My name is Inna. I work as a train conductor. I want to tell you a bit about my family, my work, my life, and my brother. I’m originally from Zhytomyr region. Now I live in the town of Koziatyn, Vinnytsia region, Ukraine.

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From the first days of the full-scale war, I’ve been evacuating people — from Irpin, Bucha, Hostomel, Kyiv, Kherson. Back in 2014, when Sevastopol was being seized, I was there too. People were warned in advance — a month before — that anyone who wanted to stay with Ukraine should leave Crimea. Those who wanted to cooperate with the Russians or had nowhere else to go stayed. Two weeks later, a mass exodus began. First, children and women were evacuated, then the elderly, and men went last. A lot of them were from the navy — guys were carrying documents however they could. They changed into civilian clothes and hid their uniforms.

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Then the full-scale invasion began. Members of my family went to the front. Even earlier — my sister’s husband. Now he’s disabled, a war veteran. Then my cousin, a former military man who used to drive trucks abroad and earned well. His wife and two children were in Ukraine, so he returned and volunteered. At first, he tried to join the territorial defense, but they wouldn’t take him. He insisted, and eventually the draft office signed him up. He served in Bakhmut, Soledar, Donetsk region, Kharkiv region. Last year he fought near Pokrovsk, and helped evacuate his unit from the village of Vodiane — voluntarily, stepping in for another commander who was wounded. There were twelve of them, but they never made it out. They say that because of their unit commander’s mistake, the second line of defense was pulled back, and these men were hit by tanks. His body couldn’t be recovered because the territory was occupied. The Russians picked them up. Recently this year, there was an exchange of prisoners and the deceased — 907 people. My brother was among them. He was awarded medals and orders, the first for Bakhmut. He was a military medic, a senior lieutenant, and later became a commander. Our whole family loves Ukraine and stayed in Ukraine. My brother’s name was Oleh Lozovyi, born in 1981. He died at 43. On August 24, he would have turned 44…

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So many people, so many children have died. And much of what happened is unknown — but I want the whole world to know the grief we are going through in Ukraine. We are a shield for the world. I beg: if anyone can, help our soldiers. Here in Koziatyn, there are women volunteers — they make canned stew, cook borscht, pack everything in bags, bake bread and deliver it to the front. They bought equipment, brought in big pots, raise livestock and pigs. People donate what they can. Clothes are collected for evacuees. But we don’t have enough weapons.

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From day one, our village was bombed — five missiles hit. Only one was shot down. People were evacuated; there was a military compound there. Thank God, people survived.

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I’ve transported many soldiers, and now many of them are my friends. I still keep in touch with them. We told them everything we saw on the road. Many are no longer alive…

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There is no end in sight to this. But Ukraine lives. What gives us strength? Ukrainian soil. We Ukrainians are probably a nation of unbreakable spirit. Even war can’t break us. We love our land, we die on it, but we do not abandon it. Our children and our land — that is our reason to live. Our homes are bombed — we move to another place, but we don’t leave our homeland. There are so many like that! The elderly say: “Let it be what it will, but I want to die on my native land.”

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In Zhytomyr region, I still have a small house from my grandparents. I go there, plant a garden. There are two orchards — everything is well-kept and painted. I love the land. Zhytomyr region suffered too after the full-scale invasion began. It was terrifying — not even so much for myself as for my child. That’s why we moved to Vinnytsia region. I saw it all — the missile strikes, the terrible evacuations, when we carried 200–250 people in a compartment car made for 36. People were everywhere — in the aisles, on the floor, without lights. At every station, volunteers would put out water. We picked up the bottles and passed them into the train. People brought some food with them. One grandmother told me she had spent ten days in a cellar. She was 86. Said she scraped raw potatoes with her nails, opened cans of preserves — that’s how she survived. On occupied territory, the Russians forced everyone into basements. When our guys liberated the villages, they helped the survivors get out. We transported them to Uzhhorod, to Lviv. Trains were sent in empty, and with police escort, we loaded car after car. On the platform — a sea of people. Chaos, panic — people just stormed the cars. Trampled over each other, desperate to escape. We evacuated thousands — no, probably millions by now.

