Omlouvám se, matko. So sorry. I made you a promise, to keep this farm safe, and I am failing. I was so sure of myself when I started, that this would be a simple life. A few planks and nails to make the place secure, then live out my days tending to the animals and crops in peace. These thieving kurvas are determined to not let that be.
I found someone. Some people. Not these damn militia opportunists looking for the next place to put a bullet, but people like me. Just trying to exist. I spoke on the radio with a man who still had some warmth in his voice, took a risk and met him. So far this risk has payed off. I've spent a long time alone, and now I find myself struggling to say a few words. It is amazing how even such a natural skill becomes rusty when it has not been used in so long.
They are mainly foreigners, but nice people. They are humble. There is a girl with a book of poems, sometimes she reads one aloud. I have not felt comfort like it since you read to me as a child, mama. There is one Chernarussian, a man named Boris. He reminds me of my friends when I was a boy, and I am still deciding on if that is good or bad. In times like these, I am just glad he is on our side.
Today, I am packing up what little I have and making the journey to their camp. The distance is not too far, I will still be able to keep an eye on the farm and give my respects to you and táta. I promise that one day I will return.