Thursday 24 February 2022: War in Ukraine, day 1
Sirens
In the last few days I talked to many people in the streets of Kyiv. They were calm yet anxious, they were trying to believe in peace, though feared what could happen. But on this early Thursday morning their worst nightmares turned into a brutal reality, when the sounds of sirens warned them the war had come into their life. To wake up by the sounds of sirens, like I did, is an extremely scary and horrendous feeling, especially because I realize within minutes that the blasts I hear in the distance are those of bombs. The Russians are targeting the airport, as I find out almost instantly.
I know what to do, as my Ukrainian friends have told me to head to the nearest metro station for shelter. Deep underground I should be safe. Many of the metro stations in Kyiv were built during the Cold War period and were intended to be shelters where the local population could hide in case the Americans would attack. But I stay home, perhaps because I do not see any of my neighbours leaving their apartment, perhaps because I still cannot imagine the horror that will come.
An hour or two later the sirens warn us for another attack. Almost instantly I see neighbours, packed with suitcases and with pets in their hands, leaving their apartment. There is fear and panic in their eyes, as they realize their hopes for peace have been in vain. Strangely enough, I feel neither fear nor panic, on the contrary I am calm and repeatedly ask myself the question what to do. Leaving by car is not an option as I do not own one. Moreover, as I see on the TV, the roads around Kyiv are already totally congested. Online I check for bus and train tickets, only to find out that all seats are taken until Sunday. Therefore, I decide to stay and go to the nearby supermarket to stock up on food and water.
Bus station
But rumours about the approaching Russian army and a potential massive attack on Kyiv make me change my mind within hours. ‘Try to leave before it is too late, Kyiv is their primary target’, are also the words of advice I hear from those I know in Kyiv. So I pack my stuff and leave for the bus station, only to be confronted with massive crowds, who are all eager to leave the city. Poland is their favourite, but also destinations anywhere else in Ukraine are desired for. ‘Everywhere is better than Kyiv’, says one guy who is aiming for Poland. ‘I have a friend where I can stay’, says another one, who is heading for a village a few hundred kilometres away. We wait for hours and hours, only to find out that the busses only sporadically arrive. Every time a bus shows up, hundreds of us try to get in. Some have tickets, which they anxiously show to the driver. Most simply showed up hoping they will get away. Children are crying, mothers are desperately trying to find a way to leave, but for the vast majority there is no place, no chance to escape. After four hours of waiting I give up, tired of trying to get into a bus, impressed by the fear I saw around me and stressed because of what the night could bring.
Underground
Back home I eat and drink, better not to be hungry when there is a chance I will end up in a shelter for hours or days, I think, and prepare a small bag in case the sirens will wail again. Rumours about the approaching Russian army and a scary night to come, make me decide to sleep early. To my own surprise I manage, only to wake up by a phone call at two in the night. ‘Head for the shelter, the Russians are attacking’, I hear the voice of a friend. Within minutes I leave the house and rush towards the metro station. A couple of hundred people are already there. Some of them sleeping on mattrasses and well equipped with blankets and suitcases full of whatever they thought is needed here. Most of them sitting on a simple piece of cardboard or on a camping chair. They are all silent and do not show any emotion; except for emptiness on their faces. Perhaps this is one of the standard reflexes of a human being when confronted with absolute fear? You keep it to yourself and do not bother your neighbours, as you know they are struggling with their own?
A night deep underground, without knowing what is happening in the streets above, except for the fear that the enemy is coming closer and closer, is scary. Though I am safe here from their bombs and missiles, I have no idea what I will encounter the moment I will return to the surface.
