Where war never seems to end – # 3
Memories from Ukraine
(part three)
In February 2022, Russia declared war on Ukraine, turning a conflict that had been going on for almost ten years into a military operation affecting almost the entire territory of Ukraine. Although Kiev held its ground, many areas of Ukraine were occupied, and even today, two years later, there are active fights and bombings.
Huge numbers of people fled their homes and country to search for refuge or in the hope of a better life. The first waves of the refugee influx mainly affected surrounding countries, including Hungary. Over time, however, fewer and fewer people left Ukraine, even though the situation only eased in certain areas. Life in Ukraine is far from normal to this day.
This article describes the subjective experiences of a Hungarian girl who spent the last two years in Ukraine. In 2022, the author spent more than half a year in Transcarpathia to understand the situation of this region during the war, and then travelled to Kiev to document how life went on during the war and how this kind of life started to become the new norm. The following stories are true, but names have been changed. In the series of articles our goal is to gradually get closer to the war, all the while guided by the dialogue between the external observer and the reflections of an inner self. The photos taken on the spot are not only illustrations, but they also provide a structure to the aforementioned dialogue based on facts and personal experience.
Transition
In one village, there was an old woman who appeared to be at least 150 years old. She had never crossed the border of her own village, yet she had lived in five countries. I visited her once; she was taking a bath but was not embarrassed; she had been through it all and seen it all. I was a newbie. She had worked in the days of kolkhozes and told me about the bombings in Chop and the cavalry regiments. Her sons had served as soldiers ages ago. The world changed around her—she didn’t. Her pension is 2,000 hryvnias.
Another old woman travelled all the way to Siberia for her son, who was conscripted into the Soviet Union’s army. She set off in her spring coat—her nose froze on the way, but she brought her son home. There were Afghan veterans amongst the people as well and those who had served at Chernobyl. Wild stories were told about the military from remote regions of the Soviet Union. It’s fascinating how big of a difference a few kilometres would make—here and beyond the Soviet Union. If they had drawn that “line” just a little farther, Uncle János wouldn’t have gone to Vladivostok, Bandi to Kaliningrad, or Benő to Tashkent.
The old stories of the locals mixed with the new stories of the newcomers.
Dealing with unexpected situations is difficult, and war adds another level of complexity. People who would have never met otherwise because of the huge distance, suddenly find themselves crossing paths. Many had travelled for days. A local home guard told me that some people were too scared to get out of their cars in Transcarpathia, even to ask for water. Of course, they later realised that local people were not some kind of “Carpathian cannibals”. One Ukrainian man was quite surprised, he told me that on the day he arrived, he was provided with a place to sleep and food. He had nowhere to go and had only found out the previous day, while standing in line, that he could no longer leave the country. He was still a little bit suspicious when he mentioned that he did not know how long the accommodation would last, as it didn’t seem like anyone would benefit from providing for strangers… This man left the area 3 months later, during that time he was given room, board and even a job.
The school kitchen was in full operation seven days a week, preparing meals for the refugees in the early morning and for the children until noon. The chef had his first day off after 68 days. Night patrols became a regular occurrence, and since then, more than two years later, they have been working continuously without missing a single day. The number of children and young people decreased, everything revolved around the war, and both substantiated and unsubstantiated news continued to spread.
Within a few days, the villages were filled with men whose families had made through, but they couldn’t. These were the men who, in the early days, left their homes with their families, hoping to leave the country, but at the border, they made the decision to split the family in two.
They were alone, without a plan. The various languages spoken in the border region didn’t make things any easier for them, they had no idea what the next day would bring. Most of them said that crossing the border was their only goal — plan B simply didn’t exist.
In the last days of February, the settlements in the border area began to fill up, and the number of permanent residents multiplied. Then, in the following weeks, solutions that were initially temporary became permanent, and the waves of newcomers began to subside. The men became aware of their options. These weeks were spent making temporary arrangements – planning and waiting restlessly. The same thoughts rushed through their minds and conversations: What about the relatives who stayed behind? How long will this last? What will happen next? At that time, most people still believed that the situation would not last more than a few weeks- after all, that’s how it happened last time too.
