{"id":150007,"date":"2026-04-16T14:50:28","date_gmt":"2026-04-16T11:50:28","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/theukrainians.org\/zhyvi-sadymo-horod\/"},"modified":"2026-06-15T15:31:44","modified_gmt":"2026-06-15T12:31:44","slug":"we-re-alive-planting-a-garden","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/theukrainians.org\/en\/we-re-alive-planting-a-garden\/","title":{"rendered":"We\u2019re Alive. We\u2019re Planting a Garden"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

How are you?<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

He sent me a photo at the end of February. On it was a round bread fried up in a skillet on a potbelly stove. He writes that all they have left is a little bit of flour, a handful of frozen potatoes and homemade preserves from the summer of 2021 \u2014 the last harvest from \u201cbefore.\u201d He writes that for almost two months, they haven\u2019t eaten any dairy, eggs or meat. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Since late December, stores have received no food deliveries, and pharmacies have had no medicine. Vendors no longer come to the market: the entrances to and exits from the city are mined, and enemy drones hunt people and cars. People are dying every day. Leaving the city is nearly impossible. All of this is compounded by the fact that, since 2023, there has been no centralized water supply, electricity or gas. Now he writes: \u201cPeople are going hungry.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

And to my bewildered \u2014 rather, desperate \u2014 question, \u201cWhat can you even do?\u201d he replies with brevity: \u201cSurvive\u201d\u2026<\/strong><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

I keep this photo on my phone and return to it several times a day. I stare at the white bread against the backdrop of gray earth for a long time and try to understand what I\u2019m feeling. Pain? Grief? Longing? Despair? Perhaps, hope? Definitely \u2014 boundless love. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The land of my South<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

I look at this patch of earth captured in the frame, and even from hundreds of miles away, I can smell it. I know how it feels to the touch \u2014 how easily it brushes off a freshly pulled onion or a freshly picked strawberry that rested on the ground, pelted by the rain. I remember how, in summer, you have to run through the garden on your heels because the heated earth burns, and how good it feels after rain \u2014 wet and thick, slipping between your toes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This southern land has always given me a sense of peace, comfort and safety. In summer, we ran across it barefoot, because that was how it felt best: we were home. We quite literally grew into this land. Perhaps that is why it hurts so much to be without it now \u2014 the roots have been torn out, or perhaps even severed. They remain there, in the southern sands. And I am here, hundreds of kilometers away from them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Today, this land is littered with landmines and shrapnel, scorched by fires, soaked in blood and tears. Once, it yielded the sweetest fruits, the most delicious vegetables and the most beautiful flowers \u2014 just like in Paradise. And now it holds the bodies of people who died violent deaths in their gardens, yards and streets, alongside pets and livestock that perished from starvation and shelling. This land is pockmarked with craters, and orchard trees lie with their roots pointing toward the sky, torn up by explosions \u2014 like Hell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This land is dry and dark with grief, but it\u2019s beloved by its people, even in the worst of times. For how could it be otherwise? Generations of our elders lie within this land. The heart of my family beats here.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2026We always exchange just a few words so that the Russian occupiers don\u2019t find anything on his phone that could land him in a basement, lead to torture or result in him vanishing without a trace. We send each other photos of cats, dogs and trees. We wish each other happy holidays.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

In Oleshky, men simply vanish from the streets and from their own homes.<\/strong><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

Some are later found on prisoners\u2019 lists, some tortured to death, and the fate of many remains unknown. We must be cautious. We must be patient. I receive a photo of a cat or the sky, and I know: they are alive. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The place of the sun<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

