#UkraineUnderFire: A war diary

A building in Mariupol destroyed by a Russian missile. Photo: Valentyna Klamenko

It was exhausting and stressful to prepare for something that you hope will not happen, something you do not know how it will look like, and how you can respond to it. It is like being stuck between hope, rationality, the wish to keep calm and anticipation of the worst.

Vostok SOS was founded in 2014 by “internally displaced persons” from Luhansk. The organisation immediately made a name for itself by providing humanitarian aid to other internally displaced persons and people in the warzone. The humanitarian team was one of the few that brought aid to the most remote places, even during the hot phase of fighting. Few know the Luhansk region better than they do. Most of the organisation’s employees have families on the other side of the front line. As a Libereco Partnership for Human Rights activist, I have worked closely with Vostok SOS since 2015. I have participated in numerous humanitarian transports myself. I have been stuck in the mud on a bus packed to the last millimetre with supplies, distributed washing powder and oatmeal, and listened to stories about how a bullet recently hit the village’s last cow. I experienced the daily warzone life with the Vostok SOS team for several hot Donbas summers. We provided aid during the wildfires, trained the police in stress resilience and many more adventures.

During these summers, I grew into the family of Vostok SOS. Since early 2021, I have been working full-time with them as an International Peace Worker on behalf of the German organisation for civic activism and peacebuilding Kurve Wustrow. Since then, my home has been Vostok SOS’s field office in Sievierodonetsk. The other field office is located in Mariupol, our main office is in Kyiv. While I am writing this, I am not in Ukraine anymore. Due to the impending threat of a Russian invasion, we peace workers are not allowed to be in the country anymore. So I am safe. But my team is not.

February 18th

It is Friday night, and I have just talked to Maksim on the phone. Together with his sister, he worked hard to convince his mother to leave Luhansk. Their efforts were successful, he sighs with relief. We discussed where his parents should be located in case of a Russian invasion. “My parents need to be together to feel safe,” he told me. “And I feel better when they are close, in case something happens to them.” This is true for most families in Donbas. Despite the looming threat, many find it difficult to leave the warzone because it means increased distance from family members. Since 2014 most of them have known the pain of separation and the feeling of guilt that often accompanies it.

As we continue talking about his parents, his body suddenly freezes. I ask him what is going on. Staring into the smoke he exhales, he recalls a situation from 2014 – an old couple that he could not evacuate from their home in eastern Ukraine. Every day we stumble upon such senses of déjà vu from 2014 and 2015. The triggers of old traumas lurk everywhere, so people are not only confronted with the current threat but additionally with the trauma of the past.

February 19th

This Saturday morning’s extraordinary meeting marks the beginning of Vostok SOS’s humanitarian crisis response. The discussion is focused. Most staff members have already mastered several crises and know how to set up support systems. We will add capacities to our hotlines and develop an online help request form. Some requests for help do not reach the organisation directly, but through third parties who often have incomplete information because the people concerned have no network or internet.  

Tasks are being distributed. Who will recruit volunteers? Who will create a list of people who can temporarily host refugees? Where will we send people in the first place? Which parts of Ukraine are most likely to be safe? Everyone signs up for responsibilities. My task will be the fundraising for our emergency response and the organisation of humanitarian aid supply. Even though the political situation is threatening, I feel relief knowing that Vostok SOS has begun unfolding its unbeatable skillset: sticking together in a crisis, joining forces and helping other people with professionalism and creativity.

Throughout the weekend, we are in contact with our colleagues in Sievierodonetsk. Right now, several staff members are documenting the situation on the front line, providing us with up-to-date photos, reports and needs assessments. Journalists come to the office, which resembles a media centre, to get first-hand information and conduct interviews. At the same time, we try to be in touch with our contacts in the warzone: civil society activists, teachers, medical personnel, and others. This direct line into the affected area helps us to understand the situation on the ground. More importantly, it maintains connectedness.

