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"She was born during war and war took her"

In the front yard of a suburban house on the edge of Donetsk where the city meets the forest, a little wooden coffin stood on a stand. It was a bright, warm day. And in the coffin lay a six year old girl, Alina. A thin veil over her face. Her eyes closed. Her skin, porcelain white.
The family, friends and neighbours were gathered round. Hands over mouths and heads bowed. No one said anything. What was there to say? People just cried. And comforted each other with arms around each other’s shoulders. It was so quiet, all you could hear was the rustle of the trees in the breeze.

A grey van solemnly pulled up next to the house. And the back door was opened up.
The Babushka was too elderly to make the trip to the cemetery so she said her last goodbye there, in the courtyard of her home. She struggled to her feet as the coffin was carried past her by two men in military gear. As she leant over, to kiss her granddaughter one last time. She stumbled, almost knocking the coffin to the ground. The crowd gasped. Some wept.

It was the children. That were the worst. Yes, it was always the children.

We joined the convoy to the cemetery. And made that hollow march to the gravesite. The chink of the shovel in the dirt. The sound that marks the end of a life, as the grave is filled up. And when its done, her picture is placed on top. She was a very pretty girl.
“We want peace,” her mother told me between sobs by the grave. “She was born during war and war took her, she doesn’t deserve it,”

For eight years this whole damned thing was going on. Eight years on and off. The slow drip drip of slaughter. The Ukrainian bombing of Donetsk. And then in 2022, Russia sent its tanks over the border.

The child’s teenage sister was still in shock. She spoke slowly. Like every word was difficult. “It’s very hard to live through somebody else’s death, listen to the stories, read the news and understand that people are dying. But when it happens to you, it can’t be understood.” She wiped away the tears that had rolled down her cheek. “I don’t know the outcome of this war, but it’s scary. Many people are being killed now and how many more are going to die?”

Hundreds of thousands would be killed since she spoke those words. The Ukrainian soldier who fired the shell that killed that little girl is probably dead too by now.
A couple of days later I heard about two more children killed by Ukrainian shelling in a playground in the Donetsk suburbs. It took us some time finding the funeral and we turned up in the middle of the ceremony. The family were sobbing around the grave. I was told to leave. I wasn’t welcome. And I had to hang around the gates waiting for a car. As the mourners came out. “You’re British! You did this!” Some of them shouted at me as they left, arms around the ones still in tears. “Shame on you!”

One of those times as a journalist… Nothing to do but just stand there and feel god damned awful.
Some time later I went back to meet Alina’s school teacher at her home. I had met her at the funeral. I liked her. She had that warm and kind teacherly air to her.

I asked her how she explains the war to her students. And she showed me with the kids gathered round.
“There were three sisters. Russia, Belarus and Ukraine. And they all lived happily. But then this evil monster, The Hyena, came from over seas and tried to ruin their friendship. But one day, they would all live in peace again.”

“My dad doesn’t think so.” One of the little boys butted in.

“Doesn’t think what?”

“That there will be peace.”

“Well I do.” The teacher replied.

Then the little girl chirped up. “I think Ukrainians are good people. But those who lead them are bad.”
There was still hope back in that summer of 22’, that the war would end quickly.

But the Hyena was hungry. Salivating at the opportunity of defeating Russia with the blood of Ukrainians. NATO would announce an unprecedented war chest. And most of the slaughter was still to come.
2024-10-29 17:12 All Chronicles War Johnny Miller