In this text, the dispatcher recalls the most frightening moments she has experienced since 24 February 2022, which, however, did not affect her dedication to the profession she has chosen.

Below is direct speech.

“Hello, Olena! Why is there no power?”

I come from a family of energy workers. I was born in the city of Sievierodonetsk. My father worked as an engineer at a factory, after which he became the chief power engineer of an agricultural company. My mother was a high-voltage network engineer. That is why love for the energy sector, as it were, runs in my blood. After finishing high school, I studied at a vocational school and qualified as an electrician for the maintenance and repair of electrical equipment.

After that I got my first job at the Sievierodonetsk Azot Chemical Process Plant. Then I moved to the 110 Skloplastyka Substation. And after that I got a job at the Lysychansk Substation, where I was promoted from a worker to a dispatcher. Over more than 20 years of being in the industry, I even worked in Kyiv. However, I’m upset the most about my dear Lysychansk Substation, as I don’t know whether I’ll ever see it again.

My job is to practically constantly oversee the operation of substation equipment. If an emergency occurs, the dispatcher must deal with it as quickly as possible to make sure people have heat and power. In order for the equipment to operate continuously and smoothly, it must be repaired. And the task of a dispatcher is to ensure repair teams can access the equipment safely.

As soon as we lose power I hear: “Hello, Olena! Do you know why the power is out?"

And I say: “Yes, I know!”

“Well, when will we have power back?”

And I say that when the emergency situation is dealt with, the power will come back.

At the Lysychansk Substation

I was to go on shift on 24 February 2022. At 7 am, my boss called and said: “Don’t go to work. The war has started.” I said: “How so? We have our night shift there. I need to replace them.” And then an order was issued to replace the shift. From then on, we worked on a 24-hour on, 24-hour off basis. And only if our boss called and told us to.

Then massive shelling began, power lines were cut.

When they shelled the power lines and shattered them, power went out. And what is important to people? Light, warmth…

When the shelling subsided, we tried to switch lines as often as possible to supply power to consumers via backup lines. We ventured outside, minding our steps, because there could be mines on the ground. At work, I managed to hold on somehow, but at home, everything inside me got tight, and I couldn’t breathe. I lost seven kilograms over two weeks because of worrying.

I went to work with a backpack that had enough food to last me for two days, because I didn’t know how long I would have to stay there. I remember collecting power banks in a basement in which up to 200 people were hiding, and taking them with me to work so that I could charge them.

Soon after that, not only critical infrastructure, but also civilian infrastructure came under constant fire. My house was hit five times.

Shortly after that I left the city.

At the Donbas Substation

One day my boss called me and said: “They have vacancies at the 750 Donbas Substation. They are short-handed there. Would you like to work there?"

I accepted the offer almost immediately – yet I was tormented by a sense of guilt for leaving the Lysychansk Substation.

I arrived in early May and worked for almost a month. Over that short time, I learned to distinguish the various sounds of shelling: where it was coming from, and where it was going. I had already heard those sounds at home.