February 21st

The electricity plant in Shchastia has shut down after severe shelling. This event already exceeds our experiences of the hot combat phase from 2014/15. The power plant contributed significantly to stabilising the humanitarian situation during that time. The whole region depends on this plant. A couple of hours after the shutdown, my colleague talks to a local hospital. They no longer have electricity and are struggling to refrigerate medicine. Around 7300 households are already without power, not to mention infrastructure. This will make the humanitarian situation deteriorate swiftly, Maksim predicts. What is coming now, he suggests, will have a completely different quality than the war we know from the past seven years. His prophecy frightens me as he is usually correct with these things. Monday evening is full of phone calls and short messages on all channels. Putin gives a speech where he denies the legitimacy of Ukraine’s independence. Russia recognises the self-proclaimed “people’s republics of Luhansk and Donetsk”. Unsurprisingly, its first official act is to send in Russian “peacekeepers”.

February 22nd

This morning we tried to convince our colleagues from Sievierodonetsk to leave the East and come to Kyiv with their children. Responses are between hesitation and rejection: “At the first checkpoint, they will take my husband into the army” or “What about our parents?” The most frequent reply is “For now, we will observe the situation.” At first glance, that sounds calm and reasonable. But it means we are waiting for clarity, for a clear signal. However, we do not know what that signal would be. I am afraid that at some point, it will be too late, the roads will be clogged, the passage to the West will be much more dangerous.

February 24th

Russia has started a large-scale attack in the morning. Their forces have taken parts of Ukraine. No one knows where it will be safest. Evacuation is becoming difficult; roads are clogged. We are beginning to organise evacuations and help for refugees in Poland. Even though I am non-stop organising things, I feel helpless. No words left.

February 25th

Numerous Zoom meetings with Polish organisations. Polish civil society has mobilised insanely fast. People are driving to the border, collecting money, putting together information, showing an overwhelming readiness to help. However, coordination is still lacking. The meetings demand concentration and composure from everyone. Volunteers meet highly professionalised organisations, generations clash, different perceptions of work speed and speaking time become apparent. Some colleagues even address these issues with the gentle reminder that we have to work together now, even if it is chaotic, and if we might step on each other’s toes.

I can barely reach my Ukrainian team. Some members are sitting in a bomb shelter. Others are on the road, trying to evacuate, exposed to shelling. I am the only one who is safe. I need to take care of the things the others cannot right now. Represent the organisation, raise funds, make decisions. In between calls and interviews, I miss my colleagues so much and feel so alone that I cry. And then, I clean my glasses, take a sip of water, and move on to the next Zoom meeting.

February 26th

We made it into Time magazine! I am not too fond of fundraising, or of posting things on social media, I usually avoid journalists. I prefer working on the ground. With people. Help them overcoming trauma. See them gaining resilience. That is what I love. But now, as I see that more and more people care, as I see that the world cares about Ukraine, I am really touched. @AOC mentioned us on Instagram. Various bands promote us, and even a football club. And now Time magazine. Unbelievable.

February 27th

I talked to Maksim on the phone. He had not slept, I think the last time he slept for more than two hours was three days ago. Dok, he says to me, it can’t be real all that has happened in the past 48 hours. Indeed, it is hard to believe what he has managed to do during that time. Organising, deciding, creating safety, leaving his home for an uncertain time. Maksim evacuated 13 people out of Kyiv during several trips. On the penultimate trip, just as he was heading into the city, he recorded three voice messages for me:

1) “Dok, when we meet again, we’ll write a book. We need to write about everything we have done here, today, yesterday, the past year.”

2) “If ten years pass without our reunion, then you may write the book alone.”

3) “And just to make sure, I want to be played by Brad Pitt.”

I replied that I would never let anyone else play him.

