The first, second, fourth day passed. Different people, heroes, stories came and went. Not everyone was lucky enough to stay alive. Bakhmut was burning in front of us — I will always remember the smell of the burned city. There were dead bodies all around us — I will always remember the pungent, sour smell.
People shouted, jumped into the trenches, asked for cigarettes, shared cigarettes, asked for water, shared water. They jumped out, ran or crawled on. When the fifth day came to an end, heavy rain suddenly began, an almost tropical torrent. The shelling stopped for the first time. And the walkie-talkie, whose batteries hadn’t quite run out, rang with the command to leave.
So I left. Under a downpour, thirsty, wet, exhausted, having lost seven kilograms of body weight and all ammunition, but still carrying my weapon. When we got 15 kilometers from the front line, to a transshipment point at a gas station, the internet connection was restored and we seemed relatively safe. I wrote to my wife: My love, I survived. I still have a hard time believing it.
Did I want to fight? Do hundreds of thousands of Ukrainians want to fight? We have children, families, jobs, hobbies, parcels in the mail. And some of us have an unfinished novel about the adventures of a Ukrainian in America who didn’t want to fight but couldn’t do otherwise. We also cannot do otherwise, because our enemies are trying once more to take away our right to live on our land. Because they are trying to take away our right to freedom.
How could I not pick up a weapon here? For those who lived for many decades in the cozy arms of democracy and freedom, who don’t know the fear of captivity and torture, it is difficult to understand why such peaceful people — who from time immemorial grew wheat, mined iron and coal, and grazed cattle on boundless meadows — defend every meter of their country with such fury. But I know the answer. This is our wonderful land. And it must be free.