I live in paradise far from this bitter cold war, I can choose to ride a bicycle when petrol is too high, I don’t need to know war to feel the pain of those facing it right now, writes Ruta Mave.

A family dies in the middle of the road.

The photo caption reads Russian mortar fire on Sunday killed a woman, her teenage son, her young daughter and a family friend as they tried to escape the fighting near Irpin. Two soldiers in fatigues squat next to the man, who still had a pulse, but later dies. Another stands holding a cloth bag with their identification, a civilian hurriedly steps over the son lying on his side, their carry-on bag with wheels rests along the curbside. They’re bundled up in warm puffer jackets the young girl’s hood is faux fur lined, her head nuzzles into the back of the friend. He’s young but old enough to burden the weight of responsibility to look after and protect the mother, sister 9 and brother 18 who wishes his dad was there.

I have a boy that age, I can see him wanting to be part of the call up rising up to protect. I can imagine his need for fight or flight – “We have to do something Ma – we can’t stay here in the basement, the bombs would hit us, again, we should follow him.” She would be fearful, she will be asking God why? – what has she done to deserve this? She wants so much to give her children a safe passage, but she is scared to her bones, she knows in her gut stay or go could mean life or death. The young girl holds her brother’s hand, she has her new backpack and pens from her birthday she wants to be an artist, scared, she whispers “Don’t leave me behind”. For so long he’d cursed having a younger sister, getting in the way of his football practice with his mates, he was the best striker on the team. He hugs her close “I’ll never leave you – Ma let’s go before we are buried alive.” They hug all together, kiss cheeks, say I love you, then run outside.

Kilometres away a young Russian conscript loads another shell to the order of his command. He has no idea why he’s there, he was finishing school and looking forward to his job to become a mechanic, he likes fixing cars he was quite good at it. He couldn’t see the village in the distance the area looked a little like near his own hometown. He missed his family knew his mother would be worrying. His friends had also been made to sign into the army he wondered where they were. Another call to load, another instruction to adjust the angle, he follows blindly drops the metal projectile in the tube, he remembers how exciting and fondly he did so on his computer games, but now in this cold harsh reality with hunger biting at his gut the whistling sound as it flew up over the houses beyond, grabbed at his heart, he blocks the thoughts of what will be happening, he couldn’t comprehend what was happening himself, he wants to go home, go to work and continue his football training, he had dreams to be a goalie.

The family leave in the breath of silence from the recalibration they put distance between the last blast, they are clear to the square heading to safety, the friend leads, holding the sister’s hand, the mother watches her son urges her along, the whistle goes over them lands 50 metres in front of them. The blast sends shrapnel flying taking out windows, roofing, pitting holes in solid walls – the family group falls not knowing what hit them, literally.

Is it better this way? Did God look after them or did he fail them? Taking them all together so they will always be so, not to suffer the pain of serious injuries, not to all die and leave the young girl alone?

Who can say what is better or worse, but what I can say is I have a son and daughter I can see this play in my mind with my own, but thankfully I live in paradise far from this bitter cold war, I can choose to ride a bicycle when petrol is too high, I don’t need to know war to feel the pain of those facing it right now.

The pictures in social media are supposed to incite sympathy, but do they? Are we so used to movies, video games, TV programmes that we are immune to knowing real from special effects, we don’t feel anyone else’s pain but our own small pricks in our feathered nest? The news photo is how the father found out.

War is a place where young people who don’t know each other and don’t hate each other kill each other, by the decisions of old people who know each other and hate each other, but don’t kill each other – Erich Hartman