Diary of a volunteer: On the front line of war

A city at war

Thursday 13 June, 2024

I woke early. I always wake early. I didn’t want to disturb my bunkmates, all still snoring on various walls of the sleeper cabin. The only sliver of window I could see showed me blurred landscapes, unbelievably green and undeniably beautiful.

Before long, the sound of children’s feet pattering along the corridors outside the cabin leads me to believe that it is a decent enough time to emerge. I looked out the window, but there was no sign of war, of death, of destruction... just the steady clickety clack of the train on the lines. A one-year-old boy, no older than my own son, was running up and down the narrow corridor, bored, in search of mischief. We engage in a game of peek-a-boo and I give him the gifts I’d bought my daughter.

Kyiv was warm and sunny. Girls in sun dresses and men muttering into Bluetooth headsets rushed past us at the station. We emerged, bedraggled and exhausted, into the charge of a MOAS representative, ready and waiting with a smile and a handshake. As we drove to the location of our first meeting, I marvelled at the bustling hum of a city just living life. It was bizarre not to see any evidence at all of the devastation lurking a few hundred kilometres to the east. But then I saw the blockades, spiders made of hulking metal, designed to stop tanks from passing through, then the checkpoints and suddenly it made sense.

Lunch at the hotel was comforting and hearty – borsht, chicken kievs and strawberry dumplings. But it was the people who made it feel like home away from home. Faces matched to voices I’ve only heard as echoes through my computer speakers for over two years; men and women who bring form to the function of my endless administration. I shook the hands that save the lives. I felt proud and unworthy all at the same time. We were welcomed like brothers, embraced and absorbed - part of the team. It felt vindicating and humbling and I could see us all relax, breathing out a collective sigh.

Free time after the meeting led us to our hotel. An imposing Soviet giant, looming large over the centre of the city. The rooms are large and light, but the hotel is eerily quiet and signs at every corner direct you to the bunker. Reminders not to use the lift in case of an air raid, arrows taped on walls saying ‘shelter’ and a cheery sign at reception assuring us that the Wi-Fi in the underground sanctuaries is ‘second to none’, all lend a feeling of surrealism when compared to the tourist brochures and adverts for the Jellyfish museum that litter the lobby.

I felt a new person after a shower and a rest. It was time to head into the city. We visit our first memorial site. A small patch of green in the centre of the city where small flags have been planted into the ground, each marked with the name of a fallen soldier. Most flags are Ukrainian, a sea of yellow and blue so thick that the grass below is invisible. But there are others too - British, American, Irish, Brazilian, Australian - side by side with the clusters of flags from specific battalions and framed photos of countless men and women; too young, too tangible, too similar.

Next came St Michael’s square where we paused to rest under an oversized statue of Andrew the Apostle, now dressed in a bullet proof vest. Beside him is a graveyard of Russian military vehicles. Shelled tanks burned trucks and cars, barely recognisable. As I’m collecting myself, trying to fully comprehend the circumstances that led these skeletons of a fallen enemy to be displayed in this place, surrounded by tourists and acting as the backdrop of Instagram posts.

Once back in the hotel, I rewatch the videos of my children which I received from home today, and fall into bed.

I must remember to tell my daughter that the dandelions here are as big as tennis balls. That the paths of the parks are flanked with rose bushes, that I saw a woman and her son, elegantly dressed, walking two goats on leads through the middle of this metropolis. I must remember to tell her about these things because of all the things I cannot share with her. I could never explain how I found the dandelions growing up through the legs of the tank barricades, stacked up at the intersections like a morbid game of Jacks. Or that the rose paths led to a war memorial covered in photos of the dead, stretching far beyond the limits of the playpark. Or how the cleanly dressed woman was probably a refugee from the east, displaced to Kyiv with her son and her livestock. So, for my little daughter, I’ll just tell stories of the dandelions; the rest will stay with me.

I went to bed and fell asleep with the breeze coming in through the open windows. At 1:05am I woke up as the rustling of the breeze was replaced by the sound of the air raid sirens. Bleary-eyed I pulled on my MOAS hoodie, and made my way down the corridor. The hotel Tanoy was blasting instructions in Ukrainian.

Down in the bunker people settled in groups. An older woman with her small dog, two young men in crumpled shirts, single guests, or staff, sitting apart with a sense of fatigue. I expected the sirens to play continuously, hollering their warning until danger had passed. Instead, they played intermittently, like an alarm you put on snooze, making it impossible to tell when it was all over.

Our mission lead joined us. He was following the raid on an app on his phone. 10 aircraft headed for the west, the air base in Starokostiantyniv. He tracked them as he recounted the raids that had stayed with him since the start of the war - aircraft flying low to avoid detection by radar, passing over his house with the noise of a train, drones floating past his hotel window, firing at the skyline on the bank of the river, shells exploding, beautiful like fireworks, before a shock wave pushed him backwards to the ground. It’s 4:44am before he gives us the signal to head back to bed and the morning light is already streaming through the windows above ground level. We all disperse in silence.

Part 3 will be published next week