I didn’t have time to write a longer post about my trip to Sievierodonetsk. I went there for a premiere at the Luhansk Theatre, which relocated there after the occupation in 2014. ‘How can you even go there?’ asked my friends in Poland, ‘It’s not safe.’ ‘Eastern Ukraine’s been a warzone for eight years,’ I said, ‘of course it’s not safe.’
I came back on 13–14 February on a long, long train journey, the number 046D from Lysychansk to Uzhhorod, which takes 25 hours to reach Lviv, stopping at Rubizhne, Kreminna, Kabanne, Svatove, Kupiansk, Shevchenkove, Chuhuiv, Kharkiv, Liubotyn, Bohodukhiv, Kyrykivka, Smorodyne, Sumy, Bilopillia, Vorozhba, Putyvl, Konotop, Bakhmach, Nizhyn, Darnytsia, Kyiv, Sviatoshyn, Malyn, Korosten, Yablunets, Novohrad-Volynskyi, Radulyn, Shepetivka, Slavuta, Kryvyn, Ostroh, Zdolbuniv, Dubno, Radyvyliv, Brody and, finally, Lviv.
I’ve listed these towns and villages, big and small, near and far, for a reason. They are pursued by gunfire. Terrifying, devastating gunfire. It chases them relentlessly. Where will it end? Will it ever end? I was told that Sievierodonetsk is a city of chemists and musicians. Chemists and musicians in a mining region. Writing this piece is so painful. There are no nuances or shades of grey. Only black and white, earth and air, explosions and silence that I don’t even hear. It’s disturbing when loved ones send messages saying, ‘All quiet in Kyiv for now.’ Because soon Liuda will write ‘Air raid’ again. The only thing I believe in is the chemistry of Molotov cocktails. I believe in fury that burns things to ashes.
24 February has been a day of terrible memories for me since 2016. That was when a man from the student halls in Lublin had a schizophrenic episode and dragged me onto the sixth-floor balcony, saying I was in for it now. He’d always been a bit odd and we didn’t interact much, but I didn’t know about his illness. So, when the first winds heralding spring began blowing beneath the full moon, I ended up in the firing line. I broke free. I escaped. A bicycle ended up in the branches of a tree, along with many, many things from the balcony and the communal kitchen: plates, cereal, pasta… things, things, things everywhere. Since then, I’ve been afraid of the first winds heralding spring and the full moon. On the same day, 24 February 2016, the Armed Forces of Ukraine liberated Shyrokyne. I’ll never forget that either. The fighting didn’t stop then either. Mines were exploding… The birds were singing, the winds blew then died away. They blew again and died away again. In the steppe, the plains, and the forests. After the new moon and the gibbous moon comes the full moon.
I can’t sleep, I sleep, I can’t sleep or am I sleeping? I dream that I discover three more rooms in my rented apartment in Lublin and am overjoyed that I can take in more people. I’m ashamed that I can’t take in more, I’m ashamed that it’s just a dream. I’m ashamed that I’m not in any danger. Some people who escaped the bombs travelled on to Nuremberg, others to Wrocław, Szczecinek or Hamburg. Others will come and stay at mine. Travelling long routes still untouched by gunfire. When will it end? Will it ever end? Now the small, nearly three-year-old C-section scar on my stomach is itching. It just started itching like crazy out of the blue. Maybe it’s psychosomatic. So be it. I’ll bandage it with soil. I’ll gather soil, clumps of earth, a whole heap, kiss them and sculpt them together in the summer or autumn rain – Lublin, Lviv, Brody, Radyvyliv, Dubno, Zdolbuniv, Ostroh, Kryvyn, Slavuta, Shepetivka, Radulyn, Novohrad-Volynskyi, Yablunets, Korosten, Malyn, Sviatoshyn, Kyiv, Darnytsia, Nizhyn, Bakhmach, Konotop, Putyvl, Vorozhba, Bilopillia, Sumy, Smorodyne, Kyrykivka, Bohodukhiv, Liubotyn, Kharkiv, Chuhuiv, Shevchenkove, Kupiansk, Svatove, Kabanne, Kreminna, Rubizhne, Lysychansk, Siverskyi Donets and the city of chemists and musicians.
I’ve listed all these towns and villages in reverse order for a reason. Further down the line there’ll be sunshine, eyes squeezed shut, sweat, maybe blood, maybe an itchy scar, there’ll be water, maybe scattered cereal and those broken plates from the sixth floor that I’ll never forget, not even if I manage to escape again.
Translated by Helena Kernan. The unpublished monologue was originally performed at the ‘On the War’ dramatic reading at the Royal Court Theatre in April 2022.