How I was leaving my home. Day 4
February 27, 2022
After spending the night in the car, without sleep or rest, inching forward in a traffic jam at 10-15 meters per hour, I realized what a trap I had fallen into.
It was impossible to sleep at all. At any moment, the line of cars could move a meter or two, and I had to maintain a very small distance from the car in front of me to prevent anyone from cutting in from the opposite lane. The people in the cars were grinding their teeth in anger at those who had freaked out and decided to drive forward, violating the unspoken agreement among this temporary group of survivors.
Driving at night is incredibly difficult. You have to stay alert, expecting the cars ahead to move at any moment. It’s draining. It was -5 degrees outside, and there was no chance to walk: the highway, the shoulder, the fields, the lack of streetlights, and the road in disrepair, all immersed in exhaust fumes.
I tried not to look at my family in their shriveled poses. My kids couldn't take it at all. They woke up crying. Through their sleep, they forgot where they were and why they couldn’t just lie down in their beds.
The younger one kept falling forward. In the end, I moved my driver’s seat as far forward as it would go and laid him on the floor behind me. He rested his head on the partition and slept until morning. I did the same for my elder son. At least that way, they didn’t fall to the floor. They couldn’t sleep sitting up.
It hurt to look at my mother. She had pushed her front seat all the way forward to give her elder grandchild more room in the back. But there was no space left for her. Despite my urging her to sit down properly, she refused. She wanted to make sure the boys were as comfortable as possible.
I honestly thought there would be just one or two nights like that — no more. I couldn’t imagine driving in that state for any longer. The food we had brought with us was nearly gone. My eyes were gritty with exhaustion, and my arms and legs felt numb. And yet, somehow, I felt okay — almost hyper-aware of the massive surge of adrenaline coursing through my body.
I knew I could handle it; I had no doubts.
I always manage.
In the line of cars that night, many drivers had fallen asleep. The alert drivers took advantage of this and quickly slipped ahead, weaving into any open space, gaining several dozen meters. When the driver of the car in front of me fell asleep, I got out and knocked on his window to wake him up, while I still had the strength and the last bit of inner light. But even my coat wasn’t white for long. At night, no one followed the order; there were almost no police. Many buses passed by. I knew my colleagues were on one of them.
Earlier that day, a big black Mercedes SUV had driven into the oncoming lane, and by coincidence, the police had stopped it right next to us. The man in the car was clearly some kind of official — maybe a deputy or someone like that. He was shouting that his wife was pregnant. Then a policeman came up to me and asked if I had children in the car. I said, "Two." The policeman pointed at me and yelled at the driver of the Mercedes, saying, “Everyone here has children, turn around.”
The conflict grew louder as another police car arrived, and they started yelling at the man in the Mercedes through loudspeakers. The man tried to negotiate with them and with me. But his demeanor was so intimidating that I didn’t dare to open my window. I was afraid that if he had a gun, he might use it in his panic.
In the end, the Mercedes turned around and left.
It was well past midnight, and we hadn’t moved at all for more than two hours. It wasn’t clear at all whether we would even make it a meter. My friend, whose husband I had met the day before, wrote to me that they had turned around and were heading back because someone had told them the queue would take at least five days.
That thought haunted me relentlessly.
I didn’t want to turn back. It would feel like defeat.
Desperation mounted. An inner voice urged me to try to break through on the opposite lane, just like others had.
And I tried...
I drove forward with my emergency lights on, covering two hundred meters. The police were up ahead, so I stopped at the edge of the opposite lane. Then chaos erupted with people like me, some allowed to move forward, while others were turned around. I stood there, unsure of what to do. I felt awful.
I drove a little ahead — towards the police.
I was stopped and asked how I thought I had done. I replied that it was ugly and turned back. I found a spot in front of a sleeping car and parked there.
I gave in to my internal turmoil, and I felt disgusted. That vile, sticky feeling of inner betrayal is something I will never forget. I promised myself I wouldn’t do this again, no matter the circumstances. Doing the right thing isn’t hard, even when survival is at stake.
I had already survived once, and I would survive again. I didn’t care about the forces or resources involved. I didn’t care about the pain in my back or the uncomfortable sitting position. I didn’t care if the car broke down.
I was now the one who could save my family, who knew what to do and would do it no matter the cost.
And for the first time, that thought gave me strength and peace.
In the cold, dark night, surrounded by crying children, cigarette smoke, and an unbreakable will to live, I felt my legs turning to steel.
From my shoes to my knees, my legs were reinforced with metal plates, and as the plates rose higher, they began to support my hips, belly, and back. I felt iron gloves on my hands, and chroman-sil armor covering my chest. My neck, face, and eyes were shielded by bulletproof glass, and the car itself felt like the most powerful tank in the world. This phantasmagorical vision of myself as an androgynous cyborg helped me stay awake through the nights ahead, avoid despair, and resist the urge to drive ahead of sleeping cars.
To stay until the end.
The sun began to rise. The fifth day of the journey was ahead.
