There is a seven hours difference between Kyiv and Montreal.

It was around 5am in Kyiv, still late evening in Montreal. I was sitting downstairs in my office, trying squeeze a few extra hours of work out of myself, before taking time off for spring break. That’s when I saw the news. I didn’t call anyone, not immediately, I didn’t move. I howled. That’s what I remember, howling and sobbing for a very long time.

I remember checking news every minute, then checking Facebook for personal updates, then texting, then waiting, then checking news, Facebook, texting, waiting, news… I remember Natashka hiding in the fields behind her house, I remember hearing nothing from Vika for ten long days and how I cried when she finally wrote back, I remember sitting in the hospital with my broken hand and getting updates from Olya who was trying to escape from Kyiv with her parents, I remember Natalya sending updates on her kids – her little Vira was only two at the time and so afraid of air raid alerts, I remember Olesya asking to pray for her parents in the occupied Irpin.

There is a seven hours difference between Kyiv and Montreal.

I woke up every day to the news of the fresh atrocities. I remember having a panic attack in the middle of the mall – I was supposed to meet some friends to talk about a difficult work situation. A few minutes later, I got the news of the bombing of Mariupol Drama Theatre. When it was evening in Montreal, the stream of news slowed down to a trickle. I remember laying down next to my son, who still slept in his baby cot, and praying, trying to say as many names as I could think of. Name by name by name by name.

I used to save the screenshots of news articles, photos, facebook posts about people killed by russia with their names and life stories, artwork that was even more heartbreaking than photos, and poetry. I have hundreds of those on my phone. Some of the artists and poets have since been killed in the war. 730 days is a very very long time. God have mercy on us.