Diary of a volunteer: On the front line of war

Part 1: The long road in

Wednesday 12 June, 2024

Malta was grey and cloudy when we left. Unusual for a June day. Brian and I mostly drove in silence to the airport. I knew he was worried and so didn't want to aggravate sore nerves. The last thing my mother said to me when I hugged her goodbye was "you don't always have to be the first to step forward. Remember you have kids now. It's OK to stand back".

Trepidation dissipates as soon as I see my colleagues at the airport. Buying snacks and coffee and magazines, it feels more like a school trip than a field visit to a war zone. This continues on, through our transfer in Warsaw, onto the train to a border town, Chelm, where we will finally board our sleeper train to Kyiv.

Getting settled in the cabin

Pulling into Chelm the atmosphere changes. Its 9:30pm and there's a chill in the air. The people gathered on the platform now are all waiting for the train into Kyiv. Some of the are lounging on benches, smoking, shuffling their papers... they're clearly going in for work, like us. We acknowledge each other. It familiar, feels appropriate.

Night train to Kyiv prepares for boarding

Photographers, medics, journalists... you can identify them by their insignia, their luggage, their language. I feel at home amongst them, comfortable. It's the other passengers on the platform that cause me unease. Mothers with young children, asleep in buggies, toddlers having tantrums because it's past their bedtime, young girls huddled together laughing at something on a phone. These people aren't here for work. They're going home. And somehow that reality is jarring. These women, these children, this elderly couple, heading back home, back to Ukraine, back to war.

A gift for my daughter, always on my mind

I'm sombre now. When the train pulls in I struggle with my suitcase up the steep and male my way to my cabin. It’s what you'd expect of a basic sleeper cabin - four bunks to a compartment and we're the last two in. I made us late buying a colouring book and a little toy for my daughter at the shop by the station. The logistics of clambering into our bunks and negotiating bedding and storage push any disquieting thoughts from our minds. When the train starts moving, we don't even notice.

I'm asleep less than an hour before I'm woken by the passport check. The uniforms on the border control officers are adorned with Ukrainian colours. Our Maltese nationality seems to perplex him, and he disappears with our passports. I doze while we wait, watching uniforms come and go past the window, cooing at the Belgian malinoise that's led into our cabin to efficiently sniff the bunks and cases before moving on swiftly.

It's a standard check, it causes barely a flutter in our cabin, but I know it signifies that we're crossing the border, leaving Poland, entering Ukraine.

As I pull the sheets over me, my toes brushing the cold walls, I think of my children, safe and well with their father and grandmother and I feel so grateful and so guilty all at the same time.

Part 2 will be published next week