That feeling of summer holidays and complete freedom would set in the moment we crossed the Antonivskyi Bridge, connecting Kherson and Oleshky, a small town on the left bank of the Dnipro. One of the routes to our village near Oleshky led straight through a pine forest. There was also a longer way, along the road to Crimea. On that route, we passed thickets of silver olives \u2014 shrubby trees with silvery leaves and the almost heavenly scent of tiny yellow flowers. We would turn off the road and, almost immediately, get immersed in a place where time flowed slowly and sweetly, like honey. And every day felt like a new life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Back then, everyone was still alive, and we were little, and it seemed to us that no trouble could find us here. Ever. We picked large tomatoes from the bushes and rubbed their leaves on our palms \u2014 the scent of the tomato stems is still one of my favorites. We never washed these sun-warmed fruits, and even sprinkled salt on top with dirty fingers. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Here, we children would paint our eyelids with black mulberries, build hideouts in the weeds, and, in the heat, bathe in puddles alongside frogs and grass snakes. Late at night, chewing on crusts of bread, we listened to stories about witches, war, house spirits and collectivization. Every summer, my uncle would bring a trailer full of melons and watermelons, which we would pile in the yard. We would cut a watermelon in half and eat only the sweet center \u2014 the \u201csoul.\u201d The rest we\u2019d give to the ducks and chickens.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We rode our bikes to the Konka River and swam there, and, lying in the shade, debated whether a tank had once been pulled from its waters. We went outside the village to slide down the sand dunes on plastic bags, like sleds and searched the sand for dented helmets, bullets and any other rusty remnants left over from World War II. Here, in the steppe, in a bomb crater overgrown with grass, we tried our first cigarettes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We would gather outside the store, waiting for the truck with fresh, still-warm bread and listen to all the news and gossip from our village. We herded cows with Grandpa, and if it rained, we all huddled under his raincoat-tent. Grandpa\u2019s shirt smelled of tobacco, cows, and summer. Here, in the old mud-brick house with a roof made of reeds, where my mom grew up and which she whitewashed every summer, real treasures were kept. In the old wardrobe were my grandmother\u2019s wedding dress and white wreath, old dresses and polyester slips (perfect dresses for princesses!). Black-and-white photographs hung on the walls, some touched up with bright colors here and there. On the bookcase shelves, I found and read \u201cThe Witch of Konotop\u201d and the two volumes of \u201cShevchenko\u2019s Dictionary\u201d when I was a child. Here on the wall hung a replica of some classical painting that my mom had bought with her first tech college scholarship money and hidden in a haystack to give to her own mom as a gift. I loved that distinguished painting with lions. To me, everything in this yard, on this street, in this village, in this house was perfect. I was happy here. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Even now, when I\u2019m scared or sad, I wrap myself in a blanket, close my eyes and imagine myself in a specific place and moment. A summer afternoon: heat and silence. I\u2019m lying on a bench in the yard. Next to me is a glass of cold milk and a piece of bread sprinkled with salt. I watch the sun shimmering through the grapevine leaves. Nearby, on the threshold, Grandpa silently smokes a \u201cPrima\u201d cigarette. Dogs, cats, chickens, ducks \u2014 all are dozing. Turtledoves and starlings call to one another from the power lines. I can hear heavy, ripe pears falling with a dull thud near the summer kitchen with the kabitsa.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

The air smells of steppe grasses, salt and my grandfather\u2019s tobacco\u2026<\/strong><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

And then I open my eyes to the painful realization: this bench, this yard and the grapevines are gone. The painting with the lions is gone, my grandmother\u2019s dresses are gone, and \u201cThe Witch of Konotop\u201d is gone. The garden, the yard, the house \u2014 they\u2019re all gone. The village is gone. Russia came and turned it all to dust. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

A place of my heart<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s warm and sunny outside. We are having breakfast at a wooden table in the yard. Above us are intertwined grapevines, from which black clusters hang. This small, tart variety is called \u201cpetryk\u201d here; it is usually used for homemade wine. My uncle has fried pancakes, opened a jar of homemade apple jam and brewed herbal tea. This is our last trip to Oleshky and to our home village in September 2021. Our daughter has just turned five; we want to show her our beautiful South and tell her about the part of our family that lived and is buried here. She swings in the garden and laughs. She feels just as at home here as we do.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The left bank of the Kherson region was occupied in the early days of the full-scale invasion. It happened quickly and terrifyingly. Contact with our extended family, scattered across Oleshky and the surrounding villages, was sporadic and poor. I cried as I watched the news, seeing the residents of Oleshky, waving Ukrainian flags, march out to meet the Russian tanks, hearing them shout at the Russian occupiers to go away. I was overwhelmed with pride, hope and despair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I cried when I found out that there had been cases of rape, shootings and looting committed by Russian soldiers in our village. I cried like never before when our village and Oleshky were flooded on the night of June 6, 2023, when Russian troops blew up the dam of the Kakhovka Hydroelectric Power Plant. That was when the oldest woman in our family \u2014 Hanna, who was 96 at the time \u2014 spent three days on a roof. We didn\u2019t know if she\u2019d survived. That was when the houses, streets and landscapes I\u2019d known since childhood were submerged under water. Animals and people drowned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Later, Hanna recounted how she sat on the roof of her house and watched the place where she was born, grew up and had lived almost her entire life disappear. She said that first the neighbors\u2019 calves went under the water, and the cows bellowed as only mothers who have lost their children can. And then they, too, vanished underneath the water. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hanna survived the Holodomor, World War II, the post-war famine, the start of Russia\u2019s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, the occupation and the flood \u2014 the loss of her home. And now she\u2019s facing famine \u2014 for the third time in her life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The place of death<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

