But we are now in the twilight years where the generation - who were born under the British Raj and witnessed the end of empire – are dwindling and will soon no longer be with us. And it endures in the lives of people who lived through that time – many of whom came to Britain in the post-war years, its former colonial rule. But the ramifications of the decision to divide British India can still be felt in the politics of the Indian subcontinent today. It may appear an event that happened far away and is consigned to history. Independence and partition forever intertwined. She wants the world to know her story.It’s 75 years since the British left India and partitioned it into the dominions of India and Pakistan. She tells me she feels lighter after speaking to us. She speaks fondly of her neighbour, who died, a close friend, and says through tears she hopes to build a memorial for her. It's one of the few belongings still intact. Hurrying back to her small room in the sanatorium, she shows us a Triptych that used to sit on her wall. I was paralysed with fear - shaking and sweating.
#At the stroke of midnight my entire family was displaced windows#
She acts out the moment the windows shattered. One of the most expressive women I met, her arms move in circular motions as she describes the night of the blast. "I woke up around midnight with a bad feeling," she recalls. A place for rest and relaxation now houses some of the survivors from the apartment building. Valentina sits in an open area at the local sanatorium. I wonder whether its owner lived to see another Christmas. A bright red Santa hat sits atop the rubble. Amidst the debris, a book lies on its side, waiting for its reader to return. Men throw the broken remains of past lives – furniture, plaster, old clothes - over the side of the building. The damage at an apartment building in Serhiivka is immense - half its side is missing. Two of them have lost both their mum and dad. Afterward, she plans to travel to Germany to reunite with her grandchildren.īut I have to keep on living because I have four grandchildren. Tatyana will now have surgery so that she can walk on her own again. She frequently stared vacantly into the distance – trauma personified – as she tugged at a piece of string around her leg, a makeshift support for coping with her injuries. The muscles in her face are sunken, belying profound sadness. Tatyana cries the whole time we speak at a hospital in Moldova but insists on telling her family's story. She spent her last moments using her body to shelter her two children from harm. They included a severed artery, and she died instantly. Her grandchildren called out: "Granny, mummy isn't moving her head." Tatyana tried to help but couldn't move. At first, the blasts reminded her of fireworks. Tatyana and her family waited at the station for a train to take them to safety when two explosions rang out. Try to imagine living all your life in one place and then having to leave. She points to her only shoes, which are more like slippers. She was rushed to hospital and so left with nothing. Vera says she'll use the money from our cash grant program to buy basic things to wear. It's been completely razed to the ground." I can't go back because there is nothing to go back to. She says she feels safer in Mykolaiv, despite the constant sirens. Her ability to see the ridiculous in the absurd makes me smile. She laughs as she shows me how the doctor found the shrapnel by pulling a magnet across her chest. Shrapnel pierced her chest and arm.Īfter urgent surgery, she is now recovering in Mykolaiv. She was picking mushrooms with three other 'babushkas' when they came under fire. Everyone left," she says, describing her nearby village. Her piercing blue eyes dart as she recounts her story. We've heard frequently in the past few days, as families come together, a blending of resources, safety and love.
She is staying with her сваха, a Ukrainian word that refers to her child's in-laws. Our conversation is punctuated by the sound of the traffic on the nearby bridge, bangs and bumps easily mistaken for the sound of shelling.
Vera hobbles out to meet us in a shady garden. The city hasn't had running drinking water for months. People trudge across the city with empty plastic barrels in search of drinkable water. The sirens echo off the empty buildings, some with gaping holes.ĭistant explosions rattle the air. The road to Mykolaiv, a city in Ukraine two hours outside of Odesa, is eerily quiet.
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