No Bomb Can Break Their Spirit: Stories From a Summer in Ukraine

This summer I traveled to Ukraine, like I have been doing every summer for the past 11 years. This time I traveled together with my Dutch friend Daniel, and we entered Ukraine the same way as we did in August 2014. Back then we were students, 21 years old, interested in international politics and inspired by the Maidan Revolution. We both had been to Ukraine before, but wanted to see what the country looked like after it had fought off the corrupted Yanukovich government, and while it was fighting the Russians in the far east of the country.

In 2014, we entered Ukraine through the same Polish-Ukrainian border crossing as we do this year. Ten years ago it was virtually deserted, but now we stand in line with many mothers and children, possibly returning home to see their husbands who are still fighting off the Russians, before returning back to the safety of the countries in which they found refuge. Ten years ago we carried backpacks containing our summer clothes. This time we have our suitcases filled with medical supplies for a hospital in the eastern city of Sloviansk. Ten years ago Sloviansk was Russian-occupied. Today the city is firmly in Ukrainian hands, but still fighting off the approaching Russians, who are approaching at a much larger scale than they did ten years ago.

It is now the sixth time that I visit Ukraine during the full scale invasion and every time I come back, Kyiv looks better than before. The first days of our visit to Kyiv were calm, and my friend remarked that he felt like he was walking through a “normal” European city, such as for example Prague. I understand what he means when we enjoy an evening stroll through the city and listen to street artists playing music. On the third day however, our evening stroll gets brutally interrupted by the air raid alert. Minutes later, as we are in our apartment on our way to the shelter, North Korean missiles and American patriots explode loudly above our heads. The apartment shakes as we rush to the basement. I cannot imagine what it would feel like experiencing such attacks on a regular basis.

During our arrival in Ukraine in the beginning of August, the mood of all those we spoke to seemed to be below zero. Ukrainian troops are loosing ground in the Donbas, every day soldiers and civilians die from the Russian bombs and many Ukrainian cities suffer from sleepless nights. It seems like there is just no end to the constant flow of bad news. The day after Kyiv got struck by North Korean missiles, I head to a small provincial town in the Kyiv region to visit friends and family.

During supper, I listen to gruesome stories about a cousin fighting in the far east. Last summer the cousin joined us for supper, this year however he got called away and is fighting off the Russians in the far east, just like some of his friends have been doing for the past ten years. That night, at 2AM, I hear an Iranian Shahed drone flying over the house. As I look outside, the sky is filled with search lights trying to locate the murderous kamikaze drone. I can’t help but think of London in 1944. Later on, the sounds of air defense followed by loud orange explosions fill the sky. This continues throughout the whole night. The next morning I see people wakeboarding on the river above which just hours before the drones were shot out of the sky. The absurdity of this war keeps on surprising me.

After a week in the Kyiv region I head to the northern province of Chernihiv. The province was largely occupied and its capital surrounded in March 2022. When the Russians withdrew in April 2022 and the Ukrainian army moved back in, they found many villages burned to the ground and many of its inhabitants dragged from their basements and shot like dogs on the street. In one of these villages, a Ukrainian volunteering organization emerging from the techno-scene of Kyiv is now actively rebuilding the houses of the surviving villagers. I returned to the same village I was in last year to volunteer to find the village looking a lot better than it did the summer before. Last year however, I managed to largely ignore the war during my time in the village, as it was quiet and the scars of war seemed to slowly heal.

This summer it was more difficult, as the Iranian Shahed drones flew over the village on almost a nightly basis. I often found myself enjoying a beer with the other volunteers around the campfire, as we gazed upon air defense taking out drones in the distance. The absurdity of this war never ceases to surprise me.

As opposed to the beginning of August, the mood in Ukraine switched entirely after August 6, when Ukraine invaded Russia. As gradually it became clear that the Ukrainian offensive in the Kursk region turned out to be very successful, the atmosphere changed and people started joking again. The feeling of sweet revenge could be almost tasted in the air, and every Ukrainian I spoke to about the offensive was very happy with it.

In the volunteer camp I met up with my friend Oleg*, whom I met in the camp last year. Last summer, Oleg’s father was still stuck in the occupied part of Kherson. I was very happy to hear that last winter, through a green corridor in the Sumy region on the Russian-Ukrainian border in the north of the country, his father managed to escape back to free Ukraine. I also learned that Oleg is now a certified FPV-drone pilot.