People began talking about famine in Oleshky in late February. Yet as early as late December, relatives and friends of those still living under occupation were writing that no food or medicine was being delivered to the city, and that it was impossible to enter or leave \u2014 roads littered with mines, shell fragments, burned-out cars and snow. Drones were hunting people.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Volunteers wrote about the impossibility of evacuation and a humanitarian catastrophe. Locals in messenger groups talked about life in a blockaded town.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

They tried to document who, where, when and under what circumstances lost their lives, because people die here every day, and the exact number of the dead is unknown.<\/strong><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

My aunt is taking care of Hanna. Communication with my aunt is unreliable. She does not receive my messages for weeks, and I do not receive hers. Eventually, when the connection is restored, she sends me fragments from her diary. She has been keeping notes since the beginning of the occupation \u2014 concise and structured. I read them and cannot fully grasp that this is happening right now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

January 20, 2026<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2026 when it snowed on January 10, bread and groceries stopped being delivered to the town. They brought a small shipment to \u2018Katyusha\u2019 just once \u2014 on January 18. The bread was snapped up as soon as it was unloaded. There was a long line for groceries, and everything ran out quickly. After that, \u2018Katyusha\u2019 didn\u2019t open again. And \u2018Ovochevyi\u2019 and \u2018Romashka\u2019 have been closed for a long time. I\u2019ve been baking bread in a frying pan for a week now. The temperature in the house is around zero \u2014 the water in the bucket has frozen and won\u2019t melt, even though it\u2019s standing at the entrance to the hall, next to the stove\u2026\u201d<\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

January 22, 2026<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2026 because of the constant cold at home, my chest and back are always cold. My windpipe feels like it\u2019s been scorched by the cold air. I crave something hot \u2014 I drink very hot coffee and tea, but I don\u2019t feel the boiling water burning my esophagus. During the day, to warm up, I constantly find work to do outside \u2014 either chores or gathering brushwood and small trees. Then I chop and stack the firewood and arrange it in its places. And in the evening, the stove is stoked, the wall is hot. I press myself against it, but I don\u2019t feel the warmth. Inside, it\u2019s cold, as if there weren\u2019t even a hot stove nearby\u2026\u201d<\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

January 26, 2026<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2026 On Mondays, we have our busiest market near the hospital. So I decided to go take a look \u2014 maybe there\u2019d be something there. As usual, people were selling fried pastries, and one woman was selling kholodets on disposable plates. But I had my doubts about the quality of those pastries and the kholodets.<\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

R. was selling mayonnaise, ketchup and some leftover canned goods \u2014 there was a line. One woman was selling pasta from humanitarian aid; I saw two single-serving packets of oatmeal. I took them for Grandma Hanna. Some people were selling their homemade preserves. <\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I went to the pharmacy \u2014 the pharmacist was selling off leftover medicines, saying that the town was running out of fuel, medicines weren\u2019t being delivered, and the hospital would likely soon shut down. I bought some supplies for Grandma.<\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I ran into S. She says people are dying, but there aren\u2019t any coffins \u2014 not even \u201cpaper\u201d ones like before. People get buried in black plastic bags. S. and the workers are going around town, picking up the bodies from their homes on a makeshift hospital cart\u2026\u201d<\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

January 30, 2026<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2026 It\u2019s raining; I filled up on water. I went to the main market \u2014 no food deliveries. There\u2019s nobody selling anything, only some leftovers (coffee, tea, spices, pasta), and even that at triple the price\u2026\u201d<\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

January 31, 2026<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2026 No groceries are being delivered to the city yet\u2026 What a joy it was to find a bag of cornflakes and two bags of chocolate cereal in the cupboard, bought two years ago. I\u2019ve started using the dried carrots I made a year and a half ago, and had been meaning to throw away.<\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

As long as there\u2019s flour, I bake bread. No one has refilled the gas cylinders in a long time \u2014 we have to conserve gas. In the evening, whenever possible, I cook on the stove for the next day\u2026\u201d<\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

February 5, 2026<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2026 No food has been brought into town. The market is still closed. At the hospital, only the surgery department is operational. The medicine hasn\u2019t been delivered to the pharmacy. At home, the only vegetables left are some frozen potatoes and a pumpkin. I have three three-liter jars and one one-liter jar of flour left\u2026\u201d<\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

February 10, 2026<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2026 I found out that humanitarian aid will be distributed in the village on the 9th. I\u2019ve never taken humanitarian aid from them before, but this time I have no choice. I can still picture it in my mind: me walking in complete solitude past burned-out and bombed-out high-rises. Under my feet are broken stones, drone debris, strands of agrotextile\u2026 Not a soul in sight\u2026 I passed the destroyed, burned-out village market and the shattered former \u201c24 Hours\u201d store.<\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

