At 9 a.m., marking the fourth anniversary of Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, all traffic stopped in Ternopil. People get out of their cars, bow their heads, and stand on the road to remember the dead.
Among the dead was the brother of the mechanic who repaired our truck in Lviv. His brother was wounded in Pokrovsk, returned to Lviv, and died in the hospital. After 12 years of war and four years of full-scale invasion, there is hardly a single family member who did not die.
This is my fourth visit to Ukraine since the start of the major war, and my second time as part of an aid delegation organized by the UK’s Ukraine Solidarity Campaign. So far I’ve visited Kiev, Kharkiv, and Idium, as well as a short stop in Lviv. This time we will go to two new cities: Pavlohrad and Krivy Riv. Before leaving, I told my friend that I was more nervous than before. He said: Because you know that Kharkov is dangerous.
Pavlo Frado
In Pavlovrad, men are ice fishing on a frozen river. We took the truck to the drop-off point and met Anatoly there. He showed me a photo of his house in Pokrovsk on his mobile phone, that is, what his house was. I have spoken to so many people who have lost their homes and stood outside the debris left behind by Russian drones, rockets, and missiles. A Saltivka woman took shelter in the basement when her apartment was destroyed. A woman in the village refused to talk to me, but then relented and showed off her garden, telling us that she was glad her husband was dead and that she didn’t have to see how the Russians destroyed her home.
I remember sitting in a destroyed apartment building on the outskirts of Izium, looking at the books still on the shelves and the TV still on the stand, and saying to a friend, “You make your house your home, make it what you want, and then they destroy it for free.” I had to hold back tears. In Pavlovrad, aid was delivered and we arrived at a stabilization center for internally displaced persons. Nothing prepared me for the scene that greeted us in the hallways of an old school filled with the horror and sadness of human suffering. It’s muggy. Moist with the breath and sweat of hundreds of desperate people, the air is thick with the smell of human bodies and despair.
Hundreds of people lined the walls, tightly clutching small bags containing the few belongings they could grab before being herded into cars and buses by volunteers and taken from their homes. One of the people waiting in the hallway is an old man with a gray mustache. He sits, staring at his hands folded in defeat. His gaze is fixed on his fingers. He is completely still, silent and alone.
The classroom adjacent to the hallway is now designated as the “living room” and is lined with a narrow camp bed and a few donated toys. There is a family inside. The face of a young man is so thin and haggard that only his cheekbones can be seen poking out from beneath his gray skin. A blond boy, his son too skinny, staggers around the room in search of his mother, grandmother, toys, etc., searching for something he recognizes as home.
And then there’s the old woman in her 80s or 90s, curly gray hair sticking out from under her scarf. Her brown eyes blink in fear and confusion as she presses her lips against her gums, as if trying to figure out where, how, and why she is. Her figure leans forward, her blue clothes hanging from her frail frame. She had never seen a life for herself outside the village. She expected to spend the rest of her days at home. Her home may be gone within days.
I wrote this in my notebook:
I saw her face for maybe 10 seconds. I’ll never forget it. They didn’t want to leave, and the whole place felt like despair, like defeat.
Our interpreter Katya says that one day, when the shelling was really bad, a neighbor came and said: “We have to go.” She packed her things but couldn’t get into the car until morning. This city is her home. She didn’t want to leave the house. So she stays. She is a teacher, a mother, and is determined for her children to learn English. When she says this to me I start crying. She says that as the war drags on, they have no joy and no longer want to sing or dance. They work and live.
We left Pavlohrad and headed elsewhere in the Dnipropetrovsk region, where we visited the site where 12 people, mostly miners, including a female garage worker, were killed as they got off work by bus. The walls are shattered, with holes in the debris here and there, leaving behind chunks of torn brick. More than a dozen people killed by Russian drones were commemorated with roses placed on the ground. we keep driving. This trip was the first time I wore a helmet and Kevlar vest. I’m so nervous to wear it that my hands are shaking. The minibus takes us to 100 km of drone tunnels installed in three weeks.
Later, in Kiev, a friend asked me what I thought about the drone tunnel. I explained that it was a mixed feeling. On the one hand, a sense of admiration for the innovation and how quickly it was built. On the other, it’s sheer horror because it shows how the front lines are changing, kill zones are expanding, and how vulnerable civilians are becoming to attacks.