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People left everything behind — grabbed their kids and their pets. Cats, dogs, even mice, fish — they brought it all. Kids clutched animal cages. They were everywhere — on the floor, on the luggage racks. Little ones were laid four per top bunk, and six to eight people sat below. Up to 20 people in one compartment. People stood in the corridors and vestibules. We even gave up our own compartment if there were elderly or pregnant women. We managed somehow — in the service cabin, sitting on a bucket — because the journey was long…

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Now I travel to Dnipro and to Poland. Still many people are coming from Zaporizhzhia — from villages newly liberated from occupation. They’re fleeing because they have nowhere to live.

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Earlier, volunteers could still help place people abroad. Here, there was nowhere — tents were set up, schools were used as shelters, any space became housing. In Vinnytsia region, near me, many displaced people now live in a student dormitory — they were given two floors. Locals brought clothes, and still do. For the children — toys. People share canned goods, potatoes — whatever they can. In the first days, they brought whole sacks. They didn’t expect such generosity… And these were people from Donetsk, Luhansk. They fled here. If they supported Russia, they would’ve fled there. But no — they seek safety here, in central and western Ukraine, in Uzhhorod, in Lviv — farther from the front.

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Children have seen too much — explosions, death. Almost all of them need psychological help. Mothers say many of their kids developed stutters, became withdrawn, cry often, flinch at every loud sound — thinking it’s another strike.

I feel so sorry for our soldiers. So sorry there’s so little help. But they are Europe’s shield. If they don’t hold — the Russians will keep going. Putin has nothing to lose. One foot in the grave — God willing, the sooner the better. He just throws people at people. Their propaganda says we’re Banderites, that we eat our children. But we love our children — we’re saving them from real monsters.

So many people fled from Russia to Luhansk region — and then came here. Even Russians told us how strong the propaganda is there — just to make them hate us, the Ukrainians. Why? They want our land. They don’t want our people.

I ask everyone who sees this video or reads these words: help our soldiers! There are so few of them. They’re dying by the thousands. They don’t have enough weapons. They used to live normal lives — had jobs, families. Now they live in swamps, in mud, in the cold, surrounded by mice and snakes…

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We are a peaceful country. Not even in a nightmare did we imagine that Russia would attack Ukraine. We want peace so much. We want this war to end. I don’t know how or when it will happen. Everyone prays. There’s a Ukrainian church next to me — every day at 9 a.m. they pray for our soldiers, for them to live, to return home. Let the world hear and help. Because if we can’t protect ourselves — the world will face the same fate. This evil will not stop. For as long as Russia has existed, it has invaded other countries with war. Now it’s Ukraine’s turn…

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I have a son, Dmytro. I’m proud of him. He’s 18 now. Last year, he enrolled in a pedagogical university to study psychology — Vinnytsia’s Mykhailo Kotsiubynskyi University. I’ve worked for 29 years on the railway. I’ve dedicated my life to this work. I love my job, even though it’s very hard. You have to be a psychologist, a guide, a mom, a clown — whatever it takes. Because there are kids, adults — everyone is different, and you need to find an approach to each one.

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My child was raised over the phone — and that’s how we still live: talking every day. He tells me what he’s done, I tell him where I’m going, what I’ve seen, what I did. From first grade, I hired tutors for him, because I couldn’t be there. He grew up a well-mannered, polite boy. Everyone in our apartment building loves him, especially the grandmas — because he never refuses to help. Someone asks for bread, someone for water — he always helps. We bring vegetables and fruits from the village — and he shares them.

Of course, it’s terrifying to think he might be taken too. Our family has already given so much to this war. And every time I go on a route — I don’t know how it will end. In Dnipro, strikes are more and more frequent…

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I want my child to live in a peaceful Ukraine. But that’s not possible yet. Until 25, he won’t be drafted — that’s the current law in Ukraine: the army conscripts from 25, not 18. Starting from the second year at university, military training begins. My son has been registered at the draft office since he was 17, undergoing checkups. I hope that by the time he turns 25, the war will be over. I hope so deeply. He is my only one.

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When he was little — before he even went to school — everyone noticed how wisely he spoke and reasoned. He’s always had that gift. He gets along with everyone, reads a lot, studies with joy. His profession is very much needed in Ukraine now — people have suffered so much grief, pain — and it all affects the nervous system.

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I believe my son will bring good to many. He has so much positivity, energy, drive, and endurance. I believe he’ll help people find their way and make the right decisions in life. I want him to be like a calming pill for people.