The Rare Roses of Donetsk
As Trump and Vance throw in with Putin, a young teacher from Eastern Ukraine shares her harrowing story of escape, survival, resistance, and hope.
By Zarina Zabrisky
Marina is my Ukrainian language teacher. A classic and somewhat old-fashioned beauty with ink-black long braid, bright blue eyes, and musical laughter, Marina has a mermaid air about her. She met her husband Sasha, an IT engineer, in their native Donetsk. As they were falling in love, they explored the city’s rare rose gardens, rivers, and wild birds, taking photos—a passion they shared. Fairy-tale love, fairy-tale ending: not. They got married and made many plans—from family to traveling—but in the spring of 2014, their first wedding anniversary celebration was cut short by explosions. Russians arrived in Donbas. Like many others, Sasha and Marina refused to live under occupation. They left.
They rebuilt their lives in the quiet, pine-lined Kyiv suburb of Hostomel, minutes from Bucha. Russian troops stormed their new home, on February 24, 2022, on their way to Kyiv. Sasha and Marina fled again. After liberation, they returned. They have lived there, under missile and drone attacks, used to sirens and blackouts, ever since.
I stayed at their light-filled cottage a few months after the Russians left. I interviewed their neighbors who spent weeks in basements. In nearby Bucha, Irpin, and Borodyanka, residents showed me the ruins of their homes and told me of those who never made it out alive.
Marina and Sasha showed me the photos they used to take in Donetsk: Marina, in an elegant pose, with white roses, an umbrella. Marina showed me a room they planned as a nursery. There was a shrapnel hole in the wall, but I forgot if it was in that room or in the bedroom.
On the eve of the third anniversary of the Russian full-scale invasion, I asked Marina to share with me her thoughts on the latest political developments. This is what she wrote. I added a few notes on history and left her spelling. (Ukrainians stopped capitalizing “russia” on 24 February 2022):
Donetsk. 1990s.
My childhood was happy. I grew up during a turbulent time in Ukraine, full of troubles—and hopes. Ukraine had just restored its statehood by claiming independence after centuries of literal slavery, under our “beloved brother” russia. I remember my grandma being paid with a bag of flour instead of money. As a child, I was never afraid of darkness, and I loved winter, my favorite season. I remember rolling blackouts. Blackouts and no heating have never scared me, neither in the nineties nor today.
Ukrainian history, geography, literature, language, and culture have always inspired me. I remember how excited I was to be able to name our Dukes, the glorious rulers of Medieval Ukraine, in the right order. I loved learning about our rich and beautiful land, and our strong and dedicated people. I dreamt of traveling and seeing all the wonders of Ukraine, discovered in geography lessons. I promised myself to be as well-educated, resilient, and strong as the Ukrainian writers I had studied in literature lessons. And studying history, I was in complete awe at how our nation not only survived all the horrors, but also remained kind, humane, and creative.
Before the Millennium, there was a premonition of future catastrophe. People were saying a war would break out. Even as a young kid, I was sure it would be a war with russia, which has always been hungry for Ukraine. Russians couldn’t cope with the fact that we exist as a separate nation. They couldn’t breathe if we showed our identity, different from theirs. Yet, the Millennium came and went, and a global war didn’t break out.
But in 2003, the Tuzla Island conflict foreshadowed russia’s future aggression.1 Russian naval forces were also present in Sevastopol due to the international agreement between our countries. Even as a schoolgirl, I felt a threat there, in Crimea.
Donetsk. 2014.
In 2014, the war finally started. Not that I was shocked or surprised, but still it felt like a nightmare coming true. We refused to believe it was for real, but we were forced to believe—and forced brutally.
People were tortured and killed. Cities and villages were taken. Our summer vacation spots were ruined. The forests were burnt to the ground. The steppes were destroyed. The sea was polluted. The places where I caught my first fish, had my wedding reception, saw larks for the first time were no more. They came unprovoked and raped our land. They marched, leaving a barren void behind.
The world was watching. The world expressed “deep concern.”
Nations who promised their security guarantees and protection in exchange for the surrender of our nuclear weapons2 were divided into two camps: those who were killing us, and those who were observing the massacre—standing by.
We were devastated and betrayed, but we didn’t have time to reflect on it, as we had to fight tooth and nail to stop the bloodthirsty monster from devouring us.
The company we worked for advised us we should go on a “business trip” for two weeks to escape calamity. Those two weeks never ended. The invasion worsened and we had to build our life from scratch elsewhere. Our plans to have children, to build our own home, were gone. Luckily, we still had jobs.
