“April 5, 2022. Air raid alert across the whole country. It feels like being led to an execution every single time. All of us. But they aim at only one. Usually the one on the edge. Today, it’s not you. All clear.”

February 23, 2022, was a very important day for me. I was the host of a large event in my hometown of Kramatorsk. The event took place in the city’s central square and was attended by many people, including families with children. My son was with me that day as well. It was a bright and joyful day! Against the backdrop of that day, I pushed away all thoughts of war, which at the time were being spread by all the world’s media. I didn’t believe such a thing could be possible in the 21st century. I was working and trying to bring joy to the people in my city, to give them hope that everything would be all right. In recent years, the city had blossomed like never before. Renovations were being made, and significant funds were invested in various programs that supported cultural development. These programs were backed by different countries, and it felt like the best was just beginning. It was the peak of my career. I had built my life in this city exactly as I had always dreamed. I had a beautiful apartment where I had just finished renovations, I had an interesting and creative job, a circle of friends, and many creative plans for the future. I was preparing to enroll my son in school that coming September. Everything was simply perfect. As a creative person, I had found a way to express my talents, and for me, Kramatorsk at that time was a city full of opportunities and the best kind of life.

But after the event ended that evening, on February 23, I returned home and packed an emergency suitcase – items of first necessity and documents required in case of evacuation if war were to begin. To this day, I still don’t know why I did that on that particular night. I slept very poorly; I had nightmares that woke me up repeatedly, and then I would fall back asleep again. Eventually, I woke up for good at 4 a.m. from an explosion outside the window. On my phone, I had a shared chat with my university classmates who lived in different cities across Ukraine, and at the same moment, we all started writing that the war had begun. Explosions were heard simultaneously across the entire country. Panic seized me. I didn’t know what to do, where to run, or where to hide. In my city, I had only one close relative—my aunt. I called her and told her I was coming. I woke my son, who was five years old at the time, and we went to my aunt’s house. Only there could I start to recover a little from what had just happened. I spent the entire day on her couch, glued to the news. My body trembled from stress and uncertainty – it was terrifying. I couldn’t believe that this was our new reality. It felt as if I was trapped in a nightmare and couldn’t wake up, no matter how hard I tried. Later, I regained some strength and began volunteering. I donated blood, collected humanitarian aid, and helped people with communication needs. The media continued reporting on attacks in other cities like Mariupol, Kyiv, and Kharkiv. I saw how people were constantly being killed. I was terrified for the future of my son. My building had no bomb shelter, and at any moment, a Russian missile could strike our apartment directly. This sense of helplessness and intense anxiety for our lives forced me to make the decision to leave the country.

On March 2, 2022, we boarded a train in Kramatorsk and headed toward Lviv. I constantly smelled metal in the air. It felt like Armageddon had begun, and people were trying to save themselves however they could. The train cars were overcrowded. Our train passed through Kharkiv and Kyiv – areas where fierce battles were taking place and where the shelling never ceased. We lay on the floor and prayed. I covered my son with my body, hoping to give him at least a small chance to survive if a missile struck the train. After 24 hours, we arrived in Lviv. My son did not handle the journey well and became ill. The stress and lack of fresh air on the train had taken their toll, and I decided to wait in Lviv for a day until he felt better. The next day, we crossed the border into Poland, where we received an overwhelming amount of support and love from Polish volunteers – something I will never forget. We spent about a week in Poland with a Polish family who welcomed us as if we were their own. I knew I needed to move further. Through acquaintances, I learned about a Swedish family that was offering Ukrainian refugees free use of their summer home for several months in the town of Höllviken. I had never been to Sweden before, but I had a strong feeling that I needed to try to get there. My son and I, along with a friend and her child, decided to go to Sweden together.

On March 18, 2022, we arrived in Sweden. The incredible nature of the country and the kindness of the family that took us in helped ease some of the pain we constantly felt. I started attending Swedish language courses and looking for a job. I had many ambitions and goals, but after some time I realized that without knowing Swedish, I wouldn’t be able to achieve them in the field I had chosen for myself. We had to leave the family that had temporarily taken us in, so I accepted a job offered to me by the employment agency at the time – as a hotel housekeeper. In June 2022, my friend and I began working at the hotel and were able to rent an apartment in the town of Eslöv. I kept thinking I would soon return to Ukraine and to my beautiful life. But summer passed, then autumn, and I realized that I was staying in Sweden. I also came to understand that my current job was not making me happy and that I was betraying the talent I had been given and for which I felt responsible. I resigned and started establishing connections with charitable organizations.

