Author:
The Foundation's team
Our co-founder Olena Rozvadovska wrote these words on social media after an ordinary walk through Kyiv with her one-year-old daughter, Leila. As ordinary as a walk can be when Russian drones are flying over the city.
We wanted to share her words here.
We wanted to share her words here.
Lunchtime. A park. Warm autumn sunshine. The perfect time for a walk with a little one. The only problem is that this is Kyiv, and the city is right in the middle of a Russian drone attack.
Leila absolutely loves the swings. Once she gets on, she can stay there for half an hour, while all the other little ones have already had three turns.
One-year-olds, give or take a few months (Leilusia, as we affectionately call her, is one year and two months old, while the other children are a little younger), are so adorable at playgrounds. They can already walk on their own, but still drag their moms around with them. They can already make all sorts of sounds, but cannot quite put them together into words. They seem so independent and know exactly what they want, yet they are still such tiny mama’s babies.
Endless air raid alerts. The moms automatically reach for their phones to check what is happening.
“Leilusia, wait a second. Mommy’s checking where the drone is heading.”
That is something my daughter hears all the time.
And I’m glad she does not understand it yet.
Leila absolutely loves the swings. Once she gets on, she can stay there for half an hour, while all the other little ones have already had three turns.
One-year-olds, give or take a few months (Leilusia, as we affectionately call her, is one year and two months old, while the other children are a little younger), are so adorable at playgrounds. They can already walk on their own, but still drag their moms around with them. They can already make all sorts of sounds, but cannot quite put them together into words. They seem so independent and know exactly what they want, yet they are still such tiny mama’s babies.
Endless air raid alerts. The moms automatically reach for their phones to check what is happening.
“Leilusia, wait a second. Mommy’s checking where the drone is heading.”
That is something my daughter hears all the time.
And I’m glad she does not understand it yet.
What scares me most is the moment when she asks, “What’s a drone?” But I’m saving that fear for later. ’Cause what is the point of worrying about it now?
The drones keep moving back and forth somewhere above us. We can hear them behind the clouds. We hear air defense constantly, a little farther away. But that distant hum beyond the clouds makes our ears prick up.
It feels as though you are a wild animal, frozen still so you can listen more closely: Where is the threat coming from? How serious is it?
When Telegram channels report that the threat is passing directly over our neighborhood, the playground falls silent.
Should we go? Stay? Call someone? Move closer to a shelter?
Questions from mothers directed at... the air, the sky, I don’t know who.
“We’re going to another playground. There’s a shelter nearby, just in case,” one mom says.
Another agrees, and they leave with their children. Leilusia watches her friends go and waves bye-bye.
We stay a little longer. I keep checking what is happening and where.
Leila is alone on the playground now.
And that is when it hits me: Am I condemning my child to loneliness? To empty swings? To the frustration of watching all the other children suddenly disappear?
And not because they went home to sleep or eat, or because they pooped, or fell over and started crying.
They left because of a drone attack.
It is so unfair to these tiny children.
Damn drones.
For a moment, my heart breaks. Then my head takes over, and I decide we should go home.
After all, it is time to eat and sleep.
The drones keep moving back and forth somewhere above us. We can hear them behind the clouds. We hear air defense constantly, a little farther away. But that distant hum beyond the clouds makes our ears prick up.
It feels as though you are a wild animal, frozen still so you can listen more closely: Where is the threat coming from? How serious is it?
When Telegram channels report that the threat is passing directly over our neighborhood, the playground falls silent.
Should we go? Stay? Call someone? Move closer to a shelter?
Questions from mothers directed at... the air, the sky, I don’t know who.
“We’re going to another playground. There’s a shelter nearby, just in case,” one mom says.
Another agrees, and they leave with their children. Leilusia watches her friends go and waves bye-bye.
We stay a little longer. I keep checking what is happening and where.
Leila is alone on the playground now.
And that is when it hits me: Am I condemning my child to loneliness? To empty swings? To the frustration of watching all the other children suddenly disappear?
And not because they went home to sleep or eat, or because they pooped, or fell over and started crying.
They left because of a drone attack.
It is so unfair to these tiny children.
Damn drones.
For a moment, my heart breaks. Then my head takes over, and I decide we should go home.
After all, it is time to eat and sleep.
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