March 1st

In the past year, I have spent a lot of time in the city of Shchastia, a name that translates as “happiness”. Now, 80 per cent of Shchastia is destroyed. Recently, we have worked there with a group of civil society activists. At our last meeting, we developed ideas for local development by drawing symbolic maps of an ideal urban civil society. First, each one focused on his or her own vision, then we made a shared map, which became colourful and crazy. While driving back to Sievierodonetsk, Maksim and I rejoiced: so many ideas had emerged during the mapping process, so much content we can build upon in the coming weeks. That is what we thought. Now it is all in ruins. Someone posted a list of survivors on Facebook. Dead people without papers are buried anonymously. When I read that, my mind recalls driving through the streets of Shchastia towards our training place. In the summer, I recognised the driveway to the old factory that hosted our meetings by the colossal flower bed on the corner. The last time I was there, it was snowing. After the training, we said goodbye in the light of the dim outdoor lamp that made the thick snowflakes look like a romantic movie animation. Now I do not know who from our training participants is still alive.

March 2nd

The polyclinic in Tryokhizbenka, our first partner project in Ukraine, was razed to the ground. The clinic’s catchment area is a significant bit of frontline territory. Lilya, who runs the clinic, is the medical authority of this area and a legend. Her way of speaking to people, solving problems, reassuring without patronising, impresses me deeply. Lilya and I met in 2016 and instantly fell in love with each other. Since then, we have seen each other whenever we could. In the past year, me and Maksim tried to stop by regularly, at least for a quick lunch. If we failed to visit them for a fortnight, it was not unlikely that Lilya and her husband Vovo would turn up at our door on early Saturday, catching us still in pyjamas. They claimed they had errands to run in Sievierodonetsk and wanted to provide us with home-grown vegetables and eggs on the way. And they happily stayed for morning coffee.

Lilya and her ambulatory care increase the capacity for civil society in the frontline area. Everyone knows her, and even those who generally avoid physicians seek her advice. At the clinic, one can get information, encouragement, treatment and everything else needed in the war situation during the last eight years. Even in the clinic’s garden, locals hang out to debate the latest news. Lilya and her staff’s work has been crucial for the cohesion and continuity of the village’s civil society.

Lilya and Vovo’s home was the last house of Tryokhizbenka. Right behind it, the frontline cut off the street to Luhansk. Their garden has bordered frontline trenches and a military camp for the past years. Their house is cosy and creatively decorated. I particularly liked the bathroom shelf, a discarded fridge door. Whenever we came in, there was a home cooked meal, we could take a nap on the couch, and get strong coffee with milk and sugar. Lilya asked us to help her with a computer problem that she then solved without actually needing any help. It was like visiting family. Now Lilya and Vovo are in Sievierodonetsk, in our office, trying to organise help for Tryokhizbenka, desperate and exhausted.

March 3rd

Today I am supposed to speak during an online peace prayer. I want to get a quick update on the situation on the ground and ask my teammate Zhenya what he finds necessary to say. “We want peace, freedom, and independence, and we have been forced to fight for it for 39 years. Now the whole world is watching how the Russian army destroys the Ukrainian people. Russia does not want to have a neighbour with democratic values.

For seven days, Russia has been waging war against a peaceful population, destroying kindergartens, schools, and homes. More than 2000 civilians have already lost their lives in this war. Ukraine cannot fight a war with Russia on equal terms. We lack the weapons and the financial resources. But we have faith, the truth, and the desire to live in a free country. Ukraine is on the brink of a humanitarian catastrophe. We need help from our neighbours, partners and friends. Without your help, it will be difficult to withstand the Russian invasion.”

This is the briefing that is given by Zhenya.

March 5th

We have to re-plan supply chains. Warehouses along the border are no longer usable. They are stuffed with old clothes and cuddly toys, delivered by private individuals and initiatives. For many people, donating things that they do not need any more is the first impulse when it comes to helping. Christmas-themed pullovers and teddy bears quickly accumulate, which then clogs up the logistics that are actually needed for food and medicine. The same goes for the activity at the border. Many people want to pick up refugees at the border but fail to coordinate this with the aid organisations on the ground. The border crossings are becoming chaotic. Human traffickers mingle with people from help organisations, picking up young women who are stressed and exhausted by days of flight. At the same time, well-meaning German drivers do not understand why women refuse to enter their car. It’s great how many people want to help. However, the ways they choose often leave me with the question whether this is about themselves or those who need help. To help effectively, one needs information and coordination with the professionals on the ground. Otherwise, it is more harm than support.

