A little poem / Darya from Dariivka
EXCERPT: “At first her voice was tentative, barely audible, then grew bolder. A rumble in the distance told us the orcs were heavily shelling the Kherson region again–they refused to admit that they had been expelled from there like pitiful waste. But the girl didn’t even turn her head at the sound, and there was something wrenching in her lack of reaction to the explosions. And then I asked her to repeat the poem so I could record it on my phone.”
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“What can you tell us about what happened in the Kherson region?” one of the snipers asked me at the rest stop. “As a volunteer I know you went there as often as you would to a regular job.”
“All sorts of things happened,” I answered reluctantly. For the first time in a long time, I allowed myself a cup of coffee, although I knew the doctors would scold me for it. I wanted to focus on the rather lousy, but longed-for, gas-station elixir.
“Tell us,” the soldier insisted.
“What about exactly?” Memories in abundance pounded in my brain, and I could not pick out any one that would be more significant than others.
“About the people who survived the occupation.”
“All kinds of people were there,” I took a first exploratory sip of coffee and squinted. The drink was typically substandard, but it was coffee after all!
I held my breath, so I could savor the mouthful as long as possible, and spoke again only after a few moments. My brother-in-arms waited with a sniper’s signature patience.
“When Kherson was captured by the katsaps,* they were not met with a warm welcome,” I began. “People instinctively went out to protest. Imagine: unarmed people with only the yellow and blue flags in their hands standing against those occupiers who were armed to the teeth with weapons of war.
“But among the people were also many traitors. Although it’s possible some were so-called ‘sleeper cells,’ that gathered information even before the full-scale invasion. Because of these betrayals, the invaders clearly knew whose doors they should knock on first. They came first for the Security Services of Ukraine employees, for the veterans of the Anti-Terrorist Operation, and even after wild game hunters, (because those guys for sure were armed!). I will talk about the occupation of Kherson and the protests another time, because now I want to talk about the little girl.”
“What little girl?” the sniper pressed me.
“A little girl Darya, who got me so attached to a certain village,” As the coffee in my cup vanished with treacherous speed, my sips became ever smaller to prolong the experience.
“As you know, from the first days of the occupation, I wanted to be as useful as possible to our Ukraine. I was of no use in the army, as prior to the invasion, I had only seen a machine gun in museums and in picture books, and at the time, there was no training available. So I realized that I could apply all my strength, talents, and connections to helping the frontline and ordinary civilians. That’s how I became a volunteer. And when Kherson was de-occupied, my friends and I immediately made our way there. I will never forget the contrast of sights that regularly greeted us.”
I caught my breath, looked regretfully at the empty coffee cup, and continued the story.
“Soon, dozens of volunteer cars were heading into Kherson. Some truly wanted to help these people who survived unspeakable horrors in the eight or so months of occupation, and others came to the city signs of Kherson to take photos and videos for self-promotion on social media. It was disgusting watching these narcissists peacocking, shedding a tear on camera to announce yet another fundraiser and to fatten their purses with it.”
“I hope these cretins get what they deserve,” the sniper spat angrily on the ground. “I hate liars, who do everything for fame and money.”
“But there were also genuine volunteers who risked their health and even their lives to save others. I am honored to know many of them personally. Maybe one day I’ll tell their stories as well. But for now, I can’t forget the story of a certain little girl. One time we delivered food and produce to the addresses of the people who, due to their health, were unable to come to the distribution points.”
“All over Kherson?”
“Not only. There were addresses in the de-occupied villages of the Kherson region. So, we drove into one village, Dariivka, and couldn’t see where to go. At that time mobile service barely worked, and lighting was scarce–orcs* blew up mobile towers and power lines. I remember it was frosty, there was snow all around, and it was growing dark. The picture was completed by houses with the empty black holes for windows. As we stopped the bus near an apartment building, we noticed a group of people. There was so much hope in their eyes when they saw the sign ‘VOLUNTEERS’ on the windshield of our car, and how much disappointment there was when they learned that we had already given almost everything to others.”
“Shit, I can take a lot, but my heart is torn to shreds when I imagine what you’re talking about, brother.” The sniper gritted his teeth. “May the katsap monsters be cursed forever, for making the ordinary people suffer so much.”
“I could barely hold back the tears, the desire to return here as soon as possible with a full bus of aid for these people,” I turned away to hide the emotions that made my eyelashes flutter. “And then we saw an elderly woman walking slowly through the snow, holding a little girl by the hand, about four years old.
‘Are you volunteers?’ she asked, trying to read the sign on the bus at twilight. ‘Maybe you have at least something for us? Today is my granddaughter’s birthday.’
Our crew exchanged glances. Everyone had the same expression in their eyes–we wanted to give them at least something.
‘We have some marshmallows and some sweets left in the bag,’ Serhii, one of our team members, said quietly. ‘We couldn’t find anyone at one of the addresses. Maybe that?’
There was no need for him to say more. We just handed over everything we had. Then the woman said that her granddaughter wanted to recite a poem for us.
The little girl began. At first her voice sounded shy, barely audible, then grew bolder. A rumble in the distance told us the orcs were heavily shelling the Kherson region again–they refused to admit that they had been expelled from there like pitiful waste. But the girl didn’t even turn her head at the sound, and there was something wrenching in her lack of reaction to the explosions. And then I asked her to repeat the poem so I could record it on my phone.
“And you recorded it?” the sniper pressed me.
“Yes.”
“And you have this recording with you now?”
I knew what he wanted. “Yes.”
I scrolled quickly through the phone gallery and found the file. I gathered in my own emotions and played the video for him.
He gazed at the video of the little girl Darya, standing against the background of Dariivka, embraced by darkness and the icy winds, reading for us the poem “I am a small Ukrainian girl.”
The seasoned sniper looked at the video of the child with wide-open eyes, as a big tear rolled down his weathered cheek.
——————
*katsap and orc are derogatory terms for Russian soldiers.

Author Oleg Veretskiy and his military reconnaissance unit are raising funds for a special anti-drone gun. The sooner they collect the required $10,000, the more enemy drones they can destroy, and the sooner Oleg can return to his writing and his brothers-in-arms to their families.
Please help save the lives of these heroes and donate any amount via PayPal to veretskaya2009@gmail.com, and/or share this post. Thank you!



PHOTOS: In the video Darya recites her poem to Oleg and his squad in the darkness. Oleg says, “We traveled to Dariivka (blue & yellow photo) many times along this road. Our ‘VOLUNTEER’ sign is reflected in the windshield in the highway photo. Sign on the bridge in Ukrainian, ‘Kherson welcomes you’ was restored after liberation.” Below the video of Darya is a photo of Oleg and his friends, the ‘two Serhiy’s’ in front of an inscription on a Dariivka wall: ‘Man does not seem to fly. But he has wings. But he has wings!’ (Ukrainian poet & journalist Lina Kostenko)
Click here for Ukrainian Text / український текст
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