"I don't have a choice," she tells me. "But we can't afford it anymore - we took loans, and used our emergency savings, but we can't afford it anymore."
There's a storm outside, but we both wear summer clothes. None of us thought about bringing winter clothes as we packed and left. We came from different places, in different times, and different circumstances. But right now, we are just women in an impossible situation.
"That Saturday we were home. They shot at the street next to us, and we heard that. The loud noises, the screams. I told my husband 'if we survive this, we leave the moment we can.' our friends' building got a direct hit by a missile."
She has a stroller, and her eldest run around in the hall, playing with other kids. She is nine, maybe ten, and her black curls jump behind her.
"She started wetting her bed again that night. A few weeks ago, when we went to get some clothes from home she started screaming. She kept asking, making sure we don't stay there for the night. When we entered the city she stopped. She was pale, and her eyes were wide. I hand her over a bag, but she just stopped reacting. She was mute the whole time we were there, only started to speak again at the evening."
She is scared and helpless, telling me as if I could help her.
I'm scared and helpless as well - we both live in places that aren't considered refugees, but get bombarded every day. I stay with family, sharing room with a refrigerator.
I can't help her.
But I listen to her as she tell me about her fears. As she try to figure out how to tell her kid they have to go back.
I can't give her solutions, but I can listen.
(I hope it helped.)
