mind races, overwhelmed by the sudden and surreal shift in our world. The silence in our home contrasts with the growing chaos outside, and I feel both an urge to act and a sense of disbelief, as if this can’t possibly be real.

A call to my mother confirms my worst fears—she answers in tears, revealing that a war has started. The notion seems absurd, unimaginable in the twenty-first century, and my mind rebels against reality. War feels like a relic of history or a plot in a movie, not something that could invade our lives today.

And here I am again, grappling with this haunting thought. Just recently, I watched Downton Abbey, where the main character, Lady Mary Crawley, reacts with disbelief and indignation at the onset of war. How could such a thing happen in the early twentieth century? This same terrifying question weighs on me in the twenty-first century, and suddenly I realize how deeply I empathize with my beloved character. A wave of sincere compassion envelops me—I can feel her despair, the foreboding sense of horror that lies ahead. I know what awaits her: War, from which she cannot escape. This inevitable nightmare engulfs me, forcing me to recall the hopelessness Lady Mary once faced when confronted with the horrors of the First World War. The same darkness and despair wash over me again, making me ponder the grim parallels between our fates.

As the shock begins to settle, the grim reality sets in—we must face whatever comes. There’s no hiding from it, and no running away. I stare out the window again at the half-empty parking lot, seeing the stark evidence of people fleeing. We need to comprehend, explain to our children, and adapt, making decisions moment by moment in a newly uncertain world.

Thank God for the internet, which allows us to quickly learn from social media and news outlets that war has indeed broken out. The headlines confirm my fears, but seeing the unfolding situation online pushes me into action. No longer just a tragic story far away, this is now personal. I realize we need to prepare, to secure what we can before supplies run out.

Russia has attacked us. Our city’s airport, near where we live, along with all major airports in the country, has been targeted and bombed. Panic is palpable as people clog the roads attempting to escape, while others rush to stores, stockpiling essentials. My husband heads to an atm, foreseeing the imminent necessity of cash over credit, but finds the machines empty, the queues long and fraught with desperation.

It was a Friday morning — a day that was supposed to unfold like any other. Our older daughter, Masha, was meant to be getting ready for school. But that day, what was meant to be ordinary morphed into a nightmare. I chose not to send her to school. The parents’ chat group was a flurry of confusion, everyone seeking guidance on what steps to take next. Eventually, the school communicated through the teacher that classes were canceled, a small relief amid escalating fears.

Artur, a software developer, worked from home, a blessing under these circumstances. The nursery Dasha attended also canceled its sessions. At that time, my role was managing our home. So, here we were, the four of us, confined to our modest two-bedroom apartment—not due to a pandemic this time, but to a war.

We had to discuss reality with our children. Concealing the truth was no longer an option; they deserved to be informed, not shielded from the truth under layers of deception. They sensed the gravity of the situation. We sat down and I explained things in terms they could grasp. Explaining the onset of war to your children is an agony I would not wish upon anyone—the danger lurking outside, the abrupt halt of everyday life, and the piercing realization that even home could not guarantee safety anymore.

I took a deep breath and looked at our daughters, their innocent faces filled with confusion.

“Girls,” I began softly, trying to keep my voice steady, “there’s something very serious happening right now. You might hear loud noises outside, and you might see people rushing to leave, but I need you to understand that there is a war starting.”

Masha, our eldest, frowned and asked, “Like the ones in the history books?”

I nodded, feeling a lump form in my throat. “Yes, like that. But this time, it’s happening here, in our city, in Dnipro.”

Dasha, too young to fully grasp the concept, clung to her favorite stuffed unicorn. “Will it hurt us, Mama?” she asked in a small voice.

I reached out and held her close. “We’re going to do everything we can to keep you safe. Dad and I will be here with you, no matter what.” I glanced at Artur, who nodded in agreement, his eyes heavy with worry.

I had to tell them that their usual freedoms—school, playing outside, attending classes—were all suspended indefinitely. “We don’t know when things will go back to normal,” I said quietly. “For now, we need to stay together and stay safe. We might not be able to go outside like we used to, but we’ll make sure you have everything you need right here at home.”

Masha’s eyes filled with concern, but she didn’t protest, while Dasha simply held me tighter, sensing the weight of my words even if she didn’t fully understand them.

It’s a burden no parent should bear, the realization that our children’s sense of security would forever be altered, that our lives would now be eternally split into “before” and “after.”