Олена Спрогіс Olena Sprogis

* 1978

  • I think, March 8, when two pregnant women were brought to me. I don’t know how it coincided, they were from different districts, but their children’s age was the same. But one was a girl, and the other one was a boy. One was Daryna, the other was Roman. Same age, same birthday, and both mothers were pregnant again, and the moms’ pregnancy term was the same. One had a husband, the other didn’t. And these children’s little eyes… As we’re used to, children laugh, they cry, they react to sounds, toys, something. They were 10 months old. The didn’t react to anything, neither to rattle toys nor to phones. Roman, when he saw light (an ordinary lightbulb), he looked at the light in such a way, because he didnt’ see light in the basement. These were innocent children. This war… And very elderly people… When you understand that they spent their entire lives on their children, grandchildren, on their homes, houses. They can’t work or do anything now, they don’t have anything. Anything at all. And they look at you and say, “Where do I go next?” And you don’t know what to say. The only thing you want for when they leave your place is to remember this place with a smile. So that they would say one day, “You know, it was such a place… If I spent three days there, and they didn’t hurt me, they accepted me, and they helped me in whatever way they could.” It's very difficult for people here... I didn't think it was possible... They came and left, right?! They are strangers. When they live for more than two weeks, when we see them off, it is very painful. And we had a man who had suffered a stroke and was a little bit... We had to make his bed personally, because he was wetting himself, peeing. And every morning you come to him, "Vovchyk!". And he's afraid of being scolded. I'm like, "So! Here are your clothes, take a shower!". He's on two walking sticks. Nina Viktorivna is sitting there, one of the servants, the workers, says, "Lena, tell me, we are crying for everyone. Do you think we'll cry for Vovchik? He's been our problem for three months now?" I said, "I won't." Then one day we got [a call] from a Kyiv shelter that they were taking our Vovchik away. He had already... walked up the steps, and he turned around and looked at us... To say that we were crying would be an understatement! We called him later, while his phone was still working, we called him. But now, maybe he's been moved somewhere else. You just get used [to them] very much... When people take away the most precious thing they have. It is their pet. They live with us. And volunteers come and say: Poland, something else, conditions — no animals allowed. And when they say, "Can I leave it with you?" We turn to the city, to Druh, to other shelters where we can transfer them. "I promise you," I say, "it won't be on the street, I'll give it to someone." It's hard when they sit down to say goodbye to them. They have taken out everything they could. But there is no way around it. It's hard. It's hard when old parents are brought in, and the children are offered (there were only two cases) very good conditions. And to accept them, they have to leave their parents behind. At the moment, even if you continue to help them when they leave, they squat down and say, "I'll get a job, and I'll come back for you." Or, "I'll help you when I can." It's impossible to look these parents in the eye. And then, "Did they call you?" you say. "No." It's hard at this job, forgive me. And when they call, "Can I come back to your place?" Then you smile and say, "Yes, if you want to come back." It means you're not doing it in vain. And when your project called. I said, "I think if the volunteers know and remember, then you are not doing it in vain — [you are] in the right place."

  • On June 5, when the Ukrainian army entered the city from the direction of Sloviansk. We counted eight APCs. They stopped in front of our house. We were in the city. The children were home alone. She says, "Mom, such and such". I said, "Dasha, which flag?" She says, "Ukrainian." — "Why are you afraid?" — "Because they are shooting." — "Where are they shooting? Where [the occupation forces] are stationed? Lie down on the floor, cover yourself with blankets. Don't be afraid of anything." We are driving, but we can't get through, because there... We are rushing home through the fields, just through all the fields, because the children are there. And a big black car is speeding towards us. And we were very scared that it was... They say, "Don't go through there." I said, "We are locals, we know everything." Because you can't get through there. When we arrived, I said, "Dasha, what happened?" "A man," she said, "A man was sitting in our tree. I opened the curtains and looked. And he showed me like this — close the curtains, he said, don't be afraid." — "And then what?" — "Then they knocked. They asked if they could come in the house." There was no one there. No one is hiding anyone. They looked around, didn't hurt her, didn't chastise, nothing. They apologized. The child was already older. She opened the door. No one harmed her, nothing. All that was fear, pain. That was all. Then on June 5, there was a very terrible night. There was a lot of shooting... And the next day we found out that Kramatorsk was liberated. — How did you find out? — Well, how else? Everyone knew! It had been very quiet before, no cars were driving, and an airplane was flying over the city for two hours. And nothing happened. How did we know? Because we are the first settlement from [the side of] Sloviansk. And when they were coming in, just passing through, no one was shooting, and there were flags, we already realized that the Ukrainian army was in the city, that was it — no one [from the invaders] was left. — What did you feel back then? — Thank God that it's over. Then I didn't understand why [the invaders] were allowed to go towards Donetsk. And this "allowed to go" continues to this day.

