STORY 14 - Romanchenko Iryna
"You told me at the beginning that you don't have a heroic story, Iryna. I'd build you a statue," I whisper, looking at her admiringly. The woman in front of me smiles demurely. "I'm just doing what I have to do. While I still have the strength, I'll do it."
A smiling lady, with the aura of a young grandmother, entered the room where I was waiting and extended her hand to me with a friendly air. Sitting down in the chair across from me, she began to tell me her story: "My life is quite long; I am 62 years old. I was born in Donbas, which is a place dear to my heart. I am a doctor with 35 years of medical practice. In theory, I should be a young retiree by now. Before the invasion in February 2022, I had big plans. I wanted to learn new things, to improve myself. Our hospital had undergone renovations, and modern equipment had been acquired, which I was learning to use. No one would have believed that everything could be destroyed in just a few hours..."
The Russian army invasion caught her on duty at the hospital in Volnovakha, and the following days were spent crawling, often through craters left by shells, on the way from home to the hospital and back. Iryna took on the responsibility of managing the entire hospital. She sheltered over 300 civilians in the basement of the medical facility. Along with the remaining nurses and caregivers, she had to relocate critically ill patients to keep them safe.
Iryna lived with her son, and they had just finished renovating their apartment, but now the basement became the most precious place. It became a shelter for all the neighbors.
Iryna smiles, and I wish I could understand what is in her heart as a woman who has seen her home destroyed, as a person who has witnessed death and suffering around her, and as a mother who, in addition to her own son, became responsible for another 200 people.
"We were sitting in the light of a few candles, and everyone expected me, Ira, the doctor, to take care of everyone. We became a big family there. I helped them, of course, from a medical point of view, but everyone wanted to tell me a story. I made them get up, move, do breathing exercises, so they wouldn't sit and feel sorry for themselves all day."
Two hundred frightened people in a cold basement with no ventilation, no natural light, and no sewage. They were using buckets that A., Iryna's son, would run outside to empty when it seemed like the bombings and gunfire were subsiding. Iryna's voice is calm and warm, describing to me days of nightmare. And yet, I still fail to understand what's in her heart. No, it's not victimizing resignation. It's a kind of acceptance, a reconciliation with harsh reality. It's like Jacob's struggle with the biblical angel, not allowed to leave until he gave his blessing.
After a few days, volunteer teams started to reach them, and the most vulnerable individuals were evacuated. "One day, when a woman needed to be evacuated, a volunteer entered the basement with an arm almost completely torn apart by shrapnel. So, there, in the cellar, I had to amputate his arm to stop the bleeding. My son assisted me, and we managed to save that volunteer. Everyone in the basement was huddled together, in silence. I sincerely hope that man is alive..."
In the following days, the yard of the house became a Ukrainian army operational point, so the explosions in the area intensified. Learning that she was a doctor, soldiers provided her with medical supplies and asked her to continue helping, including wounded soldiers. Then, the nearby gas pipe was damaged, and they had to quickly find someone to repair it. "It was the first time I went outside and saw the bombed streets, destroyed buildings, and corpses of people I knew lying around…". Her voice doesn't change as she tells me. Iryna looks somewhere in the distance - beyond me, beyond the war, beyond evil and death.
A nephew of Iryna managed to organize transportation to get her out of the city through a green corridor. "I couldn't believe I was leaving, and over 130 people would be left behind. I couldn't look into their eyes. The most painful part was going into my apartment one more time, then hugging my dog and leaving him there because I had no room, even though the dog was a true stress reliever for everyone during that time spent in the basement."
"In that tiny car, there were already six of us..." Her eyes are filled with tears and pain, but she doesn't stop telling the story. "We fled in the car with just our documents, the clothes on our backs, and a small icon."
Iryna speaks to me about the future, about the women who will carry the signs of the endured traumas in their bodies for a very, very long time. She tells me about cervical cancers and breast cancers that plague generations of women affected by fear and stress.
Now, for over a year, Iryna has been working with "Doctors Without Borders" in the most war-affected areas of eastern Ukraine. She talks about tragic cases, about places turned into ruins now, and her voice flows smoothly. "After I went with the mobile brigade on the first mission, it was the first time in my life when I needed the help of a psychologist."
"You told me, at the beginning, that you don't have a heroic story, Iryna. I would build you a statue," I whisper, looking at her with admiration.
She smiles modestly. "I'm just doing what I have to do. As long as I have the strength, I will do it."