Jana’s reflection on russia’s missile attack on Odesa
I wasn’t sure whether to post this—I don’t want this page to feel like a personal blog. But after talking to Halyna, she reminded me that sharing my experience might help people abroad better understand the reality here in Ukraine. So, here I am, translating my Afrikaans journal entry into English.
Adapted from my journal entry on 11 February 2025.
When I was in primary school—probably in grade one, because it was in Juffrou Rosie’s class—a fireman visited us to talk about fire safety at home. I remember him saying that in a fire, there’s no time to pack your bags or get dressed because every second counts.
But growing up (and still living) in South Africa, where every house has burglar bars on the windows and multiple security gates, I quickly realised something—while they’re great for keeping burglars out, they’re not so great when you need to escape a fire. That thought made me even more afraid, knowing how little time there is to get out.
In my young mind, I came up with the perfect solution: I’d sleep in a tracksuit and wear my tekkies to bed (that’s sneakers for those who aren’t South African). Next to my bed sat a small backpack, carefully packed with all my underwear—because, as every six-year-old knows, clean undies are essential—along with three t-shirts and three pairs of pants.
Choosing which toys could go into the backpack was tricky since I also had to make space for my Bible. I even remember apologising to the toys that ‘didn’t make the cut.’
But my plan had one flaw. Not long into the first night, I realised that sleeping with tekkies on was unbearable, so I settled for keeping them next to my bed instead.
On 31 January 2025, russia attacked Odesa with three ballistic missiles—all landing about a kilometer from where I was staying. A ballistic missile from russian-occupied Crimea to Odesa takes roughly two minutes to reach its target, which means there’s barely any time to hide. That night, because of the fog, we didn’t even get an alert for the first missile.
I was on the top floor when it hit. By the time the second one struck, I had made it downstairs. Halyna’s daughter was with me. Halyna, who was at work, kept switching between messaging her daughter and me, making sure we were okay. When the second missile hit, I looked over at Halyna’s daughter and saw a 13-year-old girl trying to make herself as small as possible.
In that moment, all I felt was anger. Hatred for russia. Hatred for every person who isn’t doing something to stop this. But anger and hatred are easy emotions. They’re masks for what’s underneath. Still, I told myself I was fine. I didn’t cry. I’m strong.
But after that night, small signs started creeping in—signs I ignored. How my body would freeze for a moment when Halyna’s fridge made a whirring sound. How I started packing my backpack before bed just in case.
On 10 February, 12 missiles were launched from the Black Sea. Thankfully, none were headed for Odesa, but when the first alert came through, we didn’t know that yet. Halyna and I sat in the corridor. Her daughter hid in the bathroom.
Then came 11 February—the night I had to face reality: I was not fine.
At around 21:00, another alert. An Iskander-M ballistic missile was on its way to Kryvyi Rih, but we got the warning too. Logically, I knew it wasn’t coming for us. But there I was, just like my six-year-old self—backpack packed, dressed in “day clothes”, boots on indoors (a big no-no in Eastern Europe, but “I had to be ready”), eyes glued to Telegram channels, waiting.
When Halyna came home from her job at Metanoia Ukraine, I broke down crying and told her everything. Ever the pragmatist, she simply asked, ‘How do we make you feel safe again?’
We came up with strategies. They work—most of the time. But even now, safely back in South Africa, there are moments.
Moments where the hum of a fridge sounds a little too much like a siren in the distance. Moments where an Instagram reel plays, and actual sirens blare. Moments when the rumbling of a highveld thunderstorm reminds me of the sound missiles make when they hit. Moments that remind me I’ll never be untouched by what I experienced in such a short time in Ukraine.
And if this short time has left its mark on me, I can’t begin to imagine how deeply fractured the psyche of Ukrainians—especially Ukrainian children—must be.
And yet, my time in Ukraine has taught me one thing: despite all the pain, I know Ukraine will overcome this. The strength and resilience of its people, their unwavering determination to rebuild and heal, will carry them through—even in the darkest times.