Diary of an 18-year-old volunteer’s mother: The imbalance between official news and realities is traumatizing

Oles Honchar has written a lot about World War II. Tronka, Man and Weapon, Standard-bearers, Cyclone, what else… I reread all of these in my youth. In one of these works – I’ve forgotten which – the days after June 22, 1941, in Kyiv are described: 18-year-olds volunteer, volunteer, volunteer at the military enlistment offices… And then – they die, die, die. They vanish. Like in a meat grinder, one by one, all of them, literally.

The statistics of that war and ours will be analyzed and compared someday. But I recall Honchar’s works and think with horror: now it’s worse.

My son’s brothers-in-arms and sisters-in-arms (women far fewer in number) die one by one, not even getting the chevrons and the veteran of combat operations status along with the document. Some are carried out, some aren’t… And it feels like a miracle that he’s alive. Of those he started with, three or four including him remain alive. And none of them intact.

“It’s hard to say how old anyone is. Everyone looks older”, - he answers when asked about the age of one of his brothers-in-arms.

“But you and Tserkva (all call signs changed – OstroV) look about your age”, - I say.

“Yes. Only Tserkva walks like ***, and I’ve got this” (he shows the consequences of his injury).

Once, instructors advised them to avoid the funerals of their comrades and close people because it demoralizes. But in the end, they still go to funerals. After each one, he says: “That’s it, the last one, I can’t do this”. But then he goes again.

“He took after his parents. Especially like his dad. He has an older sister… There were five hundred people at the funeral… The priest said something weird… Priests should actually be banned from coming to soldiers’ funerals! They gathered so many people – what if the russians had hit?” - he recounts.

And he also says: when someone insists on opening the coffin, in reality, under no circumstances should it be done.

About the official and about mine – once again

The imbalance between official news and my reality traumatizes more and more. I want to grab a grenade – even the one with flour, a toy – and go to some state institution. And throw it! Ideally – at the Military Medical Commission (MMC)!

Officially: “We are ready to organize elections during the war”.

And in my head: Yeah, you mother****ers, finally organize the military medical commission in the regional center in the middle of Ukraine!!!

My son could already give masterclasses on navigating the MMC! I’ve lost count of these commissions he went through! It feels like all the motivated soldiers are standing in lines for the medics – and that’s exactly why there aren’t enough people on the front!!! And they’re all wounded in action, so everyone is forced to stand in lines.

He’s allowed to go to the MMC at his place of registration for two days. His commanders let him at their own risk, because you could get yet another AWOL. And at the MMC, the key doctor’s appointment is scheduled FOR 20 DAYS LATER!

If you squeeze the key points from his stories over these days, it comes out roughly like this monologue:

“Now I understand the people who come to the MMC with grenades! The doctor didn’t examine my eyes for three hours after applying the drops, while I sat under the office – and just then the effect of those eye drops wore off! And here I went through without a line – because some guy missed his appointment. Well, let him come in 20 days now… They say – register there to be able to register somewhere else… There’s an old lady sitting… Thought it was the registrar – but she appeared to be a patient! And I’m forty-third for the traumatologist the day after tomorrow! And twenty-eighth for tests! And mom, please, buy a container for urine tests for me…”

And he pulls out of his pocket several crumpled bus tickets because he went across the whole city in a day. And there are many days like that.

And once he – dressed in civilian clothes, a well-behaved kid – blocks a female doctor’s exit from the office and says: “Until you see me, I won’t let you out of here”. She sees him, and the MMC process speeds up.

And it turns out that just three days ago, a male doctor worked in this office. He was beaten. “That’s why they put a woman instead – they won’t hurt a woman”.

Officially: Alaska and post-Alaska. Everyone seriously discusses President Zelensky’s suit, a map of Ukraine in someone’s hands from the Office of the President of Ukraine, and a golf club for Trump. Just like they once discussed Olena Zelenska’s pants and Melania Trump’s hat.

But what I hear is: “His eyes were like a skeleton’s. Either the morgue messed up, or they took him too late. They opened the coffin in the morgue. The priest wanted to open it at home too. Good thing the parents were normal there… You can’t open the coffin”.

And also: “Sorry. I’ll ask anyway… Where… the leg? Did they put it in the coffin, did they find it?”

“Mom, are you drunk??? How would I know what they put in the coffin? They didn’t tell us! Only the face was opened. Better not to open anything, and better do it without the priest!”

And then: “They stuffed 15 meters of bandages into his wounds. He died in evacuation…”

About fears

Death, injury, captivity – that’s on the surface, that scared me right away.

The attitude toward death now is strange, and half of Ukraine lives with injuries. As for captivity – it has always scared me more than death. Fellow countrymen are now being actively returned after three years of captivity, and that is truly frightening. And some are never returned – and that’s even scarier.

“Mom, calm down, they don’t take stormtroopers captive. Who’s going to come out themselves, carry their wounded, and still carry prisoners of war?”

Is that true, or is he just trying to reassure me, and should that even reassure me – try to figure it out.

It’s scary that he’s drifting away from me… He goes outside to talk to his brothers-in-arms on the phone, and he tells me less and less. We are increasingly moving into different universes.

It’s scary that it looks like I won’t have grandchildren.

It’s scary that we seem to speak different languages. It feels like on some topics he speaks entirely in abbreviations!

Over and over I ask – what is that? And he gets angry that I forget. But how can I remember? Why is an infantry spade “MPL”, and the day when cleaning happens is “PKhD”? Why is “SP” an observation post, and “VSP” the military law enforcement service? How am I supposed to find a system or logic in this? I barely got used to the fact that “RDK” is no longer the “District House of Culture”, but the “Russian Volunteer Corps”! And I barely learned those “TCR & SS” when they replaced the word “military commissariat”! And “KTZ” sounds to me like “Kadiivska… some… factory”. Tractor factory, maybe… Such a factory doesn’t exist.

Everything is frightening.

Hanna Hamova, for OstroV