Lessons in warmth and humanity

If there is one thing that sums up my time in Ukraine, I think it is this. It would be hard to go there and not leave with a sense that here are people who manage to keep showing up, even under the most trying conditions. And not just showing up, but holding on to the warmth and colour and spirit that makes us human. At the Goncharenko Centre, a hub for weaving camouflage nets, I also saw all manner of craft classes taking place – from the creation of Christmas decorations and bracelets, to colourful toys and ornaments. On the weekends there were language classes – I participated in the English sessions, but there were other languages on offer too. During the time I spent with the organisation “Food for Life”, I helped cook vegetarian meals – these were prepared from scratch every morning, ready for distribution to those in need by lunchtime. Many people came to volunteer in the kitchen – young and old, Ukrainian and foreign, men and women; religious and atheist.

When I thought about the volunteering itself, it occurred to me that it was not just about giving to others, but also about the connection and spirit it fostered, and the sense of happiness and warmth it gave. As a foreigner, I feel it is a privilege to have the time and opportunity to do it – not everyone is in a position to do so. Those three months felt meaningful, more meaningful than a lot of other things I’ve done. For some Ukrainians I talked to, it is a necessity – something that simply has to be done. Yet I felt that the people I met were also happy to be there – the sense of spirit and community was strong. Sometimes, when I got on a bus or walked down a street, I wondered how many people were involved in something like this. I really had no idea. There were times in public places when I was struck by a sense of people being worn out, and of life being bleak and grey.

The boy on the bus

One of the main methods of public transport in Ukrainian cities is the humble маршрутка (marshrutka) or share taxi. Marshrutkas are typically a small yellow bus, although they also come in other colours, that travel a fixed route and charge a fixed fare. To me, they are closer to a bus than a taxi in both appearance and function. The marshrutkas are typically well utilised, and it is not uncommon for there to be standing room only. It was on one of these marshrutka journeys that I found myself standing next to a boy who I judged to be about fourteen or fifteen. He had a camouflage-coloured hat suspended from its string around his neck. On his lap he held a bag with various sewn on patches – some kind of skull, a fighter jet, and other military themed things I couldn’t work out. He looked glumly out of the window. If he was about 14 or 15, he would have been 10 or 11 when the war started, which meant that he was coming of age in a country at war. I considered that if I saw the same boy on a bus in Western Europe, I would probably feel some concern about his apparent interests, and whether he was OK. And yet in this context, he seemed almost unremarkable. He had every reason to be glum. Maybe he would sign up for the military as soon as he was old enough – if the patches on his bag were anything to go by, it would seem likely. Although he might be exactly the kind of boy the country wanted, I felt a heaviness on his behalf.

The old lady on the corner; the old man at the intersection

I was shocked, on a cold dark night, to find an old lady selling items on the street not far from my lodgings. She sat half-asleep amongst a collection of old soft toys, hats, a bedroll and various household items. As soon as she noticed me her face lit up in a bright smile. Yes, she was OK. She had an apartment not far away, just around the corner a bit, she said. It was on the spacious side, the pension was small, and the heating bills were higher in a bigger place. She was doing what she could, she said. I saw the man at the intersection more than once. He too looked cheerful, and exceedingly grateful to receive what small change I had in my pocket. I was told elderly people can get a heating allowance, but still there were these cases of hardship. With all the funds going to various initiatives, I wondered if this was a demographic that was being overlooked. Yet the people themselves might well say that sitting on a cold street corner for a few hours was simply their contribution to the war effort.

Dinner in the dark

The frequent power cuts didn’t bother me so much, as did the reason for them. There is something uniquely depressing about sitting in a dark flat, eating cold food, because someone has deliberately struck and destroyed parts of the power supply — again. I could say I come from a background of making do. The power cuts and occasional lack of water were not unlike the days when I tried to run my life off two small solar panels in a grey Winter, and a 1000 litre water tank in a dry Summer. But the reasons for it were much different. My camping lifestyle was at least to some extent self-chosen. This was externally imposed. And I was aware that it would be much different if I had young children to take care of, for example. As it was, dinner by candlelight became something of a regular thing and I rather enjoyed it.