I also met Dima here, who did not know what to make of the foreign flags. For a moment, he thought he had somehow managed to slip through the border. He also arrived late – two days ago. His wife and young daughter had already made it to Germany. After they said goodbye at the border, he got back in the car, overwhelmed with despair. A stranger told him that he would be accommodated somewhere nearby. The local ‘gibberish’ language was unfamiliar to him, but after the absurdity of the past few days, in his heightened state he figured he would deal with it after a good night’s sleep. He said that he has no plans at all, everything that follows is pure improvisation.
Larissa’s husband was drafted, her older son was somewhere in Crimea, she came with her two younger children. Her husband had been sent to the toughest front and an unbearable anxiety overcame her. At that time, she was the one who told me the most about the front, carefully protecting her husband’s exact location.
Jura came from Kharkiv. They travelled in a convoy with grandparents and acquaintances.
Artom had been hanging out with his friends in the Carpathians for the past few days when, one morning, the air-raid alarm sounded. Several of them headed east — some to fight, some hurried back home to protect their families.
It felt like a shared, collective experience; everyone was preoccupied with the same thing, without plans, and hoping for the same outcome. I was interested in the psychology of it all —how this kind of lifestyle changes over time and becomes completely normal.
Over time, most thoughts revolved around military conscription—specifically, how best to avoid it. There were days when many people took long walks in the woods and fields because of the news.
One day, there was no tip-off about the draft officers’ arrival, and they showed up at 10 o’clock in the morning. Dima and Jura left their room through the window and headed for the laundry room. 7 conscription notices were delivered to the house that day. If you receive one, you have to report sooner or later. There’s a good chance they’ll notice if you haven’t registered, even during a simple roadside check; and if you don’t do it then, there are no more warnings. Of course, some people have already received 10 or 15 notices.
There were more and more absurd stories about who got served with conscription papers and where – at a cafe, after getting a speeding ticket, in a supermarket…
People were just as busy getting information about and acquiring certificates that could exempt them from military service (such as being a university student, a father of three or a single father, having an illness or a physical handicap). Everyone was weighing their options and looking for loopholes.
Everyone was silently contemplating voluntary enlistment. Should they fight? Should they act? Should they wait it out?…
Unfortunately for them, Dima, Jura and Artom were perfectly suitable candidates. There was no way for them to avoid conscription. They were registered locally, just like everyone else in the region, and the notices arrived at the village hall one by one. For now, though, they could wait. In principle, only those who had previously served could be enlisted, and only for the position they held during training—if there aren’t enough people in that role at the front.
This temporary state lasted for months. Over time, many people left the country, mainly mothers who had been waiting, while others returned home after being somewhat convinced that the situation was relatively stable back there. Around May, a decision was made in one of the villages to evacuate the accommodation, and it was time for the refugees to either find new homes or return to their original ones.
Summer is approaching. Jura started gardening on a local farm, picking radishes at Uncle János’ place, as he said in broken Hungarian. Dima worked in the local sewing factory, as the only man. I visited him once: I will never forget the sight of him dancing to Abba with the women while sewing life jackets. Artom withdrew into himself. Larissa decided to leave the country. There was no point in waiting for her husband, she hardly ever hears from him. Two years have passed, and her husband has been through the toughest fronts. He is alive. Larissa’s little girl now speaks French quite well.
T.R.
This article was published as part of PERSPECTIVES – the new label for independent, constructive and multi-perspective journalism. PERSPECTIVES is co-financed by the EU and implemented by a transnational editorial network from Central-Eastern Europe under the leadership of Goethe-Institut. Find out more about PERSPECTIVES: goethe.de/perspectives_eu.
Co-funded by the European Union. Views and opinions expressed are, however, those of the author(s) only and do not necessarily reflect those of the European Union or the European Commission. Neither the European Union nor the granting authority can be held responsible.
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