Sept 14: Nona Mikhelidze, My Travel diary in Ukraine at war between horror and hope
Published in La Stampa on 14 Sept 2023
My Travel diary in Ukraine at war between horror and hope
By Nona Mikhelidze, La Stampa, 14 Sept 2023 (Translated by: Monique Camarra)
«Despite Russian terror, this is the extraordinary story of the unstoppable fight for freedom»
I returned to Ukraine after visiting it many times in the past, both before and after the epochal Revolution of Dignity, commonly known as Euromaidan.
In the not too distant past, I was part of a small group of Western experts who periodically traveled to Kyiv to monitor the implementation of the reforms envisaged in the Association Agreements signed between the European Union and Ukraine in 2014. These visits were not limited to simple institutional meetings with government representatives, but extended to civil society, to which we paid particular attention.
I’ve seen Ukraine governed by several leaders, including Yanukovych, Tyrchynov, Poroshenko and Zelensky. Since Tyrchynov's temporary government in 2014, the common aspiration was unequivocal: to lead Ukraine towards Europe. This ardent desire did not arise only from the high ranking institutional figures, but above all from the vibrant civil society, which, in just ten years, organized two revolutions - in 2004 and in 2013-2014 -, when Ukrainians felt they had been robbed of their dream, the dream of a European future that embraces, first and foremost, a form of good governance, free from corruption, and from the shadow of the influences of Russia and its governance model centered on vertical power and the repression of civil rights.
Already in 2013, in the eyes of Ukrainians, Russia had become a wasteland and a place devoid of hope, populated by souls who had abandoned hope, who in desperation sought to transform their former colonies into a dark place, a reflection of its own shipwrecked state, dragging them into the deepest abyss, and shaping them in its own image and likeness.
That of Ukraine (along with all the other former Russian colonies) is nothing more than the chronicle of an incessant escape from the colonizer. His history has always woven the threads of resistance to the aggressor, often in silence, perhaps due to the oppression imposed by the pain and injustice suffered during centuries of Russian colonial rule. But the war, started by the Kremlin in 2014 and subsequently extended to a full-scale invasion in 2022, has placed the imperative on Ukraine to resist with weapons in hand.
With these thoughts clearly impressed in my mind, in the second year of the war, I left for Ukraine, determined to see that tenacious resistance up close. I am preparing to meet with civil society that has always fascinated me with its indomitable determination, dedication and intellectual honesty, through which it pursued the dream of a brighter tomorrow compared to the grayness of the past.
I head into my meeting with many questions: What state of mind will I find them in? Will they be inflamed by anger, enveloped by sadness, beset by suffering, afflicted by despair, transformed into beings hardened by bitterness? Or maybe I will find them hopeful, strong like never before, indomitable and fighters as they have always been?
What I found and describe here is a brief narrative of the immense pain of the Ukrainians caused by the Russian terror, of unspeakable suffering, of eyes filled with tears and incredulous looks in the face of unjustified and gratuitous cruelty.
However, it is also the extraordinary story of unstoppable resilience and unshakable resistance, of a hope that, despite everything, persists in their hearts, fueling the desire to survive, to conquer justice and, in the end, supreme victory: freedom. It is the story of a tortuous, blood-filled journey towards Europe, the longed-for destination.
On September 4, after a long train journey, loaded with Ukrainian refugees, women and children, a group of Italian analysts and journalists arrived in Kyiv at the invitation of PEN Ukraine and the Ukrainian Institute, two non-governmental organizations of a cultural and for human rights.
As soon as we arrived, we were greeted by the sound of sirens calling everyone to head towards the air raid shelter. But the Ukrainians, with a smile, reassured us by saying that the Russian Mig-29 fighter had taken off from Belarus, but Kyiv is usually the subject of attacks with naval missiles or drones, so in theory we didn’t have to worry. And sure enough, after about half an hour, the alarm stopped.
During our five-day stay in Ukraine, we took to the refuges three times. One of these situations occurred at 4.45 in the morning, with an alarm that lasted almost two hours. Sleep deprivation represents one of the cruelest forms of torture, a suffering that Russia is inflicting on Ukrainian civilians. Many of them are now exhausted from spending their nights in this constant state of alert. They remain in their homes, hoping that anti-aircraft systems can defend their rest, allowing them to face another day of resistance. But sleep is also entrusted to Ukrainian soldiers, as a new lullaby says: "Sleep, my little one, our armed forces will protect you."
The day after our arrival, we head to places steeped in torture and crimes against humanity perpetrated by the Russian military. We pass through the streets of Bucha, Irpin, Hostomel and Borodyanka. Charred houses emerge before us, but also already reconstructed buildings. We glimpse at devastated bridges, already in the process of being repaired. Some, however, will forever remain marked by destruction, like that Romanivsky Bridge that crosses the Irpin River. During the Russian invasion in the Kyiv region, it stopped the advance of troops towards the capital, becoming the only escape route for the inhabitants of the cities occupied by Russia. The project of the memorial complex, known as The Open Fracture, involves the construction of a new bridge (already underway) next to the demolished one. The latter will be maintained so that future generations can bear witness to the carnage and pain experienced during the escape.