Oleg is not the only volunteer who considers joining the army or helping his country in another way than through rebuilding houses. Last year, the vast majority of volunteers in the village were Ukrainians. This year however, most of the volunteers came from outside the country as many Ukrainian volunteers were now serving in the army or volunteering somewhere closer to the frontline. The medical supplies I brought with me from the Netherlands I sent to Sophia, a 21-year old girl I met last year in the village who is now volunteering in a hospital near the frontlines in Sloviansk. In a conversation at the campfire I spoke to Alina*, a small 19-year old girl with very determined eyes.

Alina had secured a spot in a group of volunteers who was leaving for Kherson the next day. She had bought a helmet and a very small bullet proof vest and went to the south to evacuate elderly people from their Russian-bombed homes. She was not afraid to die, she said. The only thing she was afraid of was that she would not be able to calmly enjoy a matcha latte at a terrace in Kyiv anymore, as she feared not being able to be herself anymore after her Kherson experience.

After my week of volunteering I took the intercity train to Kharkiv, a city that lies a mere 35-minute drive away from the nearest frontlines. When I arrived in Kharkiv, the city was pitch dark and I needed to use the light from my phone to be able to walk the streets. During the day I strolled through the largely abandoned city center. I saw damage here and there, but the city itself still stands. I was surprised to find the zoo still open and was confronted again with the absurdity of this war as I gazed upon a jaguar while a voice from the speakers announced that although the zoo is open, the air alert is active and the zoo management recommends visitors to hide in the nearest shelter.

I have visited Kharkiv once before, in 2017, and remember being surprised at how many people speak Russian rather than Ukrainian in this city. This summer however, I was surprised to hear a lot of Ukrainian around me in the city. Whereas in Odesa I feel like the vast majority of people still speak Russian, in Kharkiv I noticed that many people decided to switch to Ukrainian, despite it being traditionally a more Russian-speaking city. In Kharkiv I also visited Saltivka, a northern suburb that lay on the frontlines for many months in 2022.

There is hardly any window still intact in this neighborhood, and despite the local market being burned down, Saltivka is still full of life. As I excited the metro however, a telegram message warned me that a rocket was on its way to the city. I managed to get underground within 30 seconds and was just on time as I listened how two Russian rockets fell somewhere in the neighborhood. The people in the underground passage I was hiding in counted the explosions, concluded that all the rockets had fallen down and went back to the ground level, all the while cheerfully chatting with each other. The absurdity of this war never ceases to surprise me.

From Kharkiv I take the 15-hour night train to Lviv, a city in the west of the country. I share my train compartment with Yaroslav*, a soldier stationed in the ill-fated frontline town of Pokrovsk in the Donbas. Yaroslav is on his way to Germany, where he will attend a 2-day military training before returning to the frontlines. I ask him how he feels about Ukraine invading the Kursk region, while at the same time not having enough manpower to defend the western Donbas. Yaroslav tells me it is sometimes hard to understand, but he believes the military command knows what they are doing. He also enjoys it very much to see Russia suffering from an invasion themselves – albeit a much less brutal one than the invasion of Ukraine. Overall, the incursion into Kursk turns out to be a very much needed morale booster at the very least.

When arriving from Kharkiv, Lviv seems like a different world. This beautiful middle European city with its many churches and little squares is filled with people. Many Ukrainians fled to Lviv or are simply taking a small break in this relatively safe city far away from the frontlines. The war in Lviv is not far away however, is what I notice when I stumble upon a giant war cemetery with recently dug graves. The newest grave was just two days old, and the soldier who lays there died just four days before I visited the graveyard. On a billboard next to the graveyard there is a computer animated image of what the cemetery is supposed to look like in the future. White crosses on top of each grave, just like the war graves I know from the second world war in my country.

Being in Ukraine when the mood changed so dramatically was a very hopeful experience. My first days in Ukraine were quite depressing, but I left the country with a smile on my face despite the hardship. Compared to Kharkiv, Lviv is a whole different world. Last Monday morning however, even Lviv got struck by several missiles and Shahed drones. Although the war in Ukraine impacts the east more than it does the west, it still has a very large impact on the entire country. Western Ukraine could be made much safer by allowing Polish and Romanian air defense systems to keep the skies above western Ukraine safe. Allowing Ukraine to strike deeper into Russian territory with western weapons would certainly contribute to keeping eastern Ukraine safer.

N.B. While writing this article, I learned that a Russian missile hit a building a mere 120 meters away from my apartment in Kharkiv.

*Name changed for security and privacy reasons

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