Once our helmets and vests were returned, we visited the school and saw the basement where the children could study in the dark all day long. Although the rooms are painted with cheerful images such as emojis, flowers, and bees, it is impossible to ignore how difficult it would be for multiple classes to sit in a basement and concentrate on learning during an air raid. Since the beginning of the full-scale invasion, there have been 100 rocket attacks on Pavlovrad. When it comes to drone attacks, there are too many to list.
A group of teenage students, dressed in their best Vishvanka, greet us with poems. They stand very proud and determined. They are just like us, laughing and nervously speaking to us in English. The children are so brave that they remain in this frontline city and study English, IT, Science and Mathematics underground. They gave me a traditional Ukrainian doll. I will always remember how proudly they recited their poems.
Krivi Lee
A few hours before arriving in Quivii Oh, Russian drones attacked an industrial city. But it’s quiet when we’re there. Quiet and cold, down to -4℃. We visit the courthouse and see the damage caused by the missile attack. Fragments of sharp debris litter the ground. If you pick one up, it’s heavy, but if you drop it again, it will rattle against the sidewalk. We drive to the river where people are walking on the ice and a red tram crosses the bridge.
The power went out around 5pm and the hotel does not have a generator. You have to pry open the automatic door and find the room using your phone’s flashlight. In my room, I placed a glass over the flashlight to create a lantern effect. Power comes back on at 11pm, but goes out again in the evening. At 5 a.m., I wake up to the coldest cold I’ve ever experienced in my life. I’m so cold that I know I have to get out of bed to find more clothes, but it’s too cold to imagine getting out from under the thin blanket. How did people do this in much lower temperatures all winter long? I’m really lucky and I’m very cold.
In Kryvi Ri, the sun is out and melting the snow. The blue sky spreads over the greenery of the park, and flowers are blooming at the World War II Memorial. That afternoon, we visited an English school. This school is a small classroom where students of all ages can take additional English lessons. On the walls are posters of children sharing their dreams. That means peace, a peaceful sky, being able to go to school every day, and not having to study in a shelter. Children don’t tell us about the war, but posters give us an insight into how it affected their lives, hopes and dreams.
We make a list of questions that our kids, ages 7 to 14, ask us, and they fly around asking us about our hobbies, age, pets, siblings… Our youngest is a little girl named Mila. She wants to be an artist, she can do karate, she has a pet, a baby sister, and a father in front of her. Her grandmother told how Mila would cry every time he left the house.
Over borscht and Moldovan wine, hear from soldiers about how they fought alongside their sons in the Battle of Kherson. He tells how he and his fellow villagers defended their home from the Russians using every weapon and tool available. He went to give a toast, but then broke down in tears.
Kyiv
It’s 6:30 a.m. in Kyiv, and the city is waking up. Spring is almost here. The sky is bright blue and the snow is melting into large puddles. I see a woman wearing sunglasses happily looking up at the sun while waiting at a traffic light.
We will see St. Sophia’s Cathedral and then walk to St. Michael’s Cathedral. A bugler is playing the final post with drum accompaniment. The coffin, carried by men in military camouflage, moves slowly through an archway to a waiting car. A young woman follows the coffin, sobbing. An elderly woman wearing a black veil looks downcast with despair. We stand back, pay our respects, and remain silent in horror that this funeral is one of perhaps 55,000 soldiers in four years. Many of these soldiers are memorialized on Maidan Square. Every time I go to a memorial, the number of flags and photos grows, and it is almost impossible to realize the magnitude and horror of the loss.
Russia is using peace talks to demand that Ukraine hand over the remaining 20% of the Donbas region to Ukraine, which has unsuccessfully occupied the region with bombs, artillery and guns for 12 years. This region is often referred to as a “territory,” but it is a territory filled with people, homes, communities, lives, and dreams. Handing over “territory” would mean the displacement of hundreds or thousands more people, while those left behind are condemned to live under a brutal occupation, determined to wipe out Ukraine’s language and identity with brutal force.
For this reason, Ukraine must win. And we must also win for those who are sitting in the safety and comfort of Britain, Germany, France, Italy, Poland… Because, as the Kharkov police chief told me in September 2023, “If Ukraine does not win, the whole of Europe will burn down.”
This article was first published by Ukrainian Partner Journal. Kritika. French partner journal Esprit I have decided to translate this work and publish it in the July/August 2026 issue.Translation Relay project initiates further exchanges between Eurozine partners.
Source: Eurozine – www.eurozine.com