I only have memories of my pre-war life, with no material objects to cherish. My childhood photos, my abundant home library, the graves of my relatives—everything stayed in Donetsk, the best city in the world, suppressed and locked from me by russia’s brutal invasion. I cannot go back. All because of russians’ irrational hatred for us.
Hostomel, near Bucha, Kyiv Region. 2020-2021.
We managed to save enough money to buy a new place. With enormous effort and love, we furbished it—but we only had a few months to enjoy it.
Hostomel. 24 February, 2022.
We woke up to explosions, and in the evening, we left Hostomel to the sounds of artillery.
Kyiv. 25 February, 2022.
We spent one night in Kyiv, as it was safer. In the morning, it was obvious we had to flee. We tried to return home to pick up a few things, but the Ukrainian soldiers stopped us six miles from our house. Tank battles were raging near Hostomel. Once again, we were going nowhere, having almost nothing.
Fastiv. February–April 2022.
Till the day I die, I will be grateful to the wonderful woman who sheltered us, complete strangers. On the 30th of March, we watched a Ukrainian military drone video and saw that our house was still there and even had a roof. It took much courage to watch that video. What a relief it was to know our home survived.
Hostomel. Spring-Summer, 2022.
Our town was liberated on the first of April but remained closed for visiting. Two weeks later, we first saw our dear home: heavily looted, with a hole in the roof and a bag of rainwater in the ceiling, windows shattered, curtains ripped, glass scattered everywhere, bullets and shrapnel pieces here and there. And filth, literally feces, left by russians. No gas. No electricity. No water. No Internet. No phone. As we were not allowed to return yet; we were visiting, trying to clean and protect what was left.
On the very first days of the summer, we came back home, lucky to have our lovely home, to patch its wounds as if we were patching our heart wounds. I am eternally grateful to the Ukrainian army for the opportunity to come back to my second home and restore it after our “loving brothers’” visit.
Hostomel. Fall-Winter 2022.
In October 2022, the world was anticipating our death by cold and darkness, which russian air raids inflicted upon us. In December, I bought a collection of works by Ivan Franko, one of the most prominent Ukrainian writers and scholars. It was second-hand and a bargain; we are talking like 50 volumes here. The desire to celebrate Ukrainian cultural heritage was—and always is—stronger than any deadly iron from the skies.
That winter was dark and cold indeed, but as it never scared me in the nineties, it never had a chance to scare me in 2022. All the grim predictions of our fall were always meme-like: How to say you know nothing about Ukraine without saying you know nothing about Ukraine.
Hostomel. 2025.
After all that has happened to us, we lost the ability to question our daily reality. Anything is possible in this sick world. I was forced to abandon my home in 2014. When it happened in 2022, the world was “concerned”—again. Trump recently claimed that Ukraine started the war.
Nevertheless, we in Ukraine have no other choice other than to continue fighting for our survival and for the survival of other nations, as we stand strong as a shield for Europe.
We want to be alive and prosperous. We wish the same to others, and we can’t stop fighting for it. I think we deserve the right to ask our partners for help, and I hope the help arrives before it is too late.
While I was editing Marina’s essay, many things happened. On February 28, 2025, Trump and Vance ambushed Zelenskyy in the Oval Office.
I am afraid to call Marina. How am I going to look her in the eye? What can I possibly say?
In Kherson now, I spent the day after the Oval Office fiasco inside, as I am ashamed. Soon, without U.S. supplies, Ukrainian air defense will not be able to stop the nightly barrage of missiles and drones. I am finishing this piece, listening to the explosions outside.
I can’t stop the massacre.
What have we done?
All photos by Zarina Zabrisky.
In 2003, russia provoked a territorial dispute with Ukraine over an island in the Kerch Strait, building a dam towards the island to challenge Ukraine’s sovereignty.
In 1994, Ukraine gave up its nuclear weapons in exchange for security assurances from the U.S., UK, and Russia under the Budapest Memorandum. When Russia violated the agreement by invading Ukraine in 2014 and 2022, the West treated the Budapest Memorandum as a political commitment rather than a binding security guarantee, failing to deter Russia’s aggression or provide direct military intervention.
These are the real Revelations. Horror at the doorstep, horror at your heels. Thank you Zarina, thank you Marina...may you find peace one day.
Nothing is more evocative than first-person reporting. I'm ashamed of my country's leaders, but not most of my fellow Americans, who share Zarina's shame. Sadly, as Zarina details, the Ukrainian people are resilient and led by a humble hero, who will hopefully lead them to victory. Слава Україні!