
From: Maia Mikhaluk (809th day)
Happy Mother’s Day to all mothers around the world! I wish special resilience and strength to mothers in Ukraine. May Ukraine’s Victory come soon and bring peace to our land!
Lesya Litvinova wrote about what it’s like to be a mother in Ukraine in 2024:
“I don’t even know how to tell you what it’s like to be a mother in Ukraine in 2024 because being a mom in my country is about the same as trying to sing a lullaby while standing on a wobbly stool with a rope on your neck. And at the same time feel happy despite the fact that the world is flying into the abyss.
…Being a mother in Ukraine means waiting every second for the laconic “+” in Signal, which your daughter-in-law helped you install. And then reread these pluses like an endless novel, adding their own meaning to each.
It’s giving birth to a baby in a bomb shelter and sending the first photo to a man (fighting on the front lines) who was last in touch three days ago. And to believe you will have a chance to see the three of you.
It is running from positions under fire and shouting loudly to the sky: “My God, not today. Today is my little one’s birthday. Leave him at least this celebration. Not today, please!”. And in a few hours, lie about the weak Internet and congratulate by voice, and not by video call, so as not to see who you look like.
It is to embrace, as for the last time in life, the comrads of the son. Everyone who came to his funeral. Bearded men and girls with empty eyes. To cling to their shoulders and beg them to stay alive. Live. For myself and for him. Breathe in the smell of their uniform with closed eyes and believe for a second that he is nearby.
It is treating an adult daughter with ice cream at the station in Kram, who has arrived just in time for the Intercity “Kyiv-War” to depart in the opposite direction. About an hour. Take stupid selfies, tell jokes and not admit to yourself that you are actually saying goodbye to her. Because at night there is an assault. And the chances of returning are slim. Let her remember you smiling. Let her have time to be a child for another hour.
It is fighting for the right to give birth to a child from a husband fallen on frontlines. To listen to half of the country, to break the law, to gather conferences, to forget about longing and pain, for which there is simply no time. To be strong, because there is no longer a wall on which you could lean. But he wanted children so much. You wanted children so much… Let them come into this world.
It is half the night talking to an adult child in another city, calming her panic attacks, because she is far from the nearest shelter, and two walls did not save anyone in the neighboring house last week. And all she can cling to is your voice, drowning out the sirens and tinnitus. “Don’t be afraid, my dear. I’m with you. Now that damned MiG will land and you can sleep.”
It is hugging a child so tightly that when the tired emergency workers finally reach your bodies under the rubble of the house, nothing will be able to break this hug. They will be stronger than the walls that did not protect you from the enemy missile.
It’s breathing in the smell of the back of a baby’s neck and crying with happiness and fear. Because you don’t know what to teach a new person in this world. Because the world you are used to is no longer there. And in the one that is, there is no place for this fragile happiness.
It’s collecting endless parcels or giving money or driving cars from Europe for the frontlines, chastising yourself for not even having time to kiss your adult seven-year-old son at night, who understands everything, doesn’t ask for anything and tries to support you. Even when you’re helplessly yelling at him, as if it could change the crazy world.
This is carrying some cans of homemade preserves to tired boys who were taken to a nearby village to rest. Forcefully remove dirty clothes from them to wash. And bring home to wash those clothes soaked in dirt and blood. And hope that somewhere, in another village, someone will also bring a pot of homemade soup to your son. Not to feed, but to give an opportunity to feel like a child near mom for at least a day.
It is to go with the child to visit dad at the cemetery. And it is helpless to watch how she hugs the cold stone. Because she no longer remembers his hugs. And dad for her is just a photo on the phone and long stories before bed. And this is the only place where she can feel his presence.
It is to believe in your child, even when all the doctors in the country say that no one canregain consciousness after such injuries. Live in intensive care. Drag him from nothingness into the light despite everything. Remembering how to change a diaper, how to feed with formulas, how to massage and hear changes in breathing through sleep. Everything is almost the same as when he was a newborn. And to thank the universe for being there. Whatever, but still alive.
It is to wait for your child from captivity. Search for a familiar face on enemy Telegram channels. To be afraid that you might not recognize him, because they are all like a carbon copy. Every second person can be him. Do not leave the house, because you can miss the news about the exchange. And talk to him. Talking endlessly, hoping that he will feel you despite the distance.
It is choosing a school not by the level of knowledge, but by the reliability of the bomb shelter. It is not to look for a dance club, but a children’s school of drones. This is to order address bracelets for the whole family. It is to have an emergency suitcase and first aid kits in all corners of your home. It’s to buy for child’s birthday not the newest smartphone for him, but a drone for his dad’s division. A drone named after a child.
It is to live with a bloody wound in the place of the heart. Every second. And to love in spite of everything. That sharp love that cannot be taken away from you. Because this is almost the only thing left in your life.” (text written by Lesa Litvianova)