At 5:23 in the morning, my friend called me and said that the war had started. I remember her voice, she talked quickly. She said that I needed to take my staff, find shelter, and don't forget the documents. My hand, which was holding the phone, became wet. I felt a sharp pain in my chest. The air in the room suddenly ran out. I opened the window and in a second or two I heard air raid sirens. Lord, how grateful I am to you, Natalie, that your call was earlier than a siren.
I was not ready for the war. I didn't have an emergency suitcase packed and I didn't have any savings. It was dark in the yard, but in most windows of the high-rise buildings, the lights were switched on. My neighbours’ cars were lined up one by one. I remember the sounds of wheels on the suitcases. I remember figures of sleepy children dragging their plush bunnies and puppies and frightened cats in their parents' cars. And the air did not move, and it seemed that it was all a surreal dream, from which I must immediately wake up.
I called my friend Olya, she might have a plan for what to do in case of war. She said that we could be together, and we need to find a safe place as soon as possible. The most reliable shelter we knew was the place where Olena Oleksandrivna, her mother, works. It was the basement of the hospital morgue. The hospital will definitely not be shelled, we thought, and hastily packed our things and moved there.
Death seems to have never been so close to me. And I have never wanted to live here as much as I did. The morgue became the last island of peace, security, and certainty in my life.
Oh, I wish I could see the expression on your face now! And my mother's eyes, when I wrote her a message saying "everything is fine, I'm in the morgue. Do not worry". Actually, going there was my best decision. I didn't know how to behave properly during war, the only thing I remembered was to stay away from suspicious people and windows. The basement of the morgue became the safest place on earth for me.
It's quiet here. Wi-Fi works perfectly, and there are "barberry" candies and cookies in the crystal candy box. And doctors. With a fantastic sense of humor. They deal with death every day and somehow manage to live with it. And live fine: love, have kids, go on vacations, watch movies, laugh, and even love their job.
On the first night, none of us slept, neither I, nor my friend Olya and her mom. Sometimes we sat in the basement, sometimes we went up to the head doctor's office, where non-stop television shows were broadcasting about where Russian rockets had hit and how many days we had until "complete russification", according to the "experts".
The concentration of adrenaline in my blood was high. I could not sleep, eat, drink, or understand that all that was happening to us is real. Just yesterday, I celebrated a friend's birthday in one of Kyiv’s cafes, then baked a cake and fell asleep in my favorite pyjamas in my apartment. Now I'm here. I ramble through the corridors of the hospital with insomnia, until the air alarm siren is silent. I take pictures of the signs on the doors, I feel an unusual smell in the basement (near where the refrigerators are located), and I glance at strange instruments in the doctor's office. Strangely enough, I am not scared here at all. Because all the worst things happen outside the window.
Shots are heard, and street fights echo in the distance.
On the first night, none of us slept, neither I, nor my friend Olya and her mom. Sometimes we sat in the basement, sometimes we went up to the head doctor's office, where non-stop television shows were broadcasting about where Russian rockets had hit and how many days we had until "complete russification", according to the "experts".
The concentration of adrenaline in my blood was high. I could not sleep, eat, drink, or understand that all that was happening to us is real. Just yesterday, I celebrated a friend's birthday in one of Kyiv’s cafes, then baked a cake and fell asleep in my favorite pyjamas in my apartment. Now I'm here. I ramble through the corridors of the hospital with insomnia, until the air alarm siren is silent. I take pictures of the signs on the doors, I feel an unusual smell in the basement (near where the refrigerators are located), and I glance at strange instruments in the doctor's office. Strangely enough, I am not scared here at all. Because all the worst things happen outside the window.
Shots are heard, and street fights echo in the distance.
- Do you think they'll come in here?
- Of course not, it is a morgue. No one comes here of their own free will!
- Girls, don't be afraid. Just in case, I have very sharp knives. Well, if you are very scared...
let's go to the refrigerator, there is a code lock, no one will open it for sure.
The next day, a normal working day at hospital began. Well, not "ordinary". During the war, it was not easy to get to work, but doctors were coming one after another. We sat in a corridor, drinking tea, with those cookies from the vase and did not feel the passing of time. How many hours have passed since my normal life ended? What if I don’t exist anymore? What if my body is lying in the refrigerator, and only my soul is wandering around the hospital?
Doctors. White robes. Calm faces. Awkward phone conversations. Jokes. For example: "From our table to yours," the note from the surgeon playfully stated. The pathologist laughed and threw legs one on another.
Everyone laughs. And I laugh too. As if for the first time in my life.
By the way, pathologists mostly work with living people, and not all of them deal with autopsies. They communicate with patients and make complex diagnoses, all while studying tissue particles of living people under a microscope. And my god, how beautiful it is… A whole universe in a few millimeters of living flesh. But most of it is hardly injured, with caries, Сovid and cancerous abscesses.
It's getting dark, we're alone on the floor again. We need to sleep somehow, and then decide what to do next. The siren. One, two, three. We stay in the basement for the night.
"Let's drink! How long is that life?”
But really, how long?
A bottle of champagne, a jar of caviar and fried potatoes in a plastic container. We are sitting in the basement of the morgue, and drink for life. A doctor, who also stayed here for the night, as befits an experienced pathologist, makes a cool joke:
"I like tattoos. First of all, it's beautiful. Secondly...
the variety of tattoos on corpses makes the working days of pathologists much more exciting."
And then another sleepless night. With louder shots, explosions, and street fights. The night after which we decided to leave. Not knowing where, not knowing for how long, not knowing how. We got to the border in six days, changing from car to car, staying overnight in a new house each time, meeting wonderful people. The surreal dream is not over, but I think I now know how to live in it. As a pathologist. As long as I joke - I exist. And yes, the morgue taught me that.
So thank you my dear morgue. And goodbye! No, see you. Later. I promise.
Exhibitions
2024 – «Circulations: Focus Ukraine» Reseau LUX, Paris, FR
2024 – «Circulations - hors de murs» Pont Saint-Ange, FR
2024 – «Circulations festival», CENTQUATRE-PARIS, FR
2023 – «War diary» Castello di san Michele Cagliari, Cagliari, Italy
Publications
2024 “Open eye” n34 magazine
2023 “Ukraine: war crimes“ – collective photobook, FotoEvidence
2022 Bird in Flight magazine