I have not heard from Lilya in three days. I know that there are problems with connectivity.

March 7th

We receive many calls from people who need help to evacuate. In many places, evacuation is almost impossible. It is hard to find drivers. The roads are not safe. Vehicles are shelled. The safest evacuation seems to be the train at the moment. Every day there is an announcement of evacuation trains. People squeeze onto the trains. At the station in Lviv there are masses of people who want to cross the Polish border at Przemyśl. Most of them have also been travelling for days, they look exhausted, hopeless. My colleague Tanya is there and provides psychological first aid.

March 9th

Today is a frustrating day. The near 20-year-old Mercedes Sprinter we bought in Germany to deliver humanitarian aid has been stuck between the Slovak and Ukrainian border for three days. Libereco cannot donate it to Vostok SOS for some new law that only allows donations of such vehicles to the army or other state organs. We are trying everything to get the car out. The prognosis of the customs officers is not leaving much space for hope. Around 95 per cent of the vehicles with the same problem do not make it over the border, they said. At least we could reload the humanitarian cargo into another car and deliver it. Still no sign of life from Lilya. I am getting worried.

March 10th

The car is free!!! The magical finale of four nerve-racking days.

March 13th

I had a Zoom session of psychological first aid with a fellow activist on the run. She was able to leave Berdyansk under siege after spending days and nights in a bomb shelter. Now, she stays with friends in another city. She does not know what to do next, and does not even have the strength to think about it. The windows are darkened with additional textiles in her room so that no light can get outside, as air raids are expected. We’ve been working, and step by step, she achieves more stability. Suddenly I hear a dull sound as if a cupboard had fallen over. Her whole body winces. An impact, not too close but not too far away. We start over again.

The humanitarian situation is getting worse; there are many places that aid does not reach. The Russians attacked a humanitarian aid convoy. A colleague writes to me that a pro-Ukrainian activist in Sievierodonetsk was intercepted by Russian troops and taken away. They took another one out of his house in Starobilsk. Other colleagues report that in the East, doctors only use private cars. It is too dangerous to use ambulances or other medical vehicles, as they are targeted. It gets scarier every day. We have still not heard anything from Lilya. The whole office is extremely worried.

March 17th

Several darkish days. Getting up, organising aid and evacuation support, calls, problems, more calls, more problems. During the day, I feel like a machine. In the evening, I am really afraid of chemical and nuclear weapons. In the East, emergency information is distributed: in case of chlorine – up, in case of ammonia – down. At night, I dream of Mariupol, of attacks on evacuation buses. No sign from Lilya.

March 22nd

I saw my parents today. They gave me an old GEO magazine. It took me a while to remember that I asked them to buy it months ago because it contains an article about Lilya and the polyclinic of Tryokhizbenka. I cannot stand reading it. I cannot even look at the pictures.

March 23rd

I woke up, looked at my phone, and was instantly the most awake person in the world: I got a message from Lila. She is alive. She writes that it is hell on earth, with no connectivity, no electricity, nothing. She writes, “We love you all and hope to see you again.” I feel the tragedy and sadness of this message, and I feel joy and gratitude that she is alive. This is not a happy ending. But it is a good beginning of another day.

Imke Hansen is a historian and trainer, specialising in the experience of violence and trauma. Currently she works as an international peace worker with the German peace organisation “Kurwe Wustrow” at the Sievierodonetsk field office of the Ukrainian NGO Vostok SOS.

diary, Kyiv, Russia, Russian aggression, Ukraine, Ukraine at war