20 November 2024
Ala and Bogdan, mother and son, have been in Mykolaiv for a month. Their home in Kherson is almost completely destroyed. Ala's husband, Bogdan's father, died at the front a few months ago. Ala held her husband's funeral alone. She has no one left here: all her relatives have fled Ukraine, and she dreams of leaving too. She hopes to go to Poland, but she needs money for a passport and time to learn the language.
Ala has the eyes of someone crushed by life, exhausted by a war that destroys almost everything. She never looks away from me, and her eyes cry out in pain.
And yet, every day at the center in Mykolaiv, Ala cooks for all of us, making sure we've eaten.
Bogdan is always playing with his scooter. He is a child of war—one of those who no longer dream of becoming an astronaut or imagining their future; he simply doesn't dream anymore. His eyes are flat, fixed on the only tangible reality he knows: playing with his scooter and holding on to his mother.
Bogdan is 9 years old. He desperately needs to see that there is more to life beyond the war, his father's death, his destroyed home, and his scooter. He needs to know that he, too, can dream of becoming anything he wants—that there is a future for him. Bogdan needs the gaze of a child who believes in dreams again.
30 November 2024
When we first arrived here, Bogdan never laughed; he could barely manage a shy smile. But after a few days, inexplicably, he ran up to hug us. From that day on, he always wanted to be near us. We've become a sort of extended family—friends, and even math and English teachers to him. Slowly, Bogdan began to look beyond the war and his scooter.
The most wonderful thing is that we don't speak the same language, yet we've found a way to communicate that transcends words: the "childish tongue," a language made of hugs, tickles, loud laughter, and kisses.
And when Mykolaiv is plunged into darkness and cold for three days, we light it up like this—with love, with life!
Life in Mykolaiv goes on "normally": shops are open, cars and trams move through the streets, and people sing and dance in church... There is laughter here too.
And yet, there is war. Far too often, someone is drafted because there are no more soldiers. Children don't go to school—some attend online classes, while others make do with occasional English lessons. The people out and about are weary, and their eyes silently scream their exhaustion.
But despite it all, they don't leave. They stay and endure—remarkably so. Because there's something stronger than war in the air here: an extraordinary resilience, more powerful than armed resistance. People don't want to live in a place that doesn't feel like home; they want to smell the scent of their own land. You can feel their immense courage to keep living.
"There's a war here, go away!" No—they show that here, there is life and humanity!
OPERAZIONE COLOMBA
