What will Ukraine's Victory Day be like? The most important thing about 2022

But at the same time, it is difficult to find words because of anger. Anger at the enemy who broke into your home and turned your life either into hell or into a crazy reality show for the whole world on the live broadcast. But I will try to describe the dominant emotions.

Around 4 am on February 24, every Ukrainian read the most terrible message of his life. It was red, in caps "Russia attacked Ukraine". It was that clerical knife that tore the fates forever. Those men who were the first to go to the military registration and enlistment office at dawn. Women who were in tears, but with a firm hand pushed children and cats to the crowded train to the West. All those who will not celebrate any holidays. Who is under the ground, who was kidnapped by the enemy with a destroyed name. All those whom we will find in mass graves.

I forgive even male fugitives; it is very funny to look at wet pants and explanations of those who until recently were considered macho and "the most handsome man in Ukraine". I hope you never return from Vienna, Barcelona and Los Angeles. "Mother's flowers" have no place among gladiators.

And now we have to survive. To breathe in and out so that you can feel "I'm alive". To stay sane. And continue to pound this rock. For ourselves, and for those who became the army of heaven.

Now we know how the whole country is hurting. How Kyiv is worried about Kharkiv. How Lviv becomes dear to Odesa. When you write: "Kryvyi Rih, dear, hold on!". How tears of happiness flow when Kherson is recaptured. When Chernihiv not only withstood but also protected Kyiv with its back. When the knife cuts Dnipro. And when the word Mariupol is burned onto the heart just like that crazy shelling of the drama theater with the word "Children". Now we know how Ukraine hurts. When you worry about Melitopol even when you have never been there.

This year was the year of pure love and true friendship. When we parted with all that is ingenuine. When the true feeling burns the soul. When you finally see what love after death means. Thousands of young women frankly wrote "I am a widow now. 

The widow of a hero"... And this confession strangles the throat, squeezes out tears and guilt. Has each of us really done enough? To ensure that as few female figures in black as possible hold the hand of their loved one for the last time. So that the widow of the defender does not say afterward "I was beautiful at the grave. But remember not my red lips, but our son who lost consciousness". Sometimes these fragile girls change civilian jeans for camouflage. They will finish their Heroes' deeds. The pain does not disappear, but it can be replaced by hatred for the enemy. It does not cure, but it allows to live on.

We are often told that "Heroes do not die!". This is not true. Our heroes are made of flesh and blood, and they are also defenseless against bullets, mines and shell fragments. They are put in black bags and laid in rows in morgues. They receive hundreds of calls from the contact "Mom". But no one picks up the phone. And black candles remain on the media profiles of mothers.

We sometimes made fun of our children for having a carefree childhood. Happier, more secure and with a lot of opportunities. But the children received an extreme certificate of maturity. Sasha from Hostomel celebrated her 9th birthday the day before the war. A week later she received an arm injury and amputation. 15-year-old Arina with a leg injury was dragged by the Russian occupiers to a tank, no one knows what happened to the talented girl in the last 10 months. Marat from Nikopol recognized his father with his tattoo and blue and yellow bracelets. The same bone from the mass grave, which was stretched on the profiles of thousands of Ukrainians, is the hand of his father, a soldier of the 93rd Brigade Serhiy Sova, who died near Izium. Children write letters to St. Nicholas asking to win the war and see their father. Some of them will never know their father at all. Because they were born afterwards - and their mothers, widows, clutch their babies to their chests. With sad eyes, like the Virgin Mary. But with hope for a better fate for the babies.

We first learned the limits of fear. And how they change with every victory of the Armed Forces. On the morning of February 24, you would reach for sedatives after each message on Telegram. You would nervously pack your backpack with underwear and equipment. And imagined starting life from scratch in rough Winnipeg. Now the Russian Federation is trying to cut power, heat and water with a massive missile strike, and you stand in the hallway looking at the recipe for a festive duck. And you check whether you have everything necessary: a can of water, a charged power bank and a generator for your own business. "It's not us who will be in trouble. It will be bad for them. And glory to the Armed Forces!"

Now we know that street names and monuments are important. And there is moral satisfaction when the monuments of Pushkin, Chkalov, Gorky lie belly up. And at night, the communal workers finally lowered Catherine II and her lovers on ropes. The war finally started the process of getting rid of the idols of the occupying power. And although there are still numerous "Zoya Semyonovna" with slicked hair and a watchmen complex, their time will pass. And the long period of keeping the Soviet garbage, otherwise this electoral unit would not elect a respectable person as mayor or deputy, will pass. Although at a very high cost. When the state of Pushkin and Catherine II kills children, puts Yulia Zdanovska and Hennadiy Afanasiev, Roma Ratushnyi and Sasha Makhov in coffins. This cannot keep happening on the land that is bleeding and is daily replenished with hundreds of graves of those who could laugh, think and inspire others.

We felt what hatred of the enemy is. Uncompromising, without shackles on the legs in the form of "brotherly countries" and "relatives in Russia and Belarus". There is only you and your family. A reliable shoulder of a friend, a friendly volunteer. And your city, which will stop breathing when you are gone. Now there is no need to blind people with promises to "sew the country together" and "find a compromise". There is only one goal: to save the state, and your people and punish the enemy. And also to catch those who supported the invasion, who made lists of soldiers, Maidan activists, volunteers whom Russian troops wanted to kill... We can finally separate the enemy from the friend. No matter how well they managed to disguise themself as the soul of the company.

This is the year when you proudly say "Good evening, I am from Ukraine!". When it is more luxurious to wear a hoodie saying not "I love NY", but "I am Ukrainian". When it is honorable to become the very mouse from the fairy tale about the Turnip, whose small but strong muscles allowed to pull the root vegetable outside. When finally artificial inferiority and imposed shame shook off the surface like dust. And you can clearly say "This is all mine. And I will not give it to anyone".

We will never return to the morning of February 24 and change the most terrible message we have ever received: "Russia attacked Ukraine". There is no power that would allow resurrecting of the killed Ukrainians. But we have the power to change our path. To forever imprint that there is a difference and it is important. And to forge our victory. So that the damned zombies at the gates, together with tambourines and shamans, crawled into their distant caves beyond the Urals. And we could live. Without them, but with ourselves to the fullest.

When we win - I do not know the date, day and in which constellation Mars will stand - I already understand what my main emotion will be. First, to cry for all those who will not see our victory. To say "thank you" and "sorry that we celebrate without you". And the second is to prepare for a new war. So that everyone who at least plans to do us harm is afraid to come here and feel our fury.