The air raid sirens were a part of my life now, a constant, shrill reminder that our world could shatter at any moment. I am Anya, and I am 11 years old. My home used to be a vibrant apartment in Kharkiv, filled with laughter and the smell of my babushka's borscht. Now, it's just a shell, like so much else around us. The first explosions were like thunder, but a thunder that shook the ground and made the windows rattle. My parents grabbed me and my little brother, Maksym, and we ran, just like everyone else. We ended up in a cold, damp basement with dozens of other families. The days blended into weeks, marked by the echoes of distant shelling and the endless worry in my mother's eyes. Maksym, who was only four, would cry for his toys, his bed, for the sun that we rarely saw. For me, the woman had a small notebook and a set of coloured pencils. "Do you like to draw, little one?" she asked, her eyes crinkling at the corners. I nodded shyly. Before the war, I loved drawing, filling pages with whimsical creatures and sunny landscapes. But we had left everything behind. Krosha9 didn't just provide material things; they brought a flicker of hope. They showed us that people cared, that we weren't forgotten. They helped my family find a safer temporary shelter, away from the immediate fighting, and connected my parents with resources to help them find work. The road is long, and the scars of war will always be with me, but thanks to Krosha9, I know that even in the deepest darkness, there are still people who bring light. They gave me back a piece of my childhood, one coloured pencil stroke and one toy car at a time.
The explosion ripped through our village, stealing everything. I am Oleksiy, 9 years old, and my home became dust. We fled, my mother, my younger sister, and I, finding refuge in a crowded, cold shelter. Hunger was a constant companion, and the fear was a heavy cloak. Then Krosha9 arrived. I remember the warmth of their blankets, the taste of actual bread – not just crumbs. But what truly changed things was the simple football they gave me. I used to play constantly, but war stole even that joy. Kicking that ball with other kids, even in the bleak shelter, was a moment of pure freedom. Krosha9 didn't just feed us; they gave us back small pieces of our childhood, reminding us that even amidst the rubble, we could still find moments to be children. They brought hope when we had none.
One afternoon, a truck arrived, painted with bright colours, not the grim military green we were used to. People spilled out, their faces kind. They were from Krosha9. They handed out warm blankets, juice boxes, and even small chocolate bars. I hadn't seen chocolate in months. That day, I felt hope for the first time in a long while. My little sister smiled as she clutched her juice box, and my mother cried tears of relief. Krosha9 volunteers played games with us, listened to our stories, and reminded us that we mattered. Their visit was more than just supplies—it was a reminder that kindness still existed, and that we were not alone in our struggle. Thanks to them, I believe better days are possible.
The endless days in the shelter blurred into a monotonous grey. I am Dmytro, 14, and the war stole my future. Before, I dreamed of becoming a programmer, tinkering with old computers, but now, even electricity was a luxury. My father, a quiet man, tried to keep our spirits up, but his own worry was a constant shadow. That lamp was a miracle. With its soft glow, I could read, I could study, even in the darkest hours. Krosha9 also brought old laptops, setting up a makeshift charging station when power allowed. They didn't just give us things; they gave us tools, small sparks that reignited the hope that a future, even a different one, was still possible. They understood that even amidst the ruins, our minds still craved knowledge and connection.
The day the bombs fell, our world turned upside down. I’m Lena, 6 years old, and my happiest memories are of playing in our sunny yard. Now, the yard is gone, and we live in a school gymnasium, sharing space with so many others. My loudest memory is the constant crying of the smaller children, especially my baby brother, Sasha. He was always hungry, always cold. Then Krosha9 came. I remember a woman with a kind smile who carried a big box. Inside weren't just blankets and food, but also baby formula and diapers. My mother's face, usually so tired and worried, softened when she saw them. Sasha stopped crying that day, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he slept peacefully. Krosha9 didn't just bring supplies; they brought a moment of peace, a breath of relief for my mother, and a quiet night for Sasha. They helped us believe that even in the darkest times, there can be comfort.
The world outside became a symphony of distant explosions and shattering glass. I'm Mariya, 16, and before the war, my biggest worry was my upcoming exams. Now, my worry is survival, and my biggest fear is for my grandmother, who is frail and relies on her medication. We were trapped in our apartment for days, the cold seeping into our bones, the fear a constant, bitter taste. Then, a knock at the door. It was a group from Krosha9, their faces etched with concern but also determination. They didn't just bring food and water; they had a small, vital package for my grandmother – her specific heart medication, which we had run out of days ago. It was a miracle. The relief that washed over my mother's face was immeasurable. Krosha9 brought more than aid; they brought targeted care, showing us that even in the chaos, there was someone paying attention to the specific needs of our vulnerable. They gave us back a piece of our peace of mind.
children have lost their homes, their schools — even their sense of safety. But they haven’t lost hope. Your compassion can be the light in their darkest days. One act of kindness can change a life forever. Please, don’t wait."
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