Where war never seems to end – # 4
Memories from Ukraine
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 Kyiv 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 Kyiv 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.
Time to decide
War is an absurd state. How is it different from normal, everyday life? And how is it similar? What conditions does it create, and what does it leave unchanged? What normal things can endure the times of war? I wonder what is normal and what is an absurd attitude in such an impossible situation? Is there even a normal or healthy attitude toward war? Is it good to live your life as if everything is fine, or is it less bizarre to react in unexpected ways? What decisions are made during this time? Why do some people have to endure this, while others never face such conditions? Why do some people fight, and others don’t? What questions are running through one’s mind, and how can you survive war mentally? Why is humour vitally important? In extreme conditions, the limits of human adaptability are revealed.
It’s time to say goodbye; everyone has made plans about where to go next. Those who did not want to, or were unable to leave the country after the war broke out had two options: either they tried to find long-term housing and livelihoods in the larger cities of the region, or they returned to their homes closer to the conflict zones, where fights were more frequent. Making a decision was not easy. For some families, the time eventually came to say goodbye to one another– although they tried to delay the separation for as long as possible. Half of them returned with their children to the interior parts of the country, while others chose Europe for the sake of the younger family members. Transcarpathia started to become less crowded. That was two years ago, and since then, there has never been another major wave of arrivals. Military conscription remained a daily issue. Yet by the summer, the front lines seemed to have become somewhat more stable, and many people felt that life in Kyiv, Odessa, and other larger cities was quite liveable, perhaps even calmer in the surrounding areas.
They knew what they were getting into and understood that there would be no more opportunities to move to the calm areas. So, when they returned to their homes, they had to adapt over time and cope with unpredictable situations. What is the psychology of war? Is it when nonsense becomes normal? Does a person toughen, or burn out? Or do people grow stronger, assuming that whatever the future brings must be easier than this? Should they deny reality or face it head-on? I noticed that people don’t delve very deeply; for them, this is not the time to search for the meaning of life. They rarely allow themselves the luxury of philosophising.
Artom was heading to Odessa, Larissa was already in the EU, and Dima was also packing; he wanted to go back to Kyiv, but Jura stayed behind. He decided that his daughter and wife should live in the isolated safety of a small Transcarpathian village rather than in Kharkiv, while his parents began their journey back there. I admired everyone’s courage. You see, they are not soldiers, they did not even undergo any kind of military training. These are simple people: musicians, mechanics, architects, electrical engineers, lawyers. We might think that they have more courage somehow, but that is not true. However, they didn’t fall apart; they were preparing quietly.
People were packing and preparing themselves mentally. These days were very touching, with the sincere thanks received by the local people in the villages, small regions, and small towns for their selfless help in the previous months – it was heartbreaking. I often saw that the refugees could not express in words or in gestures how grateful they were. For a couple of months, two nations, who were not traditionally close, understood each other. Of course, this is not a fairy tale, especially given the war. Sure, there were problems everywhere and with everything, but wherever I went during these times, I mostly experienced positive developments.
Artom’s father was already waiting for his son in Odessa, and his girlfriend also decided to go with him. She had returned from the west earlier to be with Artom. They lived with a local family for months, as if they were family members.
Jura and his small family moved into a small two-story house that was empty. They painted it, started gardening, and settled into a slower-paced life.
Dima said goodbye to the local sewing factory, stating he was only going up to Kyiv for a week to check out what happened to his house and belongings, to see the situation, but then he would return. Of course, it didn’t work out that way; Dima never came back. His boss fired him over the phone two weeks later as a mere formality. I could see that he was nervous about the long and unpredictable journey, but he didn’t say anything. That would have been my first trip to Kyiv, but I wasn’t ready to go with him yet. This was my fight.
The primary problem with going back was that no one wanted to receive conscription notes. But there was no guarantee that they could avoid getting them, so everyone just hoped for the best. Those who travelled by car had to drive through checkpoints, where it was likely that they had to identify themselves, and there was a good chance they could also receive conscript notes. These checkpoints could not be avoided on the 800-kilometre road to Kyiv. Another difficulty they had to face was the lack of fuel, so Dima set off with some cans. Those who travelled by train did not have an easy trip either, as draft officers liked to patrol on trains and train stations. In the past few months, these people had gone above and beyond to obtain some kind of document that could exempt them from the draft, but almost no one succeeded. Neither legally nor illegally.
I constantly asked everyone – locals, refugees – about what would happen if they received the conscription notice: would they go, stay, hide…? Dima always said that he didn’t want to die on the front (which seemed highly likely in the case of a fight), but he didn’t want to hide in his own country either. Jura was overcome by fear; he began to withdraw, eventually it was his wife who went shopping, alone. He sometimes ventured out into the back garden, but that was all. Artom is not particularly lion-hearted either, but he bravely set off for Odessa and the work that awaited him at the port. Locals said they didn’t want to fight and were fortunate that their villages were not in the war zone; but they could not leave their families behind. If the war were to spread to that point, they would take up arms. Several people pondered and told me how wise it was not to accept any awards at the end of their military service, as they would have been taken first.
The big day has come; the temporary refugee accommodations and the dining room were empty. It was summer. The war has clearly entered a new phase. Life returned to normal as much as possible, and the state of war began to feel normal. The situation reached a stage where people’s minds were no longer preoccupied with thoughts about when it would all end. They tried to concentrate on work and appreciate the joys of summer as much as possible. At first glance, it seemed that travelling to Kyiv, Odessa and other cities where there was no front line, was a good decision. The Kyiv Lake and certain parts of the southern region welcomed bathers. People calmed down, they even got used to periodic bombing. The first one is a shock to everyone, but the second and third are no longer as scary.
That was when the realisation hit me that anything can become “normal” over time. Once any situation gets constant, then it no longer feels extreme – until something even bigger pushes the limits…
…which happened soon after.
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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