The first organization I began collaborating with was “Malmö Helps,” which at the time was actively assisting (and still does) Ukrainian refugees. I helped organize various events and projects with them. Eventually, I had to give up the apartment I had been renting, as I could no longer afford it, and I received a room from the Migration Agency in a dormitory in Lund, where my son started school. I also began studying Swedish intensively. Sometimes, I would spend eight to ten hours a day learning. I went from one course in Malmö to another, and then continued studying at home. My love for the language helped me avoid turning the process into a chore. I enjoyed seeing how much more I understood each time. The language became a source of inspiration for me. I began to live according to my purpose again. I taught acting to children and, with the support of charitable organizations, helped organize various events for Ukrainians in Malmö and Lund. On February 24, 2023, I directed a theater performance titled “Vilna” (“Free”) at the city theater. The play was based on monologue-memories of Ukrainian women about evacuation and the beginning of the war. We sourced the material from the Ukrainian Ministry of Culture’s website “My War”, where anyone can submit their personal stories. For this performance, we invited a translator who provided real-time interpretation into Swedish for everything the actresses said. The play was a tremendous success – the hall was packed, and audience members left in tears. After this success, I experienced a deep depression. I was overwhelmed and didn’t know what to do next. Perhaps it was because I had given my all to the project, or perhaps because after a year since the war began, I started to see the events that unfolded at its onset in a different light. Throughout the first year of the war, I was extremely focused and organized and had never fully processed what had happened to me and all of us. I didn’t mourn my past life, I hadn’t even said goodbye to my loved ones in Ukraine, my city, or my colleagues. It felt like I had simply jumped over that part and gone straight into survival mode in a new environment and new circumstances. And so, after that major success, I was overcome by a wave of exhaustion, helplessness, and grief. I didn’t recognize myself and didn’t know what to do next.

However, in the summer of 2023, the Lund municipality offered me a temporary contract for 25 hours per week for four months. My job was to organize recreational activities for teenagers in Lund. For me, it was a chance to start something new in a field I love and know well. I accepted the offer. Those four months were wonderful. I had so many ideas and suggestions, and my colleagues supported my initiatives. I felt like I was back where I belonged. At the same time, I continued my studies in SFI courses, constantly improving my Swedish. After four months, my contract was extended for another five months. Later, I saw a job opening for a leisure pedagogue (Fritidsledare) in the municipality – someone who organizes activities for children in schools. I submitted my resume and was given the opportunity. In January 2024, I was hired on a permanent contract. During this time, I have implemented many exciting projects and activities in this role. My responsibilities have since expanded, and I was offered additional duties as a project leader for organizing activities for children in Lund during school holidays. In parallel, I started teaching theater arts to teenagers at the Ukrainian School in Malmö. I find what I’m doing now very meaningful. I have many plans and ideas that I intend to bring to life in the near future.

In the summer of 2024, I decided that I had to visit Ukraine. I felt I needed to say goodbye to my past life, once and for all. I first traveled to Kyiv to visit friends. It was a difficult time. The city was constantly under attack from Russian missiles and kamikaze drones. My psyche wasn’t prepared for that level of danger. I spent almost all my time in various shelters and desperately wanted to return to Sweden. It felt like I had returned for that very reason – to understand that I couldn’t continue living in such danger indefinitely. Living with the constant uncertainty of whether you will wake up the next morning is an immense burden on anyone’s mental health. The first two days were filled with constant stress. Then the day would be divided into two parts: morning and afternoon, when life more or less continued as normal – meetings, friends – and then evening and night. It was at night that the air raid sirens began, along with the shelling, fear, panic, and a desperate wish to live to see the morning. I would go down to the shelter and wait for it to be over so that I could live again. It was a relatively long trip, and I kept moving from one city to another. But no matter where I was, the feelings of anxiety and fear didn’t go away. The last city I visited was Lviv. It seemed to be one of the safest cities in western Ukraine, bordering Poland. But even there, I didn’t feel safe. I visited an old friend who works with youth centers in Lviv. She introduced me to some of her colleagues, including a young 21-year-old woman named Yaryna Bazylevych. She worked at the reception desk in one of the youth centers we visited during the trip. She was like a ray of sunshine – always smiling, charming, and attentive. She gave me a pair of socks as a gift, which I still keep in my wardrobe. They have a message written on them: “It’s hard, but you will manage!” She radiated so much warmth and love. And then, after I returned to Sweden, I received shocking news. On the night of September 4, 2024, a Russian missile hit a residential building in the center of Lviv, killing this young woman, her two sisters, Emilia and Daryna (aged 7 and 18), and their mother, Yevheniia Bazylevych. Only Yaryna’s father, Yaroslav Bazylevych, survived. I was devastated. Just a week earlier, I had seen this young woman smiling at me, speaking with me, with her whole life ahead of her. And now she was gone. She and her family were killed by a Russian missile as they slept in their beds. This must not happen! It must stop! All those responsible for this crime must be held accountable. But this is the reality in which millions of Ukrainians have lived for two and a half years. Russian missiles are not only destroying our homes and cities – they are killing people every single day. And those lives can never be brought back. I would like to end my story with an excerpt from the diary of a young and talented Ukrainian writer, Victoria Amelina. On June 27, 2023, she was in my hometown of Kramatorsk as an interpreter for a delegation of foreign journalists and writers. While they were dining at a restaurant in the city center, Russian forces launched a missile strike on the building. Victoria Amelina was seriously wounded and, despite doctors’ efforts, died on July 1, 2023.

“April 5, 2022. Air raid alert across the whole country. It feels like being led to an execution every single time. All of us. But they aim at only one. Usually the one on the edge. Today, it’s not you. All clear.”

Ukrainian version written by – Olena Andryeyenkova.

Translated to English by – Olena Andryeyenkova.