  • We didn't get paid for three months in a row. — How did you live? — Passengers left us tickets. They didn't charge us for the tickets. You knew, you had a plan. At that time, we were living on that money. And we still have this with my child. When I know that my child is coming home from Kharkiv, the first thing I do is buy her a Kinder Surprise in the supermarket. I open the refrigerator and put it in the door, where the eggs are. The first thing she does is, "Mom, hi!" She opens it. If it's there, it means her mom was waiting for her. Every day you do some calculations, you hand in your plans. And you [divide] the money you have left over, the money that was given to you, with the driver... Because the driver is also without a salary. And then we go and buy something for home. If it's a long shift, you leave at 04:57 and arrive at 13:58. That's on your feet. You go to the market... Depending on the amount of money you have, you buy something to eat at home. And when you realize that it's a really good day, you can afford to buy your child a Kinder. And when you come home and she's like, "Mom, did you have a good day today?" And it's stayed to this day — that little, little thing that I could do for her then.

  • I had a child going to the first grade who was solving third grade equations. It was communication, drawing. Together, all of this was at such a level that she graduated from the Ukrainian gymnasium with a gold medal, with a red diploma. But she graduated in [20]14, when there was a war here. And there were people at our celebration who were... — Monitoring [that]? — Yes. And they put the gold medal, since it was on a blue and yellow ribbon, simply in my child's hand. There was no such honor as wearing everything. So as not to tear it. And just like that, so that she could keep it, [they put it] in her hand. Then there was the [external independent testing]. It was not held in Kramatorsk. We sent her to Odesa. And I still don't understand why, children from the Donetsk and Luhansk regions were put in a separate room for some reason. Then the biggest [score you could] get was 200 points on the EIT. She had 197, 183 and 189 points in those three subjects. And I said, "They put them in a separate class? Did they show you?!". This oppression, it was very painful at the time. It was not their fault. They were deprived of everything: graduations, holidays. There was a war on their graduation day. And two years ago, when my son was graduating from college. He was 20 years old when the war started. We went to choose a suit for him. He said, "Mom, let's buy one now, so that we can wear it for graduation and for the wedding, so that you and I don't have to buy two." On February 27, he turns 20. On February 24, the war begins. The wedding is postponed until the summer. He is left without a graduation party. We go to Nova Poshta, we get an envelope, and there is his diploma, his certificate. And he says, "Mom, my graduation is even 'better' than Dasha's." That's how the war affected us.

  • My grandmother used to tell such stories, from those [19]30s. She was 10-12 years old at the time. What did she tell me? That there were some Polizei with carts, taking everything away. How they were digging dugouts. And they would go down into that dugout. Because she told me how she was hiding a baby goat. It was bleating, and she said, "I had to hold its muzzle with my hands so that it wouldn't bleat, so that it wouldn't be found, so that the last baby goat wouldn't be taken away." And that was their salvation — some two glasses of milk for the children. All the children survived.

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    Kramatorsk, Donetsk region , 20.04.2024

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Hoping this place is remembered with a smile

Olena Sprogis in Kramatorsk, 2024
Olena Sprogis in Kramatorsk, 2024
zdroj: Post Bellum Ukraine

Olena Sprohis (née Atuashvili) is the head of a shelter for displaced persons in the village of Yasnohirka. She was born in 1978 in Kramatorsk, Donetsk region. Her father was from Kakheti, Georgia, but he did not teach her the Georgian language or culture. Olena has lived her entire life in the suburban village of Yasnohirka. She received an education as a pastry chef and a culinary technologist but did not work in her field. After completing her education, she married for the first time. Following her divorce, she raised her daughter on her own and worked as a tram conductor. In 2000, she remarried and fully dedicated herself to her family. For a period, she engaged in handicrafts and breeding purebred cats. In 2014, Olena endured the occupation of Kramatorsk by „DPR“ militants. After the city was liberated, she optimistically embraced the changes that began to occur when the regional center was relocated from occupied Donetsk to Kramatorsk. With the onset of the full-scale invasion, she joined as a volunteer to help organize the shelter for displaced persons, which was established at a Christian church in her village. Since 2023, she has been the head of the shelter, continuing to provide temporary refuge to people evacuated from dangerous areas in the Donetsk region.