Friday 25 February 2022: War in Ukraine, day 2
Early morning
It is a night without much sleep, perhaps I dozed off for an hour, perhaps for thirty minutes, for the rest of the time I just sat and waited for the morning to come. Most people around me spent the night in an identical way, only the ones who came fully prepared seemed able to catch some real sleep on their semi-comfortable matrasses. I do not really know what to do. For sure I cannot stay here much longer, the coldness of the stony metro floor has eaten his way into my body and my food supply is certainly not sufficient for another day and night in the shelter. There are two voices in my head arguing fiercely with each other. ‘It must be safe up there, as not many people have come to the shelter after you, it is time to find out what is going on in the streets’, I hear the first one. ‘It is not yet six o’clock, still dark outside and the curfew is lasting until seven’, the second.
But when the escalator starts to work, the sign that a new day has begun and the first metro will arrive soon, I get up and head for the exit. I am not alone, there are a dozen or so people more, most of them with dogs, who are also leaving. Would it be possible, I wonder while going up the escalator, that the buildings around have been bombed and Russian tanks are driving in the street?
Once outside, but still in an underground passage leading to the street, I am met with complete silence. All the shops, which normally open their doors before dawn to serve the first commuters a coffee or a sandwich, are closed with their iron shutters down. There is only activity at the flower shop, where two women are busy throwing the displayed flowers on a bunch. They know that nobody will buy them today or in the coming days, their business is ruined. When I get to the street a minute later, I see to my relief neither destruction nor the enemy, instead there is utter silence: no cars, no people, no nothing. Kyiv, a city with three million inhabitants, has turned into a ghost town.
Shower, food and sleep, but first and foremost I need to find out what exactly happened last night. Where are they? Already in the city centre? What was bombed? What was destroyed? It is horror that I read and see. Russian rockets stroke on Kyiv, Russian tanks are standing near the ring road in Kharkiv, fighting is raging at an airfield just a few miles outside Kyiv. But between all the evil I also read about the spirit of the Ukrainian people and their absolute termination to stop the enemy; they will defend their country with everything they have.
Midday
The view from my window is limited to a courtyard and a parking lot, surrounded by dozens of apartment blocks. Yesterday and the days before, the benches in front of the entrances of these apartments were occupied with youngsters smoking and with warmly dressed elderly talking. But they have disappeared. The sound of silence is only disrupted by the pigeons that are flying from a balcony to a rooftop and back. Knowing that the centre has not been attacked or occupied I decide to go for a walk, reckoning the chance of an escalation is limited at this moment. I go into the direction of Kreshchatyk, the main thoroughfare and a popular shopping street in the centre of Kyiv. At any given moment of the day this street bursts with life, with cars speeding from one traffic light to another and people flocking into shops and restaurants. But today there is no activity, except for a sporadic car, a homeless woman who asks me for money and four heavily armed soldiers who jump into a car and drive away rapidly. For the rest there is nothing; the shops are closed, ATM’s, before which I saw long queues yesterday, are deserted. Even the supermarkets have closed their doors. Perhaps this silence is even scarier than the wailing sirens and the bombs hitting their targets in the distance. I continue along Kreshchatyk towards Maidan, Independence Square, the place where back in 2013 and 2014 the Ukrainians protested against the government’s decision to suspend the signing of the European Union – Ukraine Association Agreement, which culminated in the ousting of the elected president Yanukovych, only eight years and two days ago. Except for a few reporters, who are taking pictures of the deserted square, emptiness prevails here as well.
But the reality elsewhere in the city is harsh. ‘They are fighting in my neighbourhood’ a friend, who lives in Obolon in the outskirts of Kyiv informs me by phone, ‘we have left for the shelter’. Immediately followed by a call of another friend, who tells me the same. ‘Get away from here, before it is too late’, she adds.
Late afternoon
All afternoon I think, talk, listen and discuss. What to do? The information and advices I receive are so contradictory. ‘Stay in Kyiv, there is heavy fighting going on everywhere around the city’. ‘Leave now, before the Russians will be here.’ Try to find somebody with a car, who can drive you out of town.’ Head for the railway station and try to board a train to the west.’ It is an impossible choice to make, as I do not have any idea who is right or well-informed and who is not. I just have to listen to my own gut feeling. Other thoughts are mixing up with the above. Does fleeing make me a coward? Must I stay and do something for Ukraine and Kyiv? If I stay, what can I do? If I leave, what can I do once I am back home?
