A series of articles by instructors of the Ukrainian Federation of Yoga, created at the request of The European Union Of Yoga: about personal experience of using yoga methods and knowledge during the war.
Telling this story gets a bit easier each time. The raw emotions have settled, leaving behind lessons I’ve processed, a conscious awareness of new-found skills, and reflections on the mistakes I made back then. I understand now that this experience has become the backbone of my growth. Here I am, living in another country, without the option to return, yet fortified by what I have endured.
I have learned what it truly means to control my emotions – and what happens when others fail to do so. I have realised the profound importance of being focused, fully present, and taking responsibility for my loved ones and those around me. Before, I didn’t always trust my intuition, often double-checking or waiting for clearer signs. The war changed that, teaching me to listen to myself, to rely on instinct and gut feelings. I discovered the strength of people willing to help when you ask, at every moment, no matter where I chose to go. Sometimes, help came in wordless ways, indescribable yet deeply felt – more than just physical gestures.
What gave me the strength to escape were my dreams, the desires that filled and propelled me forward. Knowing how much more there was to explore, learn, and see gave me confidence that I would make it through.
Not a single day went by without my yoga practice. Breathwork allowed me to control my emotional states, to keep my composure, and feel whole. Prāṇāyāma warmed my body when there was no other way to do so. Immobilised by fear and tension, my body felt locked like stone, but I would immerse myself in āsanas to return to myself. This grounded me, deepened my reflections on the unfolding events, and made it easier to plan and make crucial decisions.
People are made of fragments of the teachings and love others have given them. I felt this most acutely when I was there, unable to seek advice or talk to anyone. Memories flooded back: every yoga lesson, every piece of wisdom from my teachers, each experience my loved ones shared. Even in near-sleepless nights, I felt their support, though more as dreams than reality. In those moments, hovering between sleep and waking, I sensed the wishes of my family, their hope that I would get out alive. I’m grateful to my teachers, both conscious and unconscious, for their guidance.
From February 24th to March 15th, we were surviving in Mariupol.
A week before the war began, I was already prepared to leave, my suitcase packed and waiting. Five minutes before the first explosions in the city, an inexplicable feeling woke me. The blasts hadn’t reached Mariupol yet, but the trembling of buildings was undeniable. I wasn’t afraid; something in me already knew, and I quickly reached out to my loved ones. Then came the hard part: persuading my family to leave. They didn’t want to abandon our home, and I couldn’t abandon them, knowing they wouldn’t make it without me. From February 24th to March 4th, we stayed in our apartment with my parents and my son. We had food supplies I’d prepared, but I hadn’t foreseen that we’d be left without electricity, gas, or water.
Every critical decision came after a sleepless night of calculating every detail, meditating, and envisioning possible outcomes. I knew how essential it was to have multiple plans in my head, leaning on past experiences to guide me. The decision to risk leaving under shelling came when I saw a shell fly past our building. Time froze. In a split second, I pulled my son from the room and pushed my mother out. The following three hours were a relentless barrage: shattering windows, the whistling of missiles, the smell of burning, and the ground shaking with each hit. That night, airstrikes began. It’s a terrifying feeling, waiting and not knowing where the next bomb will fall.
That was our first step toward leaving.
We packed what was essential and prepared to leave, only to find the city in lockdown. We sought shelter at the yoga studio where I taught classes, a warm, semi-basement space. But upon arrival, I realised it had been broken into. Over 100 people were already there: frightened, broken, and desperate. There were no supplies left and barely any space. Yet when I explained who I was, people started helping, clearing a small area for us and sharing what little they could. We stayed there for ten days. More and more people arrived until every changing room, shower, corridor, and corner was packed. We cooked over an open fire, learned to anticipate the pattern of the shelling, and listened to the distinctive sounds of different projectiles. Cut off from the world, we’d stop runners on the street to glean bits of news, trying to make sense of what was happening around us.
We were lucky. Snow fell frequently, providing water when we gathered it. Food was scarce, so we had to find ways to scavenge. We picked through rubble under constant fire, searching for anything to sustain us until we could escape.
Each morning revealed new horrors: more burnt-out buildings, more corpses left unclaimed on the streets, hospitals closed, no communication. Strangely, it didn’t evoke fear or grief in me. I knew I couldn’t afford to feel anything or I’d lose the strength to protect my family. I never told them what I saw, shielding them from the horror that surrounded us.
The next push to leave came from friends who told me about a convoy of cars that had made it out. We decided to join it the next morning. When I told my family, I saw the terror in their eyes; there was no lull in the bombing, everything was burning, exploding. But I didn’t beg them; I knew this choice was mine alone to make.
That night, the bombardment continued without pause. At 6 a.m., I checked our car, only to find a shell had exploded three metres away, destroying it: shattered windows, a shredded tyre, electronics fried. I felt helpless. For hours, I was paralysed. Maybe even this surrender was necessary, a moment to regain perspective, to remember I was more than the circumstances crushing me.
Five hours of desperate repairs later, we were ready: six people and two cats, packed into the car, joining a convoy under the roar of planes and explosions. We could only replace one tyre, and soon enough, we hit another shell fragment, causing a slow puncture. We crawled forward, stopping every five kilometres to inflate it. Even so, we kept moving, inching closer to safety.
Outside Mariupol, it felt a bit safer, though we still had 90 kilometres to go. At one stop, another driver asked if I knew the way. I said I did, but slowly, given our condition. Unexpectedly, he offered us his spare tyre and suggested my son and mother join them, providing warmth and comfort we desperately needed. The relief I felt knowing they were safe renewed my will to press on.
I can’t recount everything that happened. Some stories are better left untold. But what matters most is this: people can do incredible things when they truly want to survive. And it was yoga, my daily practice, that grounded me and gave me clarity to make life-saving decisions. I also realised how many people are ready to help. You receive support when you commit fully to your purpose, and ours was to survive and bring our loved ones to safety.
War is about life and death.
By Elaine Nadiv, Yoga Teacher and photographer (Ukrainian Federation of Yoga, Yogis Without Borders)