Shelling and bombs in the distance reverberate against the buildings on my block in the middle of the night, waking all of the animals in my care. A few cats are mine; others, more cats, a dog, and some birds, have become my responsibility since their owners evacuated. No matter who they belong to, some whimper, others scratch at my door, all shake and cannot understand the madness that creeps through the sanctity of our safe space.
The sirens in Kyiv ring daily. Sometimes two, three, five, six times. They are a warning to take cover, that something untoward is approaching. I have yet to go down to the shelters and the babushky ask why. I say, I am not afraid. Whatever happens is meant to be.
Read More: A Ukrainian Photographer Documents the Invasion of His Country
While I believe this, I also want to live. I want to be able to sleep more than an hour or two without being slammed into consciousness by bombs and the terror of beings I cannot calm with logic. Whether animals, or children, or women, or men, no one deserves to live in statements that constantly end in a question mark.
After nearly two weeks of trying to come to grips with what is really happening in my country, I take some of these creatures over lands that have seen fire in the sky across a geographical border to find their owners. A trip that should take six or seven hours takes three full days. We drive along country roads with holes so deep from the tires of tanks and tractors that one could disappear forever if moving slowly enough. We aren’t. We fly, like – and with – the wind, so as not to be seen, smelled, or sensed by the beings that would steal our lands.
Despite the fact that we are on the run, the drive is like a meditation and the scenes I pass take me back to childhood. Car rides…
Source : time
