Despite the late hour, sleep eluded me. I can't fall asleep before three. Even though the war has entered its fifth year, I still feel a constant sensitivity to something suddenly happening.
Although it was April, the weather in Kyiv still refused to warm up...
I was lying down, trying to sleep, when the air raid siren sounded again. This time it was prolonged, meaning a ballistic missile threat. But despite that, in the two years I've been in Kyiv, I don't go to the shelter during alarms. I'm just tired of it. This time I didn't go either. I went to the bathroom and watched Telegram channels on my phone, waiting for the strikes and alarms to end.
During air strikes, the safest place for residents of multi-story buildings is the bathroom, more precisely the bathtub.
The explosions and alarm lasted until 4 AM. I heard two or three large explosions, followed by successive drone strikes and the sound of machine guns from Ukrainian air defense forces 'hunting' them.
One of the large strikes was heard nearby. Then complete silence fell, but the alarm—or rather the aerial threat warning—had not ended. I fell asleep in the bathtub where I was sitting, exhausted by the sudden silence.
I woke up with a start. I quickly checked my phone: I had been sleeping in the bathtub for over two hours.
I went to the balcony and looked out. Morning had come, and life had returned to its flow. But the sound of continuous ambulances and fire trucks never stopped. 'They must have hit hard last night, everything is destroyed and burning,' I thought. I contacted the editorial office and headed to one of the affected areas. When I got the address from the Kyiv City Military Administration, I learned it was only two kilometers from me. I dressed and walked there.
The entire street was devastated. In addition to a ballistic missile, drones had also targeted the area. On the opposite side of the road, a four-star hotel and multi-story apartment buildings were literally reduced to rubble. Even the trees in the yards were broken and scattered.
Because Kyiv resembles a city built in a forest, every street and yard is filled with dense trees. So the strikes destroy not only buildings and objects but also the trees...
'Mom, please pull yourself together. Nothing is more precious than you... Mom, please, that's enough... Pull yourself together...' The voice of a 15-16-year-old boy, almost crying, begging a 40-45-year-old woman, prevented me from filming.
After finishing an interview with the owner of one of the destroyed apartments, I moved closer to them. I asked them to tell their story on camera, but the boy turned away. The woman apologized, saying she wasn't in a condition to speak. But from her sobbing words, I gathered they lived on the second floor of the destroyed building. A drone had struck their building directly, right into their apartment. Fortunately, they were not home at the time; they were in the shelter. When they left the shelter in the morning, fragments of a nearby drone had injured her face. The apartment was completely destroyed. As if that wasn't enough, a missile fragment had fallen on her car parked in the yard... Holding out her apartment and car keys, she whispered with difficulty: 'Now all I have left are these keys...'
In a single night, they had only managed to survive. This woman, who had lost everything, was in such shock that she couldn't even hear the emergency doctors.
I felt chilled by the impact. I stepped aside, sat down for a bit to compose myself, and continued filming. The area was filled with rescuers trying to enter the destroyed buildings, ambulances, and tents set up for residents whose homes were destroyed. I filmed at two or three destroyed buildings and returned about an hour later. I saw a large crowd gathered, and at that moment, someone was leaving in a convoy of two or three cars.
I approached and saw that the entrance to the destroyed building had been cleared of debris. I went inside. All floors were filled with destroyed apartments. I saw police at one door and asked to go in to film. They let me in; the apartment was in shambles.
Surrounded by rescuers, emergency psychologists, and police, a man in his sixties was quietly crying. He was clutching a colorful scarf, sometimes squeezing it, sometimes releasing it. I went to the other destroyed rooms of the apartment to film. A little later, the man followed me. He walked shakily, picked up a photo of his daughters from the floor, and placed it on top of a cabinet. I asked him to speak, but he said he wasn't in a condition to give an interview. But I engaged him in conversation without the camera.
His name is Stepan. He had two daughters. He lived here with his wife. Last evening, his daughters came to visit them. They rented an apartment elsewhere in Kyiv, away from their parents. Stepan said this apartment wasn't his either; a friend had lent it to them temporarily. This apartment was also destroyed. The worst part: during the strike, his daughters and wife, who had ignored the air raid sirens, were killed... It was horrific...
But this morning, an interesting thing happened. One of the Ukrainian local TV channels broadcasted a live link from the scene, and he appeared on air, describing the situation. Seeing this, one of Kyiv's oligarchs immediately came here. He gave Stepan an apartment in his residential complex. He also promised to ensure that if this building is restored, the apartment Stepan lived in would be paid for and given to him. The convoy earlier was him leaving...
As Stepan himself said, yesterday he had a wife and daughters but no home; today his family is gone, but he now has two apartments...
I finished my work and tried to leave. After a night filled with fiery air strikes, there was a gentle sun in the Kyiv sky. Even though I was tired, I headed home. In my mind, the woman who lost everything and Stepan kept replaying...
'We never know where fate will reward or punish us,' I thought as I reached home...
Mubariz Aslanov