Better to stay, I decide, and wait for Sunday when I have a ticket for an early morning train. Until then I can, if needed, hide in the shelter. But again I change my mind, when I hear the news that many people are trying to board trains out of the city without having a ticket. ‘Get the hell out of here, it will be a massacre’, yet another friend warns me. It is the final drop, within minutes I leave my apartment, rush to the metro which is still running, and arrive at the railway station less than thirty minutes later.
Utter chaos and total disarray; there are thousands of people at the station and on the platforms, but only two trains. I have no idea which of the two to take and randomly choose the one on platform two. Destination Solotvyno I read on the signs, unfortunately it does not ring a bell, though based on the crowds that are impatiently waiting for the closed doors, it must be a safe place. Still, I decide to consult Google before attempting to embark. Solotvyno, I read, is a small city on the right bank of the Tisza River across from the Romanian city of Sighetu Marmaţiei. That is the place, there I will go, I instantly make up my mind. No chance though, I think, that I will succeed in entering this train, there are way too many people. But hardly have the doors opened or, thanks to those behind me, I stand almost right in front of a door. The conductor, whose task it is to check tickets and passports, is brutally pushed aside and threatens to be overrun by the crowd. He is rescued by two armed policemen, who somehow manage to control us. ‘Women and children first’, one of them shouts, ‘no man is allowed into the train.’ Somehow I manage to step aside and obey the order of the policeman. For minutes I struggle to keep my balance and not to fall, until one of the policeman says to me in English: ‘You, go.’
I am in! Lord Jesus I am in! But there is no real happiness, as there can be no real happiness in a situation like this. Those who entered first and already installed themselves on benches stare into nowhere, others organize themselves in silence. A woman invites me to sit with them. Gratefully, I accept her offer and position myself in the tiny space that is left. I am the tenth person to sit on the two opposite benches that normally offer place for four.
Sirens, explosions, silence; the three ugly symbols of war that I faced so far, are beaten by a fourth: refugees. I am surrounded by people, who left everything they own behind and escape to safety with nothing but a suitcase. ‘We will try to enter Poland, because my sister lives there’, a mother with a young child tells me. A lot of them, though, do not know where to go. ‘Probably to Poland, but I hear the queues at the border are very long, so maybe I will try Slovakia’, says a woman who travels alone. A family, sitting on the opposite bench, is hesitating between Poland and Hungary, I learn from their discussion.
Saturday 26 February 2022: War in Ukraine, day 3
02h00
Day three starts the way, day two has ended. I am struggling to find a comfortable position in the overcrowded and hot train. Now and then I manage to fall asleep, but every few minutes or so I am woken up by a passenger, pushing my shoulder or leg, on his or her way to the toilet or the smoking area. Under normal circumstances it would have upset me, but now I accept these disruptions without even a sigh. How could I possibly care about such a minor disturbance? It is such a relief being on this train and having escaped the threatening ambiance of Kyiv. Of course there was no cheering or any other sign of public happiness, but I could feel the alleviation of my fellow passengers almost immediately after the train had left the railway station. Though all of us knew that a long journey through possibly dangerous territory was ahead of us, we all felt somehow that we had left the worst behind.
Perhaps I am a refugee myself? The thought wakes me up with a shock, though I instantly shake my head. Compared to these people around me, who are still contemplating about their destination, I am a privileged person. I will be warmly welcomed by family and friends, sleep on a comfortable bed in my mother’s place and do not leave anything behind except my footsteps. No, I am not a refugee. No, I am not even allowed to think that. Compared to them I am a lucky bastard.
