A Home Under Siege

 

Imagine waking in the dead of night to the deafening crash of your front door being kicked in. A familiar nightmare unfolds - the violent neighbour you’ve feared for years storms inside. He doesn’t knock. He doesn’t ask. He simply takes.

With rage in his eyes, he snarls that your home was always his, that you were never truly independent, that your very existence is an insult to his authority. This isn’t the first time. It never is.

For years, he has tormented you - stealing from your garden, cutting off your electricity, poisoning your well. He has hurled bricks through your windows and set fire to your shed. He has tried to force his way in before, and though you managed to push him out, he never truly left. He circled your home, muttering threats, waiting for the moment he could strike again.

And now, he’s back - stronger, bolder, more ruthless than ever.

This time, he doesn’t stop at looting. He drags your family from their beds, beats them, ties them up like animals. He executes those who resist, right there on your living room floor. He violates your loved ones, his cruelty leaving wounds that will never heal.

He torches rooms, smashes family portraits, erases memories of who you were before this nightmare began. And all the while, with blood on his hands and smoke rising around him, he sneers that this is an act of “liberation” - that this suffering is for your own good.

Some of your neighbours hear the screams and rush to your aid. They slip you weapons, bring you supplies, whisper words of encouragement. Others stand at a distance, murmuring their disapproval but doing nothing, afraid to get involved. A few even help the invader - whether out of fear, greed, or a twisted sense of loyalty to the past.

And yet, despite the horror, despite the pain, you fight back.

Wounded, grieving, but unbroken, you refuse to surrender. The invader expected to crush you in days, to take everything without a fight. But now, he finds himself trapped in a war of his own making - bleeding resources, losing control, growing desperate.

But the damage is done. Your home will never be the same. Your children will never unsee what they have seen. Even if you drive him out, the scars will remain - etched into your walls, your streets, your soul. The graves in your garden will never disappear.

And worst of all, deep down, you know this isn’t the end. Because he still lurks beyond the fence, still sharpening his knives, still believing that you belong to him.

This isn’t just a story. This is Ukraine. A home under siege. A nation fighting for survival. A people refusing to be erased.