And suddenly I heard human voices \u2014 from the building where they\u2019re distributing humanitarian aid; people were standing there, waiting for 10 a.m., the time when they\u2019d start handing it out. No one was standing outside, so as not to attract the drones\u2019 attention. <\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Food is given only to pensioners with a Russian passport and a Russian pensioner\u2019s ID. For pensioners over 80, there is an exception \u2014 they are allowed to receive aid if they have a Ukrainian pensioner\u2019s ID. The rest of the population, including people with disabilities of all categories, does not receive humanitarian aid.<\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

There are only about 10 people here. And who would come all this way? It\u2019s too far and too dangerous for the elderly. The package includes: 4 packs of spaghetti, a kilogram of buckwheat, a bottle of sunflower oil, 4 cans of stewed meat, and 2 cans of condensed milk. No sugar, no salt, no canned fish, no flour\u2026\u201d<\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

February 11, 2026 <\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2026 The gas in the tank ran out. I\u2019m switching to a portable camping stove with a canister. I have eight of them; I managed to buy them right before the snowfall. I do a lot of cooking on the stove in the kitchen in the evenings. That\u2019s also where we heat water for washing and personal hygiene. There\u2019s no talk of anything being delivered.<\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

One day, four private cars drove to Skadovsk for groceries and pensions. On the way back, near Hola Prystan, a drone hit the first car \u2014 it flipped over and caught fire. The driver jumped out, but three passengers burned to death. The people in the second car witnessed the tragedy\u2026\u201d<\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

February 12, 2026<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2026Thursday \u2014 the market day near the hospital. I walked by \u2014 no groceries had been delivered. People stood around for a while and then dispersed\u2026\u201d<\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

February 15, 2026<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2026 It looks like we\u2019re really going to have to endure a famine. At first, we expected them to clear the roads of snow, remove the mines and get the cars running again. But the snow and ice have melted, the roads are clear, and the cars keep blowing up just like before. The drones keep attacking just like before. Who\u2019s going to ever come here? <\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

We\u2019ve got just one three-liter jar of flour left. We still have lard. But we\u2019ve been out of onions for a long time. You can\u2019t go without lard in the cold \u2014 I eat lard with garlic (without bread) and wash it down with hot coffee. The potatoes are running out fast. Instead of carrots, I\u2019m adding pumpkin to everything. <\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Toilet paper, napkins, cleaning supplies, batteries and candles are running out too\u2026\u201d<\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

February 16, 2026<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2026 Market day again. I came. There are so many people. Everyone is dressed in whatever they have. It\u2019s cold. They stand, talk and wait. Pensioners, many of whom can barely walk. We stood around for a while and then went our separate ways. People were selling sliced pumpkins, preserves and honey. Nobody\u2019s selling pies anymore \u2014 looks like everyone\u2019s run out of flour. I ran into R.; her son is in Skadovsk with the goods, but he\u2019s too afraid to go to Oleshky\u2026\u201d<\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

February 17, 2026 <\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c… A neighbor disappeared a few days ago. A man our age, quiet. His family left for Poland, and he stayed behind to take care of the house and the animals. Our doctor\u2019s son has also disappeared…\u201d<\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

March 7, 2026<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2026 Our house was hit\u2026 The time was 1:45 p.m.: at that very moment, the wall clock in the living room stopped due to the explosion. I was too scared to leave the basement: I peeked out just a little \u2014 saw a pile of glass and debris, the front door blown out \u2014 and hid again, because another strike was coming. I was so scared \u2014 what about Grandma Hanna? She was in the kitchen. What if she were injured? What if she were killed? Another strike, somewhere nearby, but not our house. Finally, I rushed out of the basement, but I couldn\u2019t make it to the kitchen \u2014 there was glass, a blown-out door, rocks and planks underfoot. I hid in the basement again. Another strike. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the front door get smashed, the glass in the room doors blown out and a haze of dust. I ran to Grandma: she was alive. <\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Three days later, I went to the builder who repaired the roof after the strike on our neighbors\u2019 house. I said: \u201cAt least over the kitchen and the rooms\u2026\u201d He came, took a look: \u201cIt can be done.\u201d Tears welled up in my eyes: \u201cReally?\u201d A day later, he came with another worker. God, what builders we have \u2014 they built a makeshift roof out of nothing: broken slate, scraps of material, sheets of tin salvaged from destroyed houses. They finished it in four days. They missed one day of work: drunk Russian soldiers came to the builder\u2019s house in the evening, demanded food, fired shots into the ground at his feet, then hit him on the head with a rifle and dragged him off somewhere. But at that moment, drones began circling overhead, so they fled and let the man go\u2026\u201d <\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

