When I read "Meduza," I feel that I am not alone. That chilling horror doesn't torment the soul as much. The horror that divorced alcoholics from the SVO daily harass any women in their sight, and the police, hearing who their "client" exactly is, simply do not come, even if they pose a danger to life. The horror that relatives consider an excellent topic for conversation discussing that queers and "khokhols" should be shot (not knowing that the target for a bullet is in their own home). The horror when on TikTok I come across the last messages of Ukrainian children who simply wanted to live, and I cannot support them, because any phrase from my lips would sound like hypocrisy. I am not a particularly brave person. I am one of those CIS children who were taught from childhood to be silent and to endure. But when I see that someone is speaking, a small hope blossoms inside. That it's not only me who sees that level of absurdity that makes one want to cry. Because the most important thing one can do now is to speak. Because there are those who need to hear. Because there are those for whom it is important to know that their opinion is shared, and that it is also being fought for.