Mariupol and little Illyana
As usual, I got up early and headed out for my run. It didn’t seem right that the day was starting out so beautiful: a clear morning sky brightening in the east, rising temperatures, fresh clean air, even birds going about their morning business. You see, I am just a few miles from a war zone and refugees pour in every day. Why did we deserve such a peaceful morning? I made a mental note to reach out to mom & dad back home in Boston.
As I continued down the main road, deep in my thoughts, a car came by and drove through the puddle left from last night’s rain. I was instantly drenched in dirty cold street water, but I was thankful I had fresh air to breathe and wasn’t huddled in a basement in Kyiv.
As I got back to my quarters, I headed straight to the shower. Adjusting the water valves did not help at all: almost lukewarm was the best I was going to get today. But I was thankful I had running water unlike the people in Mariupol.
That evening after work I went to help at a refugee processing center. I was only there to unload and stack cases of water and blankets and other supplies. Around me were faces, young and old, looking lost and so in need of everything. They came in every day and eventually after a week or so headed on to their next stop. About an hour after I got there, I saw her. She was small and scared, but there was a brightness in her eyes. She was darker in complexion with long and wild dark brown hair.
I walked over to her and knelt down to her level. I offered her a smile and she greeted me in Russian. I reached into my vest, pulled out a Hershey bar, and returned her greeting. And so it began: for a week I brought her chocolate and we chatted. She was from the east, traveling with neighbors, hadn’t seen her parents since they were separated by intense shelling on the way out of Mariupol. Her name was Illyana. We received confirmation: Her parents did not make it. After about a week she moved on. She and her neighbors are living temporarily with a Romanian family and hope to return to Ukraine, to whatever will be left of Mariupol.
As I continued down the main road, deep in my thoughts, a car came by and drove through the puddle left from last night’s rain. I was instantly drenched in dirty cold street water, but I was thankful I had fresh air to breathe and wasn’t huddled in a basement in Kyiv.
As I got back to my quarters, I headed straight to the shower. Adjusting the water valves did not help at all: almost lukewarm was the best I was going to get today. But I was thankful I had running water unlike the people in Mariupol.
That evening after work I went to help at a refugee processing center. I was only there to unload and stack cases of water and blankets and other supplies. Around me were faces, young and old, looking lost and so in need of everything. They came in every day and eventually after a week or so headed on to their next stop. About an hour after I got there, I saw her. She was small and scared, but there was a brightness in her eyes. She was darker in complexion with long and wild dark brown hair.
I walked over to her and knelt down to her level. I offered her a smile and she greeted me in Russian. I reached into my vest, pulled out a Hershey bar, and returned her greeting. And so it began: for a week I brought her chocolate and we chatted. She was from the east, traveling with neighbors, hadn’t seen her parents since they were separated by intense shelling on the way out of Mariupol. Her name was Illyana. We received confirmation: Her parents did not make it. After about a week she moved on. She and her neighbors are living temporarily with a Romanian family and hope to return to Ukraine, to whatever will be left of Mariupol.
26-30, F
