The day after I gave birth to Fedir, the shelling started very hard around Kyiv. We lived near Irpin and Bucha. After I saw a falling shell from my apartment window, we decided to leave. My husband and I packed up without knowing where we were going. We had spent so long getting the place ready for the baby, but Fedir only got to sleep in his bed for four nights.
The drive to Lviv took 17 hours. My first experience of motherhood, as we couldn’t stop, was learning to feed and change Fedir in the back seat of the car. On the journey, we saw military checkpoints, tanks. It felt unreal. Arriving in Lviv, it was hard to find an apartment to rent. The city was full of displaced people. As my husband was born in the Russian federation, the landlord we eventually did find demanded a double deposit. We paid it – it was better than going back.
We were quite close to Lviv airport, and there was sporadic shelling. Having a baby is so tiring; once, we were sleeping and a shell fell about 1km away and we didn’t even wake up. Reminders of war were all around us: the news, the bombs, the closed shops, everyone’s conversations. But at this point we still thought the war might end in a few months.
We were so happy to have Fedir. If we hadn’t, we would have gone mad – he was our source of joy and happiness. For a month we had no baby stroller. It was snowing in Lviv, so we just carried him in our coats. Then spring came and things began to bloom, which we needed, to believe in some hope for the war. We stayed in Lviv for three months, then went back to Kyiv, but when the blackouts began around October 2022 – often no electricity, heating or water – we decided to leave. It was hard to raise a baby like this.
In November 2022, we left for Poland. I think of it like we didn’t choose to leave Ukraine, we were forced. My husband was permitted to leave as a caregiver for my father, who is disabled (my father went back to Ukraine in the end as he needs regular checkups and blood tests). Next we went to France, but our car was stolen. We took it as a sign that it wasn’t the right place for us. Some friends in the UK helped us apply for the visa forms.
We arrived in London in March last year, initially subletting a place in the south of the city. I’d visited before, but I was apprehensive in case people were tired of people from Ukraine after a year of war. But I was mistaken. Everyone was friendly, welcoming and open-hearted. My husband, after taking a course, got some work on projects in film production. But even though it was now far away, the war felt close. Each morning I would check the news. My mother lives in Zaporizhzhia, 40 miles from the front, so I’m always checking she’s OK.
By the time we arrived in London, even though he was very little, Fedir had already had a lot of life experience. I’m lucky to have such a calm son. He doesn’t mind travelling and he’s very communicative. He was walking and began picking up English words by himself. When we took the bus, he would wave at everyone and say: “Hello! Bye!”
Fedir was so happy to see the lights and decorations on Regent Street during Christmas time. It was nice to be safe and away from war. But I couldn’t help thinking that the luckiest people on Earth are those who can celebrate with their families. I was thinking about my noisy family sitting around a long dinner table in Ukraine. That’s what Christmas is about.
At New Year, every time I heard fireworks, I thought it was bombs and shelling. I knew it was silly, but that’s where my brain went. I haven’t talked about the war with Fedir. He will realise many things when he grows up, but for now I don’t want to tell him scary things. He lives a good life, an interesting life. He loves playing music. He loves animals. And everybody says he is very kind – I think he will have a mission in life to help people, such as becoming a doctor.
We spent lots of time searching for our own apartment. It was the hardest thing. Every privately rented flat we did find was very expensive and we realised it might use up all our savings.
In January, unable to find somewhere to live in Britain, we came to Dortmund in Germany. We hope to return to the UK in a year or so when Fedir can go to kindergarten and I can work too.
When I look back on two years ago, giving birth in a bunker, it seems unbelievable. It’s as if it happened to someone else, like it can’t be me. Sometimes we feel guilty living a normal life. Life for my family in Ukraine is very different. My mum has become very nervous, but as an engineer, she helps provide people with heating and water. “How can I leave them now?” she says.
The second anniversary of the war was difficult. I was trying to prepare for Fedir’s birthday, but my Instagram feed reminded me of all the emotions from two years ago – anxiety, despair, sadness. It made me cry. I feel like the war might go on for 10 years or more. I’m afraid of never going back to a peaceful Ukraine. Of Fedir not growing up with his relatives and cousins and grandparents.
My grandma used to tell me about her childhood in the second world war and I would think: how does she remember so much detail? Now I understand. I will remember that day to the end of my days.
But we made sure Fedir had a great second birthday on Sunday. We went for a lovely walk, drank tea, and Fedir was very happy when I baked him a carrot cake. I posted his photo online and someone said it made them smile. Fedir helps me see that life still goes on, that there are still important things. And what can be more important than this small new life?