We continue towards Borodyanka, now also famous for a mural by Banksy, an image depicting a child throwing a man dressed as a judoka to the ground. It is a small village with buildings brutally hit by bombs, under whose rubble eighty civilians lost their lives. However, our gaze is also drawn to the monument to the poet and founder of the modern Ukrainian language, Taras Shevchenko, who was “wounded” by bullets. For over a century, many Ukrainians have kept his portrait alongside icons in their homes. Shevchenko's importance as a national poet was so immense that even the Soviet regime did not dare to question it. However, Putin's Russia tried.
The program also includes meetings with representatives of the cultural world. And so we meet collaborators and managers of the Museum of Modern Art - Mystetskyi Arsenal, the National Museum of Art and the National Cinema Archive. Each of them shares their story of resisting the attack and how they saved the precious museum collections. Their narratives begin with a brief history of Russian colonialism, underlining how the tsarist empire subjected the entire Pechersk neighborhood to its control. This area now houses some of the museums, and has always been a cultural hub of Kyiv.
Through these stories, parallels are drawn to today's war and the Kremlin's attempt to once again erase Ukrainian culture. Finally, one of the museum curators tells me: «This is a colonial war, and I believe it is our last battle for independence and freedom. After the victory, we will build a wall along the border, sealing the doors to Russia forever." I feel that the determination of his words reflects the urgent need to protect Ukrainian culture and identity against existential threats.
We continue our journey towards Chernihiv, and here too, as in many other places, images of destruction and reconstruction follow one another in a cycle of fall and rebirth, of pain and hope. We see small libraries hit by bombing, but already in the process of being rebuilt. A librarian, with tears in her eyes, despairs over the books that went up in smoke and the catalog that was lost, but despite everything she maintains the faith that the reading center can be rebuilt thanks to donations and solidarity.
The meeting with Ivan, a 63-year-old man, will forever remain imprinted in my memory as well as his touching testimony about his imprisonment in the “Russian Auschwitz”. He welcomed us with a hug, his eyes were shining, but the tears were no longer falling—perhaps he didn’t have any left to shed. He led us to a school basement in the village of Yahidne, Chernihiv region. Down there, the cold penetrated my bones, darkness enveloped everything, humidity was pervasive, dirt reigned supreme, and there was no bathroom or fresh air. As time passed, breathing became increasingly difficult. And it is there that Ivan began the atrocious and heartbreaking story of his imprisonment, of the inhumane and gratuitous cruelty perpetrated by the regular Russian armed forces against the Ukrainians. «For them we were not human beings, we were less than dogs»,
On March 3, the Russians occupied Yahidne and imprisoned approximately 370 villagers, including 77 minors (the youngest, a girl, was just a month and a half old), in the school's cramped basement, where they remained for 27 long days. The space only allowed one person to sit at a time—it was impossible to lie down. Food was scarce: only a few spoonfuls of boiled cabbage were allowed. The mother of the youngest child was unable to breastfeed and was begging for help. “Your daughter can die, we don't care about her,” the occupiers replied.
They forced the prisoners to read Russian newspapers, telling them how Russia was winning the war and how Ukraine was now completely occupied. But they didn't stop there. They took two children, gave them a wafer and photographed them, then used the images in Russian propaganda broadcasts, claiming that Ukrainian children were being fed by Russian “liberators.”
The rain poured in from above, and the pipes wrapped in rags to try to stop the water can still be seen today. Then, the Russians damaged the school's plumbing system, causing liquids to flow from above onto the prisoners' heads. After a few days (evidently tired of emptying the buckets), they allowed the prisoners to use the bathroom outside, but mined the vicinity to prevent escapes. One stepped on a mine. Eleven people died in basement prison—mostly the elderly. The Russians refused for days to move the rotting corpses elsewhere.
Numbers were traced on the walls of the basement, a calendar that marked the days of March, the remaining days of life, because in there, no one had any hope of making it out of that hell alive. But there was a special date, March 30, with a little heart next to it and the writing underneath: "Ours have arrived." After 27 days of captivity, the Ukrainian armed forces finally freed the inhabitants of Yahidne.
«Every time I tell our story, I feel a knot here», says Ivan, placing his hand next to his heart, «but I do it so that the horror that must never be repeated in the future is witnessed».
As I listen, the tears flow freely, a desperate cry that brings back to my mind images of the bombing of Georgia during the Russian invasion in 2008. When I told Ivan that I was Georgian, his eyes lit up. A small smile even appeared on his face marked by his suffering. He hugged me forcefully and with words full of determination and hope, of the resilience and strength of humanity in the face of injustice and oppression he said to me: «We will win this war and free everyone, we cannot leave anyone to suffer under the 'Russian occupation!'