STORY 8 - Chernetska Natalia
"...Young people arrived there with deep physical wounds and deep emotional trauma (...) The love and patience of the volunteers was the fuel that broke down the walls of silence and suffering. I don't even know who helped whom more."
Natalia is a distinctive presence that you cannot overlook, with her head covered in tattoos resembling a veil. She wears the emblem of Ukraine in her ears as earrings, and immediately compliments my skirt and boots as soon as we meet. Obviously, our conversation starts right away, focusing on personal style, clothing, and tattoos.
"Please, tell me the story behind your unique tattoos," I can't help but ask. She smiles at me, saying she's not entirely sure if she wants to talk about them, but she'll decide as our conversation progresses. Natalia is 57 years old, living in Odesa, and works as a journalist. Her son Kirill started getting tattoos around the age of 14 or 15, and by the age of 16, his arms were completely covered. "At that time, everyone around me felt they had the right to intervene, to ask me why I allowed something like that for my son. So, I wanted to do something downright crazy, so that those people could say calmly: 'Like mother, like son.'" Natalia laughs, but I sense that there's more to the story of that decision. "Besides that, I have a condition that causes the loss of a significant amount of hair and the graying of the remaining strands. Because I couldn't dye my hair due to the medical condition, I had to choose between a wig, constantly wearing a scarf, or getting a tattoo. I think it's obvious what I chose!"
"You chose the coolest option," I tell her excitedly, and her face lights up. She gains courage and continues the story of this decision, the various reactions she received from those around her. Then our conversation turns to that painful point in her life, represented by the invasion on February 24, 2022.
"When the gunfire started, I was in bed, sleeping, and the first thought I had was: aha, the war has begun! I need to try to sleep more now because I don't know when I'll have this chance again. I picked up my cat and tried to go back to sleep. At the media company where I worked, we were informed that we would be working 8-hour shifts, continuously," At that time, Natalia was working at a private television channel in Odesa, responsible for managing their social media. She managed to continue her work until April 2, when her collaboration with the TV station ended. At that point, she looked for opportunities to help as a volunteer and chose hospitals, which were overwhelmed with work. "We took care of providing the necessary medicines, clothing, food, and medical equipment for the wounded. We communicated with the fighters and interviewed them, which we later posted on social media. This allowed us to raise funds. Then, my health started deteriorating. I even had blackout episodes when the temperature in the apartment dropped to 15 degrees, which was extremely challenging for my joints. I had to leave. I registered in Romania on September 13, 2022. Since then, I have returned home three times, out of longing. In Bucharest, I woke up every morning before the the sun, crying. When I arrived home in Odesa, I rushed to help the wounded who needed me every day, even when public transportation was no longer functioning."
The experience of working with the wounded deeply marked her. She tells me that she felt guilty every time she left the hospital. The young people who arrived there with profound physical injuries and deep emotional traumas attached themselves to her heart. Some of them would sit silently, facing the wall for hours, seemingly unaware of or unresponsive to anything around them. The love and patience of the volunteers were the fuel that broke down the walls of silence and suffering. "I don't even know who helped whom more", Natalia tells me, looking into the void. She rubs her hands with sore joints and long fingers in the lap of her dress, while her thoughts race back to her beloved Odesa. She learned a lot from soldiers, doctors, and volunteers. They were all a great team, and the bonds between them were woven invisibly day by day. "We know almost every fighter who has passed through our hospital - where they are now, how they are doing, and whether they are still fighting.
“One of the girls altered clothes for those who had lost a hand or a leg. During this period of time, a woman hairdresser comes to the wards every Saturday. The patients wait for her because she makes them smile and look beautiful. Children give patients drawings and souvenirs, and men hang them by their beds. Each of us tried to make the lives of the wounded easier, to perform small services that would bring them joy – we obtained suitable clothes for them and sent messages or packages to their loved ones. On certain holidays, we prepared special festive meals with treats like they would have at home. They needed that soulful food that could only be cooked at home..."
I feel a deep sadness in the woman in front of me. Afflicted by illness, burdened by feelings of helplessness due to disability, and facing an uncertain future sit heavily within her. It's interesting how each of the women I've spoken to had their own ways of feeling, living, or expressing pain. Our time together is coming to an end, and I want to close that circle, opened with our relaxed conversation about tattoos.
She misses Odesa, the salty breeze from the Black Sea shore. "In Ukraine, we understand each other with just glances; we don't need too many words. We lived through similar experiences, we have similar feelings and pain.And in Romania, she lacks those native glances that carry burdens, joys, questions, and answers that don't need to be talked about.” Here, in the country to which she is infinitely grateful for shelter, it is difficult for her to talk about all the things that do not need to be explained at home.