Mariupol. In this city, everyone is waiting for death.
Mariupolis
A City Where Everyone Awaits Death
“June 18 was blisteringly hot, the furious sun scorching everything in sight. Exhausted from toiling in the factories, people flocked to the beach. Heavy industry factories spew their toxins into the Sea of Azov through sewer pipelines, leaving Mariupol perpetually shrouded in smog. Across the sea lies occupied Crimea, my homeland. Only 20 kilometers to the east, the war rages on daily, yet people lounge on the beach, seemingly indifferent to the conflict. This beach is littered with mines and armed individuals. This has been the reality for the past two years, and people have become numb to it, weary as they are. They’ve grown accustomed to death, to weapons, to violence, to war. I too came to the beach. To scream. I gazed at the sea, the dividing line between my home and the war. I looked eastwards and saw bombs on the horizon. Fear gripped me, but my voice was a mere whisper against the laughter of children playing on the desolate ground”.
Maria Kulikovska, a Crimean artist (the event took place in 2016)
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Nadejda Soukhoroukova
A Resident of Mariupol
Ukrayinska Pravda – Mediapart – March 21, 2022
I feel an overwhelming desire to sleep all the time. My yard, enclosed by buildings, is eerily quiet and lifeless. I no longer fear looking around.
Across the street, the staircase of house number 105 is on the verge of being completely consumed by fire. Four floors are already ablaze, with the fifth slowly succumbing. The fire crackles in the room, reminiscent of a fireplace.
The charred windows are devoid of glass. The burnt curtains hang like tattered tongues. I observe all this with a calm resignation.
I am certain my end is near. I have only a few days left.
In this city, everyone is waiting for death.
My only wish is that it not be too gruesome.
Three days ago, a friend of my older nephew visited our house, bearing the news that a bomb had directly hit the fire station. The firefighters didn’t survive. Shrapnel had decapitated a woman and severed her leg and arm.
I find myself hoping that, even in the event of a bomb blast, my body parts would remain intact.
I can’t pinpoint why this thought holds such importance to me. After all, as the conflict rages on, there may be no one left to bury us. That’s what the police told us when we asked what to do with our friends’ deceased grandmother. Their advice? Leave her body on the balcony.
I can’t help but wonder how many bodies are left on balconies in this manner.
Our house, located on Peace Avenue, is the only one not directly hit by bombs. It’s been struck twice by shells, shattering some windows, but it has largely withstood the onslaught. Compared to other houses, we’ve been fortunate.
The yard is littered with broken glass, ash, plastic, and shards of metal.
I avoid looking at the metallic monstrosity that landed on the playground. It might be a rocket or a landmine, but the distinction doesn’t matter to me. It’s just unsettling. I catch sight of a face in a second-story window and shudder, realizing I’m growing fearful of the living.
My dog’s howl signals the imminent return of gunfire.
Standing on the street in broad daylight, I’m enveloped by an eerie silence. No cars, no voices, no children playing, no elderly women on the benches. Even the wind seems to have died.
There are bodies, though. They lie in the square near our house, covered with clothes. I avoid looking at them, fearful of recognizing a familiar face.
The life of my city is slowly extinguishing in the basements, like a candle flickering in a dark corner. It’s frightening how easily it could be snuffed out. The slightest gust or tremor could plunge us into darkness.
I attempt to cry, but I can’t. I’m overwhelmed by sorrow for myself, my relatives, my husband, my neighbours, my friends.
I retreat to the basement, greeted by a sickening metallic creak. Two weeks have passed, and it’s become hard to believe we once lived a different life.
People in Mariupol are still inhabiting basements. Each day, survival becomes more challenging. With no access to water, food, or light, and constant attacks preventing them from venturing outside, their situation is dire.
The people of Mariupol must endure. Help them. Share their story. Let the world know that a peaceful population continues to be slaughtered.