March 15, 2026<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2026 the neighbors and we share whatever we can with one another. V. once gave me a small loaf of bread (probably from the Baptist congregation). It was baked from some kind of gray flour \u2014 awful, gray and stale, but it was real bread. I took some of the bread to H. We\u2019ve never been so happy about a piece of bread! V. treated me to some carrots; a friend had given them to her from her basement. Carrots! Real ones! I still had some mayonnaise left (bought before the snowfall), so I made a salad of grated carrots with garlic and mayonnaise. I took it to H. My goodness, there was so much surprise and joy in her eyes. V. brought flour from somewhere \u2014 we can even make pancakes. I got used to making them on the kabitsa, using H.\u2019s recipe \u2014 mixing in tomato juice instead of sour milk. And I added fine corn grits into the flour to save it\u2026\u201d<\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

March 19, 2026<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2026 I went to the market. A Russian soldier\u2019s corpse was lying at the intersection. His face has been gnawed on by dogs. For us, this is not a novelty \u2014 bodies with limbs pecked by birds lie scattered throughout the city. Nobody\u2019s in a hurry to collect them. And all those who died from their wounds are taken to the hospital, to the morgue and the basement. There they lie in black body bags, waiting to be taken away for examination. But no one has come for them in almost two months. Yet they won\u2019t let us bury them either. The heat will come soon. God, what if an infection spreads through the city? Rumor has it that a store near the hospital will be handing out humanitarian aid. But only to those over 80\u2026 Who can make it all the way there at that age? And what about the others, the younger people \u2014 don\u2019t they want to eat?..\u201d<\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

A place of hope<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

My aunt writes that she is gradually saying goodbye to her home, coming to terms with the fact that she has lost it, and that this chapter of her life is coming to an end. She says that at the first opportunity, they are ready to take the risk and leave Oleshky \u2014 hunger terrifies her more than the landmines on the road. She writes that she wanted to wait for the de-occupation, to endure until the end, but not let her home be destroyed or let the occupiers move in. But now, she says, there is no home and no life here. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The house she lives in was built by Hanna\u2019s late brother. When my aunt moved in, the house came back to life. She painted the walls inside and out. A swing appeared in the garden, and in the yard, there were chickens and a large dog. She filled the house and its surroundings with plants and hung photographs from her travels all over the world on the walls. My aunt is the heart of this house. As long as she is there, the house lives \u2014 even without windows or doors, with a patched roof, cold and battered by shelling (and there have been eight). But now the house is also saying goodbye to my aunt. It catches her light footsteps and her voice and listens to its own heartbeat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

Once upon a time, my aunt came here from very far away, but she put down deep roots in these southern lands.<\/strong><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

Now she is ready to leave, taking with her the one whose roots run much deeper and are far harder to uproot \u2014 Hanna. My aunt says, \u201cWe have to survive and carry on.\u201d That, too, is a form of resistance against the occupiers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And I think about how all of them \u2014 my loved ones in occupied Kherson Oblast \u2014 no longer have any material possessions to pass on to their grandchildren: no embroidered pillows, no icons, no old photographs, no houses steeped in history, no gardens. And yet, they will pass on something far more important: the will to live despite everything and the ability to love life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Alive<\/strong><\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

He sent me a photo at the end of March: a dense row of yellow daffodils pushing through the gray earth. In the background, an apricot tree is in bloom. He writes that he managed to buy a piece of butter \u2014 it took him five hours. When asked how they are doing, he replies simply, \u201cWe\u2019re alive.\u201d And then adds: \u201cWe\u2019re planting a garden\u201d\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When I received his message, I was reading news that five of the 13 villages in the Oleshky hromada had effectively ceased to exist. Our home village is on that list. It. No. Longer. Exists. I close my eyes: Grandpa is smoking on the porch; there\u2019s my bench and a glass of cold milk; turtledoves call to each other from the power lines\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Photos from the author\u2019s family archive<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Memories of paradise and notes from hell: the story of occupied Oleshky<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":5239,"featured_media":145438,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2238,2232],"tags":[7191,7192,7193,7196,7194,7195],"class_list":["post-150007","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-reportages-en","category-reporters-en","tag-diaries-from-occupation","tag-kherson","tag-kherson-oblast","tag-life-under-occupation","tag-occupation","tag-oleshky-2"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nWe\u2019re Alive. 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