During the time I spent as a reporter at the Siret customs point and, later, in Poland, along the Ukrainian border, I have met people of all ages, Ukrainian, but also Indian or African students fleeing the war. I kept in touch with some of them and thus was able to learn a little about how their lives have changed since leaving Ukraine. It made me realise that, when it comes to refugees, we tend to speak more about that initial moment of rupture and the shock that shook these people and less about what happens in the weeks and months that follow. True, the most important thing is to avoid imminent danger, but once the first wave of panic passes, people find themselves in an unfamiliar world. That brings further problems, less visible, but involved in post-traumatic stress disorders, depression, anxiety a.s.o.
I will give two examples.
I met Miroslava (29) in late February, at the Siret customs point. We had talked before she crossed the border into Romania with her friend Daria. She used to send me pictures from Ukraine, and it was the first time I had access to the perspective from their side, the side of those who waited in endless lines.
When we finally met face to face, we drove together to Botoșani, where she would stay in the apartment of some friends of mine. That evening, Miroslava showed me photos and videos she had taken with her phone in Borodianka, the town near Kyiv destroyed by Russian bombings. The images were horrible and, though Miroslava was exhausted, it was important for her to show others what was happening in Ukraine.
The next day, she went on to Bucharest and from there to Portugal (meanwhile, her friend had left for Germany). We spoke two weeks later and she told me that, though she was all alone, she felt good there and was even enthusiastic. Several weeks later, though, she wrote: ‘I feel safe here, but I have days when I just lie in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, thinking of nothing but the images from back home. I have headaches and can’t do anything, I’m completely numb, but I know I have to push myself to find a job.’
It was the same kind of numbness and lethargy that I heard about from Anastasia (27), who used to be a social worker in Kharkiv. I met her in spring, as I was coming back from Poland. I was on a train, just entering Romania through the Episcopia Bihor customs point. She told me about how she had left Ukraine one week before the war had started. Meanwhile, her sister had left the country as well, and they had met in the Czech Republic. Their mother had stayed behind, in a village near Kharkiv, where she spent a few hours each day taking shelter in a cellar with her dog and cat.
‘So what are you doing in Romania now?’ I asked her.
‘I spent two weeks in the Czech Republic with my sister, mostly just to give her some kind of support. She left home carrying her baby, while there was gunfire in her town, and it left her traumatised. She ran around, holding the child, and felt like her legs were gone, like she couldn’t feel her body. But now we’re both worried about our mother, who can’t leave, and I just can’t sit still, I can’t wait, I feel like I’m going crazy – so I decided to come to Romania and volunteer with a foundation supporting children from Ukraine. I mostly talk to my mother through text messages, but even those are few and far between, because their electricity is cut off – their food is running low too – and charging phones is complicated. This is like a horror film, I still can’t believe it’s real. And I used to like my life in Kharkiv so much, I liked the city, the work I did there. I even felt happy.You know what the most shocking part is? There’s a lot of us there who have family in Russia, Russian friends – after all, we were so close.’
As the train approached Cluj, Anastasia remained standing by the window.
‘Have you noticed trains in Germany and other countries sound different from the ones here?’ she asked. ‘Well, actually, they hardly make any sound at all. You know, I was just thinking, after entering Romania, the train got a lot noisier, with all this creaking. That’s just what they sound like in Ukraine, too. I love it.’
Testimony collected by Ionuț Sociu for the Musem of Abandonment, as a part of the Abandonment Baggage campaign. This project is financed by CARE through the Sera Foundation, Care France, and FONPC.
