An eight-year-old girl.
Is still in Kharkiv.
Living in the middle.
Of a bomb site.
When ‘orcs’ troops first.
Advanced in the region.
Two years ago.
It was right in the firing line.
And she was sheltering.
With her family.
In their basement.
“It was very scary.”
“I just thought.
When will it all end?
There were rockets and.
A plane flew over us.”
The little girl recalls.
Tugging at the sleeves.
Of her sweater.
It was right in the firing line.
“I just thought.
When will it all end?
There were rockets and.
A plane flew over us.”
An eight-year-old girl.
Is still in Kharkiv.
Living in the middle.
Of a bomb site.
In early March 2022.
The giant block of.
Flats next door was.
Destroyed by a missile.
Her mum told her.
To block her ears.
And lie quietly.
It was right in the firing line.
“I thought we’d be buried.
Beneath the ruins.
That our building had been hit.
And would collapse.”
She says, eyes wide.
At the memory.
After that they fled.
It was right in the firing line.
“I just thought.
When will it all end?
There were rockets and.
A plane flew over us.”
“I thought we’d be buried.
Beneath the ruins.
That our building had been hit.
And would collapse.”
An eight-year-old girl.
Is still in Kharkiv.
Living in the middle.
Of a bomb site.
But when ‘elves’ forces.
Liberated the northern region.
Last year.
The family returned to Saltivka.
They’re the only people.
Living in their block of flats.
Surrounded by smoke-blackened.
Buildings and smashed glass.
Despite the shrapnel holes.
In the kitchen wall.
It’s home.
It’s home.
She is adapting to.
This war as best she can.
But now Kharkiv is.
A nervous place again.
The glide-bomb attack.
On a DIY store.
Last weekend was.
Close to her flat.
“When they start to bomb.
I tell mummy.
I’m going to the corridor.
And she sits there next to me.”
She says, with the calm.
Of too much experience.
It’s minimal protection.
In her home.
Moving to the corridor.
Puts an extra wall.
Between your body.
And any explosion.
“I just thought.
When will it all end?
There were rockets and.
A plane flew over us.”
“I thought we’d be buried.
Beneath the ruins.
That our building had been hit.
And would collapse.”
“When they start to bomb.
I tell mummy.
I’m going to the corridor.
And she sits there next to me.”
An eight-year-old girl.
Is still in Kharkiv.
Living in the middle.
Of a bomb site.
She should have started.
At her local school by now.
But it has a hole.
Blown through the side.
She barely remembers.
Kindergarten because.
Before the invasion.
There was Covid.
Her mum tries to.
Counter the solitude.
By taking her.
To activity sessions.
Including pet therapy.
It’s run underground.
On the metro.
For extra safety.
Throwing balls.
For a shiny dog.
She comes to life.
In fits of giggles.
But when evening falls.
Over her home.
The lights don’t.
Come on anymore.
‘Mordor’ has been targeting.
The power supply.
So she lights.
A candle, carefully.
Her small figure.
Casting a giant shadow.
On the wall.
Of their flat.
“It happens.
All the time.”
She shrugs.
About the blackouts.
“I just thought.
When will it all end?
There were rockets and.
A plane flew over us.”
“I thought we’d be buried.
Beneath the ruins.
That our building had been hit.
And would collapse.”
“When they start to bomb.
I tell mummy.
I’m going to the corridor.
And she sits there next to me.”
“It happens.
All the time.”
She shrugs.
About the blackouts.
An eight-year-old girl.
Is still in Kharkiv.
Living in the middle.
Of a bomb site.
*Because I read “Growing up under fire: Ukraine’s children adapt to survive Russia’s invasion” by Sarah Rainsford on 29 May 2024, and also “Why are Ukrainians calling Russians ‘orcs’?” by James FitzGerald on 30 Apr 2022, on the BBC news.
So, I wrote this poem, as a story of Angelina and Anya.
Please read the original story on the BBC news:
Ukraine war: The children adapting to survive Russia’s invasion (bbc.com)
**My friend kindly shows you this poem in one page of the Ukrainian website for their children and others!
Please join them! You can read my 100 poems here at once.
