Hello! My name is Victoria Hasanova and I cordially greet everyone who reads my story. I'm from Mariupol. When I say this, people somehow fall silent, some do it out of delicacy, others just don't know what to say. And there are also those who lack words from pain for this once beautiful and happy city in the east of Ukraine, which today is almost completely destroyed by the invaders.
I am a young grandmother of a three-year-old grandson who was given to me by my son. My son is now 31 years old, and I am 51. Before the full-scale invasion, I was a housewife, and in my spare time from household chores, I willingly embroidered with beads. It was like an unremarkable, but such a simple human life.
For the first time I saw the war (in the truest sense of the word) from my window. The invaders fired grads at the Eastern district of the city. It was very scary to watch how senseless cruel shots destroy not only the homes, but also the entire lives of ordinary people. It was 2015. Then, as I already understand, we were lucky – the shelling subsided quite quickly and did not resume again. Mariupol remained Ukrainian, and we also stayed at home. But, unfortunately, only until February 24…
Then we woke up at 04:30 to the sounds of explosions and gunshots. We can say it was terrible. But will it be possible to convey in human language the inhuman horror that I and every resident of Mariupol felt that morning? We were shelled from everywhere, constantly, almost continuously. During the day and night. We were bombed by planes from the air, by grads from the ground. I saw my hometown disappear in front of my eyes, everything that I loved so much and got used to as a part of myself. My heart was pounding. Every time I looked out the window, it hit somewhere. And there are people, real people, you know... I don't even know how to tell you about the pain that I felt then and which, probably, will remain with me forever.
For the first few weeks, we tried to survive. No gas, no water, no electricity, no heat. We tried very, very hard, honestly, we didn't give up. But with each subsequent day, with each shelling, I understood more and more clearly that I had to somehow get out of the city. But how? Where to? We didn't even know if there was any way to reach safer regions of Ukraine alive. I remember March 14. Friends came running to us and said that they would try to leave and let it be as it would be. The next day, March 15, they stopped by to pick us up – and we set off together. There were no "green corridors", the road was constantly shot through and was very dangerous. We just left at our own risk. And the only thing we could do was pray to God, constantly and desperately. Only when we got to Zaporizhzhia, I was able to sort of exhale a little and felt at least some relief.
I learned about the VILNI project from a friend. I knew how to knit – I learned it myself after the birth of my son, at the age of 20, so I was happy to join the project. When I knit, I calm down. This is a very pleasant activity for me.
My Mariupol is and will always remain Ukrainian, but now it is under russian occupation. And we continue to live with hope for Victory and thank fate for all those friends who helped us leave and still support us in word and deed.