A Challenging Journey in Ukrainian Land

I don’t live in a bubble. I read newspapers, watch TV, and the internet provides the in-depth information I seek. Yet, I wasn’t prepared to witness firsthand what mass media fails to convey: reality. The four humanitarian trips I completed before taught me a lot but left something unresolved. It was only with the fifth, this time on Ukrainian soil, that I understood the discomfort I had felt since returning from the first mission to Rzeszów, on the Polish border, on March 27, 2022.

March 2022, then June, December, and March 2023. Four journeys delivering medical supplies and ambulances to Ukraine. However, all four trips stopped in Poland, just kilometers from the conflict, in safe territory. Only with this fifth expedition did I cross into a war-torn country, and everything changed. Watching TV, reading newspapers, or browsing online gives a distant, almost insulated sense of a war that has been going on for nearly three years. A thousand days that gloss over the everyday reality I encountered in Chervonograd, near Lviv—a reality that mass media and social networks fail to grasp. The “small” daily human dramas in a war-torn country don’t make headlines, but they weigh like boulders once you discover them.

The journey began like the others over the past two years. A meeting in Padua with the rest of the volunteers from the Bambini nel Deserto Association and departure for the first stop in Brno, Czech Republic. After Tarvisio, Austrian highways wind through coniferous forests along twisting descents and climbs, making the two Fiat Ducato ambulances from 2007, purchased in Mantua and loaded with medical supplies, sway. After long service in the Lombard town, they were destined for new adventures in Ukraine, easily handling the over 1,500 kilometers separating us from Chervonograd. We passed Vienna and entered the Czech Republic through Mikulov. We arrived in Brno late at night, having covered just over 750 kilometers at an average speed of 100 km/h. The ambulances weren’t the only ones needing a few hours of rest. The next morning, a little over 200 kilometers took us to the Polish border, and after another 430, we reached the Ukrainian border. While crossing from one EU country to another was quick, the Ukrainian customs process was unpredictable. Multiple checks of documents, people, and vehicles created a stage-by-stage ordeal that felt like a true pilgrimage. In the end, it took us four hours to enter Ukrainian territory. It was 11:30 p.m. (considering a one-hour time zone difference), and the midnight curfew was approaching: no vehicles could circulate, and all lights were turned off. Chervonograd was still far away, requiring at least two more hours to cover 150 kilometers. Fortunately, as a humanitarian mission, we had a special permit allowing us to travel during curfew. Yet driving on deserted roads and through dark cities with no sign of life made it clear we had left our comfort zone behind. The situation here was entirely different, and we felt it with every passing kilometer. We arrived in Chervonograd, skirting the coal mines that are a primary source of livelihood for the city and the entire region. Exhausted, we parked and settled into our hotel rooms, satisfied that we had made it once again. However, our sleep was interrupted twice by air raid sirens signaling the threat of an airstrike. Everything fell silent. We held our breath. For us, the thought of a bombing was shocking.

In the morning, we realized that this anxiety is part of daily life for Ukrainians. When we delivered the two ambulances to Puschuk Myroslav, the city’s health councilor, we learned that there had been a massive bombing in several cities overnight, including Lviv, just a few kilometers away. Here, the toll was one fatality. Nadia, president of the local Bambini nel Deserto chapter, showed us photos of the attack while we visited facilities hosting other associations. One of them was Oxana’s, which provides psychological support to women victimized by war, having lost children, husbands, relatives, and friends. We also met Yuri, a university student preparing first-aid kits for frontline units, proudly showing us the patches various front-line companies had sent him as a token of appreciation.

Throughout the country, people away from the front lines support the war effort however they can—some by sending essential goods, others by producing devices with 3D printers to be transported beyond the front lines with homemade drones. Yet, despite everything, life goes on, and the faces of the people we met reflected a mixture of hope, sadness, pain, and anger. This combination deeply marks the souls of a nation that mourns its fallen every day in increasingly crowded cemeteries. In Chervonograd’s cemetery, there are about 250 graves of military personnel, each with a photo and a yellow-blue flag fluttering toward the sky. But space is running out, and Deputy Mayor Koval Volodymyr told us they had to buy more land, as new bodies arrive daily for burial. On the morning of our arrival, three more were laid to rest.

As we walk silently among the rows, reading the birth and death dates, we see many people sitting beside the graves, like Olga, gathered on her son’s grave, who died only a few months ago. She is a widow and now has no one left to mourn. We struggle to meet her gaze. We are too accustomed to living our comfortable and safe lives. So was she, until February 2022, when everything changed. We return to the association headquarters. There are no words of comfort suitable for such moments; silence feels more appropriate. We share a meal with the deputy mayor, the health commissioner, and the many volunteers striving to assist those most in need. Volodymyr thanks us for the 12 humanitarian missions that have delivered medical supplies and ambulances to a key logistical city for Ukraine. He also recalls how, at the start of the conflict, a continuous flow of aid arrived from all over the world, but now only a few remain committed, providing a continuity that goes beyond mere volunteering.

What we share is a bitter meal, though we try to lighten the mood with jokes, karaoke, and plenty of local vodka to push away darker thoughts. It’s time to leave. The journey back home is still long, and we decide to head off, knowing we still have to cross the border to re-enter Poland and return to normality. We bid everyone farewell, hoping to meet again under better circumstances. The soldier at the border meticulously checks all our documents, and after a couple of hours, our wheels touch Polish soil again. We feel relieved but also changed inside. Because what the newspapers don’t tell you, we have seen with our own eyes — images, situations, and people we will hardly ever forget.

Nicola Grande, the author of the article, handling one of the many delivered boxes.