A couple of times the power cuts lasted for a few consecutive days. At one point I noticed the milk had gone off — the fridge was at room temperature by then. Having disposed of it, I unthinkingly picked up another bottle the next day, only to arrive home and remember –that’s right, no power! Then it occurred to me that I could put the milk on the windowsill outside, and that it would keep very cool out there. It was a bit precarious, and I considered that if there were a gust of wind or a heavy blast during the night, then the milk would end up in the neighbour’s courtyard below. They might get a fright. No, the neighbours round here were used to more than flying milk bottles. In fact, a flying milk bottle might actually be a welcome change. The windowsill fridge was a winner.

The man under the tree

The two occasions on which I have had dealings with the emergency services in Ukraine had nothing to do with war — at least not in any direct sense. They were both cases where alcohol was very likely, or almost certainly, involved. And now, as I walked towards the bus stop at the end of my time in Ukraine, I came across a man slumped beside a tree in the middle of a pedestrian area. My first thought was that he was probably drunk and sleeping it off. It was a rather unfortunate and uncomfortable-looking sleeping spot, but what to do? There was not really much that one could do, at least not in the space of a few minutes as a passer-by on the street. I also had the same thought I had had before – that calling the emergency services would possibly mean taking them away from something vastly more urgent, to something which they too could do little about. There was the possibility that he had some medical condition that was not alcohol related, yet I had the judgemental thought that it probably was alcohol, and that in this case it was his own fault.

Normally, whether something was or wasn’t someone’s own fault wouldn’t really factor into my thinking. But in this context, it did. When missiles were flying about, and part of the population were away fighting and risking their lives at the front line, and other people were keeping busy with other necessary stuff, what right did anyone have to be lying around on the street being drunk? And what hope could they have of assistance? Still, it felt there should be something that could be done about it. This was the third incident of its kind that I’d come across. People passed by – it was likely a familiar scenario, acknowledged in a characteristically local way by flicking one’s neck a couple of times. At least I’d learnt that much. This was silent shorthand for “drunk”. I had already reached the conclusion there wasn’t much more I could do, and so I too carried on. As I said before, these incidents had nothing to do with the war. Or maybe they did.   

All men, please present your documents

The great manhunt. Now we were at the border, and every man on that bus had better have their reasons. This was a case of every man potentially being a Wanted Man. I felt a gnawing anxiety. Suppose there was a man on board that had just decided they needed a break? Or a man whose partner, and maybe his family, were elsewhere and he just wanted to go and visit, no questions asked? All the men on that bus would have to be too old, too young, too broken, in possession of too many children, or in possession of just the right document, or somehow else exempt from the need to potentially serve in the military. Unsurprisingly perhaps, it seemed that all the men on board fitted into one of these categories, and we could proceed to the next checkpoint.

I feel ‘The Wanted Man Policy’, as I’ll call it, is counter-productive. I considered some of the human rights implications of potentially being forced to go to war in a previous piece, and there are many. But this idea that men can’t leave the country unless they have been exempted or excused or given some kind of formal waiver, really doesn’t seem to have a lot going for it. For one thing, taking a break from a country at war seems a reasonable thing to do. And for another, I cannot see how shackling all fighting age men to the country at a time when the country itself is economically hobbled, makes much sense at all. If the men who have no intention of fighting could leave, then they could do what many women have done – pursue training and employment options elsewhere. This would mean they have skills that can be brought back to Ukraine, money that can be invested into Ukraine, and more hope for the future. A second reason against imposing this level of restriction is that any coercion of this kind risks destroying goodwill and breeding resentment. And so, after three months of warmth and hope despite ongoing drone attacks and regular power cuts, it was with an altogether different feeling that I crossed the border out of Ukraine.