In November, I made my fourth volunteering trip to Ukraine during the Russian invasion. I went despite — or maybe because of — uncertainty about how the war will end.
As with previous trips, which I wrote about in The Current, I helped make packaged meals for soldiers and led drama therapy workshops for university students, mental health workers and actors in various cities.
In the sessions, which involved 200 participants, we focused not on the war but on fantasy: sunbathing on the beach in Crimea, swimming in the river of youth, growing the tree of life and digging for wishes. Unlike in April, in nearly every session, people cried, even tough military doctors.
This trip was different for another reason. My last stop was Kharkiv, the country’s most-bombed major city, 19 miles from the Russian border in the northeast. Residents live each moment knowing that a missile, drone or glide bomb may hit the spot on which they are standing, without warning.
I went to Kharkiv because I wanted to learn how human beings can live in such extreme conditions. And I wanted to give folks an emotional outlet or a bit of stress relief. Most of all, it was personal. I recently learned that my grandfather was born not far away.
My pilgrimage began in baroque Lviv (occasionally bombed), proceeded to majestic Kyiv (bombed during my arrival) and then to Irpin (bombed at the beginning of the war). On the 1,001st day of the war, I took a six-hour train to the end of the line. That was Kharkiv.
Kharkiv reminded me of New York City when I was growing up there in the 1980s, with boarded-up and burned-out buildings abutting sparkling cafes and boutiques, Beamers and bangers tooling down potholed roads and Irish bars next to rubble.
Everyone I met, from sociologist Olena, to clinic director Alexander, to university administrator Yulia, was exhausted by the war. Because we were close to the front and a military hospital lies in the city center, I saw countless soldiers who had a 1,000-meter stare.
After we sipped infused-fruit tea in a place called Some Like it Hot, Olena showed me Freedom Square (one of the largest in Europe), historic skyscraper Derzhprom (bombed a few weeks earlier) and the rebuilt Gorky Park (now known as Central Park). She said she doesn’t worry about the risk of death in Kharkiv because there’s no point.
We passed a Ferris wheel, haunted house and roller coaster (all closed). A few brave souls strolled and jogged in a soft rain. Olena told me which way was north (i.e., Russia), and I glanced nervously in that direction. After hearing a rumbling in the distance, I asked if it was thunder or an explosion. She indicated the latter.
I tried to rest in my hotel room before the workshop at the National Arts University. But I heard the rat-tat-tat of what sounded like missile defense fire. Was it the Russians? Should I hide in the shelter? I checked the air alert app, but for most of my 48 hours in Kharkiv it buzzed away, useless.
I texted my friend Corey Watson, who spends much time in Kharkiv with his non-governmental organization (NGO), Pizza for Ukraine. From Oregon, where it was the middle of the night, he gave me real-time updates from Telegram. No, the Russians were not attacking. It was the piping, the elevator or just my mind.
I speed-walked to the House with Chimeras, an art nouveau relic that has survived at least three wars and is adorned with foreboding creatures and a dash of English Gothic. When I entered the room, yet another air alert had begun but everyone was focused on putting plastic baggies on their shoes.
The attendees — acting students and teachers from their early 20s to 70s — were the most energetic of the 10 groups I saw in Ukraine. I had them do spectrograms, asking them to rate how they felt physically, emotionally and spiritually by standing on a line ranging from zero to 100. No words, some tears, but improbably most were close to 100 for each question.
They created a breathtaking series of silent emotional sculptures with their bodies: anxiety, surprise, falling in love, balance. We took turns visiting this “emotional museum,” providing commentary. I asked why there was no hate or anger, and someone replied, as Olena had, “What would be the point?”
The session ended in the same way as my first one in Lviv two weeks earlier. Standing shoulder to shoulder, without prompting, we sang “Shchedryk,” a fast-paced old Ukrainian tune. “Here flew the swallow from afar / Started to sing lively and loud.” Americans know it as “The Carol of the Bells.”