Around two in the night the train is approaching Lviv, a city in western Ukraine approximately seventy kilometres from the border with Poland. For the first time since our departure from Kyiv, eight hours ago, there is nervousness, buzz and even excitement in the air. Everyone seems to be busy collecting stuff, waking up children, putting pets in travel boxes and getting dressed. Based on the activity around me, I presume around eighty percent of the passengers will leave the train. There will be a massive exodus in Lviv, which is probably logical knowing that approximately 1.5 million Ukrainians are already living in Poland. Moreover, since long many Ukrainian consider Poland to be the gateway to Europe. I wish them luck, courage and strength with the continuation of their journey, shake hands with the teenager who was sitting next to me most of the time and see them go. A long stream of people, who accomplished the first part of their journey to safety in the middle of the night. Women, children and a few men, who left their homes not knowing if and when they will be able to return. Suddenly there is space, I can even lay down on the bench and sleep. But in spite of my tiredness sleeping is difficult, as thoughts about them, myself, Kyiv, Ukraine, war and fear are circulating in a chaotic way in my head.
Afternoon
Though only around 300 kilometres south of Lviv it was another ten hours to Solotvyno, my destination at the Romanian border. We crawled along the Slovakian and Hungarian border, occasionally we moved with the speed of a pedestrian, there were moments we waited at a deserted station for fifteen minutes or more. The last two hours I was the only passenger left in the wagon, all others had disembarked somewhere near a border from where they would continue their journey. Half an hour before our arrival the caretaker of the carriage started to collect the garbage, fold blankets and clean the floor. ‘Are you going back to Kyiv?’, I had asked him. ‘Yes’ he had answered, ‘we will depart in the evening and return there tomorrow afternoon.’ For him there is no safety, he will come back to a city which is targeted with bombs and missiles.
Solotvyno is a small provincial town, and in spite of the fact this is still Ukraine the war seems to be far away. There are a lot of people in the streets, cars are driving around and shops are open. Not knowing where to go, the locals all helpfully guide me in the direction of the border, a fifteen minutes walk away. The line with cars waiting for the border is longer than my eyes can see, but there are no more than around 300 people who want to cross the border on foot. I join them silently and wait, just like they do. Soon I understand that my estimation to cross the border within an hour or so is too optimistic. The progress is slow, also because the soldiers in charge allow women with young children to go first. It does not matter, for sure I will make it today. For sure, I will be safe.
18h00
Three hours and thirty minutes I queued, and here I am in Romania. There are dozens of volunteers offering food, water, tea, coffee and Romanian sim cards, others offer transport to cities like Cluj-Napoca or Budapest. Instantly I am stuffed with sandwiches, bananas, cookies and water. ‘If you need more, let us know’, one of the volunteers tells me. ‘If I can do something else for you’, do not hesitate a second adds. ‘Let me help you to find transportation’, a third one offers. Within minutes she finds a young couple who is willing to take me to Cluj-Napoca, a three hour drive away. The brutality of war creates hospitality, kindness and care in people.
I am safe now, but in my heart is no happiness. I am in the Netherlands, but my thoughts are filled with sadness and distress. Every hour I receive horror stories from those I know in Ukraine. An apartment building was bombed in Zhytomyr, the city where I worked, killing innocent citizens including a child. In Tchernihiv, near the Belarussian border where I walked around less than a week ago, a similar catastrophe occurred. Dnipro, Kharkiv, Mariupol, everywhere the people of Ukraine are met with unthinkable aggression and atrocities. Friends in Kyiv, hiding in shelters or basements for several nights in a row, fear the moment the full-scale Russian attack will start. They beg me to convince those in power to close the airspace above Ukraine, to bomb this military convoy which is slowly approaching Kyiv, to inform the world about the horror they are facing. But their spirit is not broken, on the contrary, it is stronger than ever before. They will fight for their country. They will fight for their freedom. With them I shout: SLAVA UKRAINI!